 |
|
|
HOW TO SWIM WITH THE FISHES, IN FIVE EASY STUPID STEPS
By Scott Lee
|
|
January 3, 2005. Scott Lee, who is a real explorer, gave us this story some time back, and it just surfaced from its hiding place on top of my desk. What happened to Scott was definitely a Close Call. -- Bob Hale .
Many things run through the head when suddenly you come eye-to-eye with the sea, a long way from shore with no help in sight. New meanings for the phrases like, "In over my head," or, "I just fell out of the boat," come to mind. I remember thinking, "How in the world did I get into this spot?"
Mitsy, my yellow lab, stared at me from the dinghy as it circled in tight donuts at wide open throttle, just 50 feet away. It was after several failed efforts to remount the dinghy (while dodging the deadly propeller) that I remembered my survival timeline in 46-degree water was only 15-20 minutes before hypothermia began.
My life jacket? Safe and dry with Mitsy in the dinghy -- should I need it.
There in the brine, I realized I was in this predicament because of several judgment errors and added steps of poor boating practice. After more than 15 years and 30,000 miles of boating, I knew better. Brain fog had clouded my mental instruments.
First mistake: My whiz-bang automatically inflating Sospender life jacket should have been on me, not in the dinghy. Now, I believe in life jackets; some of my best friends wear them in all conditions. Until then, I wore one only when warranted: bad weather, big seas, apparent difficulties. On this evening, the water was calm and the sun was setting, with good visibility. My trip back to our boat anchored in Potts Lagoon from the prawn traps near Clio Channel would take only five minutes at 20 knots, so I talked myself out of the obvious: wear the life jacket!
Second, that funny looking clip hanging from the kill switch on the outboard motor. What was it for? Oh, yes, it should have been attached to the life jacket I should have been wearing, to stop the motor if I fell overboard. Clearly, though, on a quiet evening such as this it wasn't needed.
Third, although I had carried a handheld VHF radio, I hadn't called my wife to tell her I was heading back after setting the prawn traps. She would have been concerned if I hadn't shown up in a few minutes. But it was after 10 p.m. and I was tired, so I didn't bother with radio communications.
Then it happened. In the blink of the eye I was upside-down, headed for Davy Jones' Locker. I had seen what appeared to be a deadhead immediately in front of my speeding Caribe. Deadheads are dangerous waterlogged logs floating vertically, their upper end barely above the surface. We had seen several deadheads on this trip, and this looked like another. I threw the tiller away from me to avoid the deadhead, and at the same time stood up slightly to see that I had swung clear. The last thing I remember before going deep sea diving was, "How about that, it's just a seal."
So, fourth mistake: If I had been going slower in dusk conditions I would have seen the seal sooner and had more time to respond. And fifth, if I hadn't tried to stand up in the speeding, turning dinghy I would still be in the dinghy instead of in the water. Mitsy was in the dinghy because she hadn't stood up.
What to do, what to do. It felt selfish to pray for a miracle when I had made so many dumb, stupid choices, but I did anyway. Absent a miracle, I saw only two alternatives. I could try to swim to shore, or I could yell for help. Yelling for help felt wimpish; I decided to swim, even though I was a half-mile out and hypothermia would get me before I got to shore. I started swimming, but quickly realized I didn't have much stamina left.
Yelling for help suddenly felt less wimpy, so I gave it my best effort, knowing the dinghy's engine was blaring a few away and no one was close by. After several exhausting attempts and feeling fearfully spent, I saw movement between two islands. Hope is an amazing thing -- I felt lifted in the water, and I effortlessly treaded until a dinghy, with my rescuer, arrived. He had heard from some distance away what he thought was a barking dog and a motor sound that wasn't moving, and had come to inspect (perhaps that meant that Another had heard my cry . . .).
After 10 p.m., in the gathering darkness, he left his family anchored in his cove to check out a boater who had made too many mistakes. My rescuer and his family departed their cove early the next morning, before I could find him and get his name. So let me say thank you. Thank you for being awake, curious, and interested in helping. And thanks to all boaters who help each other out all year long up and down the coast.
Now, Mitsy's rescue from the circling dinghy is yet another story! v
|
|
|
|
|
