Left for dead, p.8
Left for Dead, page 8
Grimalkin's tiller was unmanned, allowing her to be swept along at merciless speed. I glimpsed the foam-topped line-up of waves stacked behind us, grabbed a line and clawed my way towards the back of the cockpit. In the scramble I became tangled up in my harness line. Eventually I freed myself and then, on my stomach, crawled through the gap underneath the mainsheet traveller. Jesus, my head hurt. I had hit it on the underside of the traveller. Now, finally upright, I saw that Mike was opposite me again. Somehow he had found his way back too. We grabbed at the thrashing tiller with our four hands and managed to bear Grimalkin away again, away from the eye of the wind.
Although four hands were better than two, we struggled to keep the bow back on course downhill. I watched as from above us another wall of water came crashing down. I looked at the compasses — there was a compass to each side of the companionway entrance; the one on the right was beside the anemometer. Their lights had dimmed, which probably meant the battery had been thrown out of its box. But Grimalkin was once again under a control of sorts from her two bruised, drenched, bewildered helmsmen.
I saw that Matt, David, Gerry and Dave were safe with us in the cockpit. Thank Christ — nobody had been washed overboard. We had all either been retained within the boat by her guardrails or been brought up short at the end of our lifelines. This last wave had unleashed so much energy — as if it were alive and we were the target of its inexplicable fury. Not knowing what would happen next or when it would happen, we had no choice but to keep going. But from where I sat and from what I could see, it was apparent that this knockdown was merely going to be the first of many.
And so it proved to be. As Grimalkin hurtled through the darkness, this was an experience the whole crew went through time and time again. Each knockdown sent all six of us hurtling through the air then crash-landing on the boat or, worse, in the water — whichever way, we were either awash or completely immersed in bitterly cold sea.
Grimalkin behaved marvellously — each time righting herself within minutes of a 90-degree Bl capsize. On several occasions, she teetered on the brink of a B2 — a full 180-degree capsize — but she managed to hold her own. But the conditions were still, unbelievably, worsening, and I think we all knew it was only a matter of time before the worst happened, perhaps during a momentary lapse of concentration, a wrong call or an incorrectly judged rogue wave. All we could do was to concentrate hard on the roaring obstacle course behind and in front of us.
I had seen enough over the last couple of hours to understand that these seas were capable of anything. I had never heard of, read about or experienced anything like this. Weary, soaked through, dispirited, Mike and I still gripped the tiller, and just as we caught one acutely angled, steep wave, we made a misjudgement of timing. This misjudgement slowed us too quickly. I had pushed instead of pulled the tiller, and we shot into the back of the wave in front. Grimalkin's foredeck — from her bow right back to the mast — was forced underwater. The back of the next wave threatened to push us completely under.
As Grimalkin stopped dead, from somewhere I heard a scream, and then another. The force that threw all six of us out into the water was so violent that I heard almost nothing but screams — and above them all, my own. Miraculously Grimalkin righted herself and we clawed our way back up our six-foot-long safety-harness lines onto the deck and towards the cockpit, grabbing whatever we could to aid us — stanchions, each other, winches, anything. All six of us were back on board, stunned. Numb with cold, we set about clearing the warps and ropes that had been trailing behind us and which were now a jumbled mess in the cockpit. David manned the tiller while the rest of us, carefully and slowly, threw the lines back astern. Once done, David shouted at the top of his voice for Dave to join him at the helm. I watched the two of them as they peered ahead through the rain, spray and spume, desperately trying to orientate themselves to the crazy, unpredictable rhythm of the heaving mass of boiling black liquid.
Mike and I were back in the cockpit, exhausted. I huddled up against Mike to try and gain some warmth. Matt and Gerry sat opposite, also huddled together. I looked at my watch — it was 5am and still dark. Not a sign of daylight, and even more worryingly not a sign of this force-12 storm relenting. All four of us concentrated on the seas around us, trying to indicate to David and Dave, at the helm, the direction of the next onslaught. I tried to stay alert but found myself becoming transfixed by the surreal beauty of these slow-moving mountains. I thought of Pa's Japanese stamp. Had he heard about the storm? Oh God, Ma would be worried, they both would. In my dreamlike state I saw Matt shouting, then screaming at me. I stared back, seeing him but not reacting to him.
'For God's sake, Nick . . . HOLD ON.' Mike had grabbed me and shaken me hard.
Too late — one of these slow-moving mountains of water speeded up and poured down onto Grimalkin, throwing us all upwards before smashing us back into the cockpit in a heap. Quick, jerky, violent. I landed on top of Gerry — poor guy, his whole body seized up with pain. I rolled off him before helping him up, back up onto the cockpit seat.
'Sorry, mate. Are you OK?' I knew he couldn't hear me over the noise, but it made me feel better. With these conditions it was impossible to prevent collision in the confines of the cockpit, but I knew I had to concentrate harder to try to prevent a serious injury.
Once more Grimalkin steadied herself, and each of us braced ourselves for the next onslaught.
'CHECK THE HARNESS LINES,' screamed David from the helm, barely visible or audible through the wind and spray.
With numb hands, Matthew, Mike and I scrambled through the rope tails on the floor of the cockpit: one, two, three, four, five and six. We checked the lines thoroughly for snags.
'ALL FINE, NO SNAGS, ALL ATTACHED.'
We were still interacting with one another, but communication was reduced to stilted, shouted words and minimal gestures. Only what was necessary. None of us ate; none of us wanted to. I thought of the odd ochre sky we had seen. Christ, how many hours ago was that? We were now a seriously weakened crew. I prayed for daylight, feeling sure it would give us back some conviction, and a renewed ability to deal with this storm.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Before Light, After Dawn
At 5.30am the first traces of light slowly appeared. But the dawn brought with it a new and unexpected shock — the fear on each other's faces that had been unseen in the dark. My teeth chattered from the bitter wind and the cold; everyone's faces were pale and their lips quivered. Anxiety gripped me. For the first time it struck me — we might not survive this.
Nothing could have prepared us for the horror of our surroundings. The noise was cacophonous; dawn had turned the volume up. The low light magnified the heights of the waves. Menacing and unpredictable, these monstrous white-topped bodies of water swept everything aside. I said nothing; nobody did. I just sat there and thought: what on earth have I got myself into? With daylight now almost established, it was clear to me that my prayers had not been answered. There was no new conviction among the crew and no new reserves. Not one of us had ever experienced anything like these conditions. There were no smiles between us, just looks of uncertainty and disbelief.
I began to wonder how everyone else was faring in this storm. I thought about the guys I'd waved to on the marina before we left Hamble — were they somewhere around us in this deafening sea? Where was our nemesis, Green Dragon, and the French class-five boats we'd been duelling with soon after the start? Were they here too? Was this weather affecting all the three-hundred-strong fleet in the same way, or was this storm localised? I wondered if they were opting for different tactics. I wondered what the great Eric Tabarly would have done last night. Would he have done the same? He would have run with the seas — of course — but his Pen Duick, longer and faster, would have coped better with the peaks and troughs to which Grimalkin had succumbed, both last night and this morning. All these questions were rhetorical, irrelevant; just a distraction from the cold boiling hell around us.
Dawn also revealed how entirely out of control Grimalkin was, sheering off downwind, running and surfing at unbelievable speeds beyond the control of David and Dave at the helm. Where the hell was this storm taking us? We could end up anywhere in these conditions — shoal waters, the shoreline, crashing into rocks. We were running into dangerous waters where the English Channel joins the Irish Sea. We could be headed directly for the Scilly Isles, the Seven Stones or even southern Ireland — God knows, we certainly didn't. It felt as if we were on an involuntary suicide mission, being carried along by these 40-50-foot waves. With things happening so quickly and noisily around me, I found it increasingly difficult to do anything other than stay clipped on in the cockpit and watch for rogue waves. I wondered how much longer Grimalkin could survive after the battering she had already taken.
I looked across at Gerry, sitting on the other side of the cockpit. He looked completely exhausted — my deepest worry was for him. He was showing marked signs of deterioration and his reactions were noticeably slower than I was used to from him; like David, his mind was usually quick. His fingers were white and wrinkled, as were all of ours, but his knuckle joints were swollen. I feared now that his arthritis had got the better of him. Had he had time, or even remembered, to take his medication since this maelstrom had begun? He was shivering uncontrollably and his face was paler than anyone else's — I was sure he was not far from becoming dangerously hypothermic. I now stared over at Matt — for the first time he really looked his age. Jesus, this guy was only a kid. His tough, confident veneer had gone — he looked absolutely terrified. He was slumped in the cockpit, his eyes fixed on Mike, who was struggling to shift Gerry's dead weight into a more comfortable position. I wondered why Matt didn't help — why was he just staring at them? It was then that I realised I was doing exactly the same — just staring. I wanted to help, I wanted to stand up and help lift Gerry back to some sort of comfort, but I couldn't.
Everyone was done in from negotiating our way round these monster waves. It was as though we were all too scared to say anything, as if acknowledging our greatest fear would make it more likely. 'There may be no way out of this.' I could see the terror in Mike's face and I remembered the night before—
'Hold on, I'm bearing off... HOLD ON, HOLD ON!'
My manic train of thought had been interrupted by Dave roaring at us from the helm. All of us in the cockpit braced ourselves — holding on yet again for dear life. Grimalkin dipped her bows and her stern rose so violently that I shot across the cockpit at speed and was then lifted up high. This knockdown was without doubt the most violent one yet. As I was hurled through the air I looked down and could see, as if in slow motion, the rest of the crew below me being thrown in the same manner, but not at the same height. This was truly petrifying. I was being propelled over them all — 1 could see them but I couldn't make myself heard because of the howling wind. Grimalkin ploughed into the trough of the wave and I was once again catapulted into the ferocious seas.
The water was so cold that the breath was forced out of me. My safety harness tightened round my chest as I was towed along at terrifying speed. The rush of freezing seawater undid the fastenings of my oilskin top and found its way down through the opening at the neck. The inner, thermal layers of clothing, including my socks, soaked up water; I was being dragged down like a sack of cement. I became uncoordinated; instructions sent from my brain seemed not to get through, a creeping torpor dulled my senses. The intense cold of the sea made me want to inhale; this involuntary reflex choked me. I knew that if I swallowed much more of this black liquid, one thing would lead to another — more swallowing, more choking, then drowning. I began to panic. My leg, the left one, was hurting like hell. I knew straight away that I was badly injured as this was the first time I had felt any sensation in this leg since my brain haemorrhage eight years earlier. But I had no time to think about this now — simply grabbing enough oxygen to keep me conscious was all I could cope with. I had to somehow calm down, get a grip. I twisted my head round and saw the outlines of David and Matt just above me, aboard the boat. Thank God. They were leaning over the guardrails, yelling, roaring at me. I yelled back at them.
'My leg . . . MY LEG.'
I have no idea whether they heard me. Their arms were stretched out to me. I reached my right arm up but the speed and the motion of the boat kept dragging me away from them. I made several attempts to lever myself those few crucial inches up my safety-harness tether but could not do it — instead, each attempt left me weakened. I fixed my eyes on David, who bellowed frenzied shouts of encouragement.
'COME ON, NICK. PULL YOURSELF UP . . . COME ON, NICK . . . YOU CAN DO IT.'
Both my hands were raw and bleeding — I had to let go, be dragged helplessly along by the boat. From my position in the water, three or four feet below, all I could see were my crewmates, yelling ferociously down at me. Why the hell weren't they doing anything?
'FOR CHRISSAKE . . . GET ME OUT OF HERE!' I shouted back, to no one in particular.
Anger welled up inside me. It gave me a much-needed adrenaline boost. I grabbed my safety-harness tether and yanked myself up, managing to get my injured left leg onto Grimalkin's toe rail, but she was travelling at such speed my leg didn't stay there long -1 was forced back into the freezing water. On my second attempt, I swivelled round with my back to the seas, the flow of water supporting my damaged leg. I reached up and finally felt a firm grip on my right arm. I had no idea who it was but I clung on. Between them, waiting for the right moment, they pulled me over the guardrails and onto the deck.
Slumped over, I coughed and vomited endless amounts of water. Crouched there, on my hands and knees, water dribbling out of my mouth, the anger I had felt towards my crewmates was instantly replaced by gratitude. As Matt and David helped me back into the cockpit, I began to comprehend that I had been saved from drowning. Huddled back in the safety of the cockpit I looked up at them both, father and son — they had just saved my life. Still coughing and spluttering, I gasped, 'Thanks.'
I attempted to express further gratitude but the words were lost in the roaring wind. David put a firm arm on my shoulder — 1 knew he was trying to tell me that everything was fine. Breathing hard, I looked down at my left leg, fully expecting to see blood and perhaps my femur protruding through my oilskin trousers, but no, nothing. I couldn't understand — it had hurt so much. I carefully moved it back and forth: nothing, no feeling, no sensation. Had I imagined the pain? I moved it again, this time a little further — I seized up in agony. I wanted to explain to David, to everyone, that I normally had no feeling in this leg and how amazing it was to feel anything, even severe pain, but I was beyond exhaustion. With Mike's help I placed the injured leg into a more comfortable position.
I was on the starboard side, and looked round at Gerry, sat to port — he was by now impassive, apparently oblivious to what was going on; it was probably better this way. I looked at Mike, who was scared, and then at Dave, who was helming, doing his best, but he was frozen, almost beat. David was knackered too -1 could sense that he had begun to wonder what the hell to do next. The immersion in the sea had left me colder, more scared than I had ever felt before. There was nowhere to hide — not in this cockpit, not on this boat. This couldn't go on; we couldn't take much more of this.
Matt, Gerry, Mike, Dave and me — all five of us looked to David, our skipper. Decisions had to be made.
'We're going to make a Mayday call for rescue. Matthew, come with me.'
A silent wave of relief went through us all. Matthew and David both undipped their safety harnesses. David's decision was a prudent one, given our circumstances. Up until now it had been considered too great a risk to go below into the cabin; that area of the boat was untenable in a storm of this magnitude. But in the rapidly deteriorating conditions, this became a risk that had to be taken.
David and Matt struggled against the storm towards the cabin. Matt reached the closed cabin first and slid the horizontal hatch forward. He then removed the two wooden washboards that prevented seawater from getting in.
I sat wedged in the cockpit with Mike and Gerry and could just about see down below. Amid the mess and debris in the cabin, I saw David attempting to make contact through the handset. Matt was leaning over him trying to steady them both against the storm. David used the VHF radio to contact Morningtown — the Royal Ocean Racing Club observation boat for the race. Morningtown then transferred David's call to Land's End Radio to verify our position. I could not hear precisely what David was saying but I knew that giving our exact position was going to be difficult — we had not had a decent position plot since the previous evening. We all waited in anticipation — then finally David shouted up to us. 'THEY'RE COMING . . . rescue is on the way . . . Morningtown is sending a helicopter.'
David now turned to Matthew.
'FLARES . . . quick, get them.'
Matt grabbed the flare container from beneath the navigation table and passed it up the companionway ladder. Mike struggled forward and grabbed the container. I could see Matt's face plainly now — he was elated. For the first time in hours we experienced hope; contact with Morningtown had given us all a morale boost. Someone, some authority, now knew of our predicament.
Mike opened the container, took a parachute flare and crouched to port, cowering as far forward as the cockpit allowed. It was immediately clear he was having difficulty operating it. In normal circumstances Mike would have been able to let off one of these parachute flares within seconds. After an agonising wait, two rocket flares went off at odd trajectories — neither of them vertical. The ideal trajectory would have been angled into the wind so that the flares drifted back over us at about a 200-foot zenith. One went into the waves, the other flew off at an odd angle. We watched as their smoke wafted pathetically over the boat. Who would see the flares? How close was Morningtown or a helicopter to us? How close was anything, for that matter?
