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Chapter 1
The Hurricane From Hell
"You know, we can’t get out of life alive! We can either die in the bleachers or die on the field. We might as well come down on the field and go for it."
… Les Brown
It was a day we never looked forward to.
Shirley drove me to the Vancouver airport and once again parting was difficult. I knew I would miss her. I could tell her heart was aching – that she wanted to go – to be with me.
But that was impossible. We had committed to give our two teenage boys, Trevor and Ryan, the opportunity to have conventional schooling for a couple years before they were old enough to set out on their own. For many years Shirley had home schooled them on board our ship while we sailed the world. Now we felt it was important that their education be finished more formally.
We knew I had to earn a living, skippering our 110-foot traditional sailing ship, Latina, in the Virgin Islands. Unfortunately this understanding did nothing to kill the pain of our separation. Ever since the day Shirley and I met, we had been inseparable soul mates, always yearning to be in each other’s energy or love orbit, so being apart was a painful experience. She dropped me off outside the airport and as she drove off I could see her eyes cloud over with tears.
After a tedious 24-hour trip I was on my ship in the Virgin Islands, hastily preparing for Latina’s upcoming charter. No matter how many times I had done it before, there was always last minute panic. Provisions had to be ordered, propane tanks filled, crew organized, cabins cleaned, decks washed down, and fuel and water tanks topped off. And then there was the machinery to maintain. Besides regular oil and filter changes something always needed fixing. If it wasn’t the generator breaking down, it was the refrigeration.
Adding to the problem was the blasted humidity, a result of having had rain for the past few days. I wondered – how in the world are we ever going to be ready for this charter? How will we manage to dry the bedding? We had a washing machine aboard Latina but without a dryer we had to rely on nature’s sunshine to dry our clothes on a line.
However the day the charter was to begin the skies were clear, the sun was hot, and the wind gently blew from the east. Within an hour of hanging up the laundry, everything was dry and the crew quickly made the beds.
Everything else clicked as well, mainly because most of the crew were seasoned sailors. Doris, who normally captained our 100-foot sailing ship Maverick, and her first mate, Gary, joined me aboard Latina because they didn’t have their own charter that week. Having two experienced crewmembers on board, together with Robert, a keen novice, certainly had the makings for a great trip.
Normally the provisioning truck was on island time but today, it was punctual. I got out of the way while the crew efficiently stowed the fresh produce, meats, fish and dry goods. It never ceased to amaze me how they could find a spot for it all. With the coolers filled with sodas and beer, topped to the brim with ice, we were ready for the show to begin.
What a glorious day, I thought. Why had I been so worried about this charter? Perhaps that’s when I should have suspected something. There was something different in the air. The weather was just too perfect. I should have known better. As the old saying goes, it isn’t over until it’s over.
At noon our eager guests arrived. They were a group from North Carolina who would enjoy a week with us aboard Latina, sailing throughout the U.S. and British Virgin Islands. It didn’t take long to discover that one of the women was picking up the tab for the entire group. She had recently inherited a substantial sum of money and decided to treat her friends to this unique vacation. Although it was their first experience aboard a sailing ship they immediately were impressed with the ship’s generous cabin and deck space. It truly promised to be terrific charter, as everyone seemed so genuine and friendly.
After our guests settled into their cabins, we pulled up Latina’s anchor and slowly headed out of the scenic harbor. The guests ooed and awed at the beautiful tropical setting. Colorful pink rooftops speckled the lush green mountains circling the bay. As we sailed past a row of giant cruise ships resting against the dock, many of their passengers were lined up against the ship’s railing. They waved and cheered to us. It was a heartwarming send off. Amazingly, even after eight years of operating sailing charters out of St. Thomas, I still felt such an incredible thrill going to work.
Everything was turning out perfectly. I started to relax – to enjoy the sail. As we headed out to open sea, Latina’s bow pounded into the oncoming waves sending an energizing shudder through the ship. Her stark white sails fluttered in the soft Caribbean breeze, contrasting against the cobalt blue sky. Tropical emerald islands, dotted here and there, took on the appearance of an oasis rising out of the sea. It was a sight I could never drink enough of. My guests’ faces mirrored my excitement, totally unaware that our ecstasy was to be so short lived!
After barely setting anchor in Frances Bay on the island of St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands, I picked up the first weather warning.
"…HURRICANE LUIS…" the VHF radio blared. At first that was all I heard but it was enough to catch my attention. I listened intently. Sure enough, a hurricane named Luis had formed in the south-east Atlantic, heading in a westerly direction.
"Oh cripes! That’s all I need," I mumbled under my breath.
The report continued, "It’s extremely large in size and very organized."
Great I thought. Well at least it’s far enough away and not likely to target us. But those poor buggers in its path...
Feeling that there was no need to alert the guests I just carried on like usual. For the next couple days I closely but inconspicuously monitored the weather reports to track the hurricane’s strength and direction.
Three days into our charter we were still having incredibly beautiful weather with cloudless blue skies. There was one variation – the trade winds. They had become light, forcing us to use engine power to propel us to the British Isle of Jost Van Dyke.
On the beach, Foxy, my good friend and one of the Caribbean’s most renowned entertainers, dazzled us with his songs and comedy. My guests enjoyed the reggae music, dancing barefoot in the sand under the moonlight, contorting their bodies backward as they did the limbo well into the night. It was inconceivable to imagine that close by, out in the open Atlantic, a powerful hurricane raged. But it was true. Within 24 hours our lives would be altered forever.
The next morning I decided I had no other option but to alert the guests about the looming hurricane. The time had come to change our focus from enjoying their vacation to preparing for a serious storm. By now it was becoming obvious that we would be hit – how severely, no one really knew.
After breakfast we sailed from Jost Van Dyke to the little village of West End, on the British Virgin Island of Tortola to seek shelter. I gathered everyone on the aft deck to explain our predicament and to share my strategy for handling what now looked like an extremely dangerous situation. Surprisingly, they were very receptive to the news. In fact they didn’t seem too concerned at all.
Obviously they have had no experience with hurricanes I thought. I had been in four – enough to respectfully fear them. I knew these people couldn’t conceive that our beautiful windless weather was just the calm before the storm. I knew they couldn’t comprehend the seriousness of the peril just on our doorstep. They didn’t realize that a serious hurricane has enough power to provide the U.S. with enough electric energy for three years. That giant waves turn into death traps, and that the combination of the ocean spray and driving rain can easily drown a man. They couldn’t fathom that a severe hurricane has so much force it could virtually sandblast a man to death. They just had no idea. Maybe it was just as well.
West End had an excellent reputation as a good hurricane hole with exceptional protection provided by high mountains on each side of the deep cove. It was said that pirates, buccaneers and other seafarers over the centuries had weathered great storms there. So I felt we were in good company.
Eager to help, the charter guests got into the spirit of things. They cleared the decks, stowing away anything that could possibly become airborne – windsurfers, cushions and chairs, and even a full-sized barbecue. Taking every precaution, we took off the sails and hauled one of the dinghies up on board. I was amazed how supportive the guests were. Not once did they complain about their vacation being interrupted by this huge inconvenience. They assisted in any way possible, and had a great time doing it – all in a spirit of cooperation. I truly had an exceptional group of people on board.
In our preparations to secure Latina we set three anchors off her bow, facing west and tied her stern to solid moorings on the beach facing east. Ashore, I searched for extra rope to triple our mooring lines. I happened to bump into another charter yacht captain. Surprised that my crew and I were planning to stay on board to ensure the safety of our ship he sneered, "What’s the matter Boris? Can’t you afford a bottle of rum and a hotel room for the night? Don’t worry about your ship. Come and join us – we’re having a hurricane party!"
I just stared at him, and then walked away. I had work to do. There was no way I was going to abandon my ship. I couldn’t comprehend that kind of thinking. I loved Latina and I would never leave her. To me that would be like deserting a wounded friend on the battlefield while the troops were in retreat. I felt we were taking a calculated risk and my crew agreed with me. They all had the option to leave any time they wished.
As the hurricane crept closer, tension began to build on board. The charter guests decided after all to take my advice and seek shelter ashore. Predicting that would be the case, I had previously arranged land accommodations for them in a concrete building. They briskly gathered up their immediate personal belongings and left the ship. Only one guest was too stubborn to leave – Fritz was determined to ride out Hurricane Luis with me. His ancestors had been seafarers and even though he was a landlubber himself, he was compelled to stay on board. He felt he owed it to his deceased grandfather.
Maverick’s Captain, Doris Bailey, with her steadfast determined character shining brightly through, also chose to stay on board. She was a strong, salty, hard working woman, the kind Boston breeds. Robert, our green deckhand, opted to leave the ship after I explained the danger in staying – not wanting to desert us in our time of need, but knowing it was the best thing to do. Tears rolled down his cheeks as I rowed him ashore. Gary being a long time loyal mate, agreed to take the last ferry back to St. Thomas harbor where he would fight the storm aboard Maverick. After the shuffle, only three of us were left on Latina – Doris, Fritz and myself.
Dusk set in and with it, a magic moment of peace before the storm. Magnificently the sun slipped over the horizon. Glorious pink and purple hues feathered across the sky and silhouettes reflected in the flat mirror-like water. Crickets sang to their hearts’ content. The scene was one of tranquil bliss, an enchanted moment in time. And yet, in a few short hours, life as I knew it, so comfortable and secure, would be drastically altered.
Originally it was expected that Luis’ eye would pass south of us. I hadn’t been too concerned, but as the winds built up and new weather reports came in, it was obvious that the hurricane had changed its course. It didn’t take long to realize that the worst case scenario was unfolding – we were directly in the eye’s path!
Oh God! Not now! Not ever! I thought. I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if someone had punched me. Shirley and I had worked so hard restoring Latina. When we bought her she was in much need of repair. She wasn’t young, after all, being built in Italy during the Second World War. Yet when I first set eyes on her I knew I was sold. I could see her potential to be an excellent charter boat. She was big and spacious and gracious. And she had history. We were told that she had been the private yacht of Enzo Ferrari.
People had warned us, "You’re crazy to buy an old 110-foot WOODEN ship. That’s going to be the end of your marriage – the end of your finances. That ship is going to drain you dry." Well it just about did! We had worked hard. A lot of blood, sweat and tears went into upgrading and rebuilding her and with very limited finances. It had been an uphill battle – nevertheless a labor of love. And now the thought of losing her was too much. It made me nauseous. Now all we could do was wait and see what fate destiny was to deal us.
As a blanket of darkness covered us we experienced the first winds of the storm blowing from a NE direction. And within no time howling winds exceeding 75 miles-per-hour dominated the anchorage. Strong gusts laid smaller boats flat on their sides. It didn’t take long for the storm to knock the power out and the stage was set. Total darkness created an eerie ominous feeling. My body was tense with anticipation, but at the same time, I felt charged – excited like a kid about to experience his first roller coaster ride.
"OK Luis – don’t think you’re going to get the best of me!" I taunted. But Luis just ignored me. His fury didn’t subside.
In fact as the night progressed the wind increased in velocity and shifted to the NW. It was difficult to get about the ship. The violent wind now blew about a hundred miles-per-hour with gusts packing much more. So far we were holding our ground. I was pleased with the way Latina headed up to the wind, even though the gusts were rapidly shifting direction. We’d barely recover from one gust before getting blasted by another.
Giant waves constantly swamped the decks. I wondered how much abuse this grand old ship could handle before she’d start leaking between her planks. I wondered if the bilge pumps would be able to keep up. Don’t even go there I thought. It was important to stay focused.
Rain pelted down, piercing my face when I went forward to check the anchors. It felt like bees were stinging me. A couple of days after the hurricane I thought I was going through puberty again – my skin was breaking out. At first I thought it was a case of acne. Then I realized that sand and bits of debris, driven by 150 mile-per-hour winds, had actually embedded my exposed skin.
Latina rode the storm like a bucking bronco. Everything seemed to be under control. Then suddenly in the darkness I could spot a white hazy swirling in the air and hear a horrific howling noise. It sounded like a jet revving its engine just before take off. It was deafening and frightening and I thought it would drive me mad if it didn’t stop. It pinned Latina broadside and forced us sideways. We were no longer secure. It was obvious that our three anchors to the west had started to drag.
Hastily I started the engine. It was absolutely necessary to help us regain control. I ran back to the helm on the poop deck, shifted Latina into forward and steered directly into the wind. The gusts were so violent and constantly shifting direction that it became virtually impossible to hold Latina’s bow into the wind anymore. I knew we had to keep her away from the beach. Adrenaline flowed through my veins. The fight was on to save her!
Somehow we managed and for hours the three of us – Doris, Fritz and myself, took turns running the engine and spinning the massive wooden wheel from port to starboard trying desperately to keep Latina’s bow into the wind. Working the wheel, located high up on the poop deck, we were totally exposed to the elements and were becoming exhausted in our battle against nature.
The wind was so strong it tried to blast us off the deck, and the driving rain so dense we had to wear snorkel masks in order to protect our eyes and faces. We had to turn sideways just to be able to breathe. At this point, I don’t think we could even see our bow.
All along I feared the danger of other boats breaking loose and dragging into us. In the glare of lightening strikes, off in the distance I could see boats, some belonging to my friends, being helplessly dragged towards shore.
Suddenly in the spume of the ocean spray and rain, I spotted a boat, loose and out of control, being dragged at the wind’s mercy. My stomach did a flip when I realized – it was heading directly for us.
"Full port! Steer full port!" I screeched into the deafening wind.
Charged with adrenaline, Captain Doris vigorously spun the wheel to port. I tried to jump from the poop deck down onto the main deck in an attempt to make my way forward. An intense gust stopped me, held me up, suspending me in mid air, then tried to fling me back onto the poop deck. Eventually, I managed to land on the main deck. Dropping on all fours I quickly crawled up to the bow with hopes of fending off the threatening oncoming boat. Fritz was close behind.
A small sloop rushed toward us out of the darkness, dragging just past our starboard side. It was an eerie ghostly sight, captured in short bright flashes of lightening strikes. The boat’s mast was broken and dangling. A huge chunk was missing from its bow. It came so close that I could just about touch it, but before I could react, it darted by us and disappeared within seconds from sight. I stood shocked in disbelief. Fear overtook me.
This is serious stuff I thought. What’s our destiny to be? When is this hurricane ever going to end? Hurricanes usually pass quickly. It’s their only blessing. But this one seemed to be playing out in slow motion. And we had no choice but to endure it.
Remembering previous hurricanes I had survived I knew the water would become loaded with debris, either flooded into the sea from land or off battered or destroyed ships. It’s one of the dangers associated with such violent storms. And Luis was no different.
Around 2 a.m. I knew we were in very grave danger. It was apparent that debris made up of other boat’s snapped anchor lines and the like had wrapped around Latina’s propeller, stalling her main engine. Without the assistance of the engine we’d lose Latina for sure. What could I do? My mind was racing. My heart was pounding. There had to be something I could do. I just had to free that propeller.
With not a minute to spare I dashed into the engine room to restart it, but each time I re-engaged the transmission, the engine would stall. The crew watched in horror and disbelief as I grabbed my dive tank and a hacksaw and leaped off the ship’s deck into the darkness. I don’t know how, but I felt my way through the black water to the stern of the pitching ship. I couldn’t see a thing. How I found the propeller is beyond me. It was totally jammed with rope. Frantically, I tried to cut through it, but the hacksaw just wouldn’t do the job.
The ship was pitching so hard that I had trouble hanging on to the giant rudder and cutting at the same time. One minute I was flying high above the water caught up in the vicious waves only to be plunged deep under the next. Each time Latina’s monstrous stern fell down, I felt barnacles cutting into my head, back, shoulders and arms.
Forget the hacksaw; it wasn’t getting me anywhere – it was a tool better suited for steel. It was just barely ruffling the rope. I cursed myself for bringing it. What I really needed was a sharp knife. Fritz and Doris helped drag me back up on board and I scurried off to the galley in search of a better tool. In seconds I leapt back into the water – this time clutching the largest knife I could find.
Blinded by the darkness I closed my eyes and let my sixth sense guide me. This time, lady luck was on my side. As I slashed the tightly wound ropes, I felt one layer after another giving way. It gave me such an adrenaline rush that I hacked away with the rage of a wild animal.
Suddenly a sharp pain shot up my right arm as one of my muscles tore. But I didn’t stop. I was too close. Then another blow of Latina’s 132-ton hull slammed down on top of me, knocking the air supply regulator out of my mouth.
I couldn’t hear the rage of the storm anymore. Confused and barely conscious I continued to cut away at the rope, but my mind started to wander off...
My first thought was of Shirley. If she knew what I was doing right now she would be furious. If I were to die, she would kill me.
Then I started to ask myself. Why was I doing this? Where did I get my drive – my passion for life? Where was it all coming from? Why didn’t I, or why couldn’t I care less?
Perhaps the guy on shore was right. I should let go and not be so committed. Why can’t I? Where does my survival instinct come from? How did I acquire such an adventurous spirit?
Perplexed, I shook my head and wondered what in the world a prairie kid from Croatia was doing in the middle of the Caribbean under a 132-ton ship in a raging hurricane? How did I get myself into this predicament?
Then my whole life flashed before my eyes...