Читать книгу Adrift: A True Story of Love, Loss and Survival at Sea - Susea McGearhart - Страница 8

I opened my eyes and saw blue sky and wispy, white clouds. My head throbbed. I went to touch it, but things, I didn’t know what, lay on top of me, smothering me, crushing me. What was going on? I couldn’t think, I couldn’t remember. Where was I? My hammock hung cockeyed. I dangled near the floor. A can of WD-40 clanged against the table post. I moved, and a book splashed into the water.

I struggled to free myself. Dead weight pinned me down. Cans of food, books, pillows, clothes, a door, and panels of the main salon’s overhead liner spilled off me as I struggled to sit up. I recoiled for I was covered in blood. I could feel a horrendous cut burning my left shin.

Where was I? What had happened? I was confused. I couldn’t orient myself. The clock on the wall ticked a beat. 4 P.M.? That didn’t seem right . . . My tether, still clipped onto the table post, confined me. I was obviously on a boat—what boat? My weakened hands frantically tried to unclip the tether.

Once unclipped, I strained to see around me. My vision was blurry; the pain in my head excruciating. Putting hand to brow, I flinched. I looked at my hand and saw crimson. Uncontrollable shivers engulfed me.

Laboriously, I crawled out of the labyrinth of wreckage. I stood up unsteadily. My back was wet and the water was over knee high. I felt faint. Slowly, one careful step at a time, I waded, negotiating my way through the obstacles floating in the two feet of water that lapped above the floor frames. This was crazy. The interior of the boat was chaotic. My God, what had happened? Books, charts, pillows, silverware, floorboards, cups, clothing, cans of food, spare parts, beans, flour, oatmeal—everything was either floating or stuck to the overhead, or to the bulkheads, or to the hull. The oven had been ripped from the starboard side of the boat and was now wedged into the nav station’s bookshelf on the port side. What boat is this? Where am I?

I headed for the forward cabin—the V-berth. “Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded strange. I gaped at the turmoil in every nook and cranny. Cautiously moving toward the bow, I peeked in the head. There, in the mirror, I saw a frazzled image, its face covered in blood, the forehead cut wide open. Long strands of hair, wild and matted with blood, shot out from its skull. In fear, my hands flew to my mouth. I screamed. Then I screamed again. The ungodly sight was me.

“No!” I shouted, crashing into the bulkhead as I tried to escape.

I stumbled into the V-berth. Everything there too was topsy-turvy. The storage hammocks that hung on each side of the berth were overturned; spilled clothes lay every which way. Paperback books were off their shelves. The long mattress for the bunk was kinked, out of its place. Cans of food and even broken dishes lay strewn about.

I shook my head and wondered how the food and dishes got into the V-berth. In disbelief I backed into the main salon.

“Ray?” I apprehensively called.

Ray? I wondered where that had come from. It’s not Ray. Ray’s the hurricane. Hurricane? Hurricane Ray—Raymond. Where’s Richard? Richard . . . “Oh my God . . .” But that’s what he had said. . . .

Fear dropped me to my knees. I retched. Bilge water splashed against my cheek. Richard had not come below with me.

“RICHARD?” I screamed. “RICHAAARRRD!”

I pulled myself to my feet, but had barely taken a step when the heel of my foul-weather boot slid. I fell against the salon table and threw up again. I looked at the ship’s clock once more and desperately tried to concentrate on its second hand jumping: one thousand one, one thousand two. It read 1600 hours—4 P.M. Wait, that’s not right! my rattled mind screamed. It had been one—one in the afternoon. “My God. . . . Oh, Richard . . . RICHAAARRRD?” I wailed as I crawled toward the companionway ladder, my hands splashing water in every direction as I knocked food, cushions, books, whatever, out of my way.

“RICHARD? RICHARD?” I screamed over and over, choking on my words.

The companionway ladder had broken off its latches—it lay sideways against the nav station seat. I pushed it to the floor, out of my way, and climbed up on the back of the settee, screaming Richard’s name. The companionway’s main hatch was torn from its sliding tracks, leaving a gaping hole. As I hoisted myself up into the cockpit, I hit my head on the boom, which was blocking the entryway. “GODDAMN IT!” I howled and then painfully climbed over it.

There I saw Richard’s safety line secured to the cleat on the cockpit coaming. The tether hung over the side of the hull. My God, could he be on the other end?

I lunged for the safety line, grabbed it tight, and yanked hard. It flew into the cockpit, the metal making a sharp craaack against the fiberglass. There lay the bitter end—the D-ring had parted.

Desperately I looked in every direction. Where was the howling wind? Where was the pelting rain? Where had it all gone? The ocean swell was a slow rolling six-feet, not monstrous like it had been.

I became a lunatic. Forcing the seat lockers open, I threw cushions, anything that would float, overboard. He’s out there somewhere. Maybe he’s alive. Oh God, please . . .

“Take this. And this. And this . . . HOLD ON RICHARD, I’LL FIND YOU.”

I clambered below and grabbed more cushions, pushing them up through the main entry. Crawling back topside, I heaved it all overboard. The debris undulated in the otherwise empty sea. Adrenaline raced through my body, causing my heart to pound furiously.

Spotting the man-overboard pole attached to the mangled stern rail, I raced to it and struggled desperately to get it untied. I threw the pole as far out into the sea as I could. I was so weak. The orange flag bobbed in the swells.

He could be alive; it’s only been three hours.

His last plea, “Ohmigod,” roared in my brain. It must have been a huge wave. Larger than those forty-five-foot monsters. A rogue wave. We rolled, and Richard . . . Oh, my love . . . God, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t . . .

“RICHARD? RICHARD, WHERE ARE YOU?” I surveyed the ocean all around me, to the edge of the hazy horizon. Nothing encroached on the battleship gray sea—the troughs were empty, shallow bowls. “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.” He was nowhere to be seen.

Hazana was ravaged. The mainmast was gone except for a four-foot piece still attached to the main boom. The tabernacle, a metal housing used to raise and lower the mainmast, lay on its side, a huge five-foot piece of torn deck attached to it. The large two-inch clevis pin that had been holding the foot of the mast in the tabernacle lay on the deck, sheared in half. “Oh my God,” I wailed as I looked down through the gaping hole into the main cabin, seeing the hammock I had been lying in and all the floating debris. The mizzen mast was in the water, banging against the hull, held on by the starboard—right side—shroud. Stainless steel rigging hung overboard, with the roller-furling jib and staysail trailing in the water. A couple of stainless steel one-inch stanchions were tweaked like soda-pop cans. The rest were snapped in half like toothpicks. The lid to the in-deck propane locker was missing, and the propane tanks were gone.

“MY GOD . . . RICHARD? RICHARD?” I howled.

I looked all around. “‘Richard? Richard?’”

Oh please, God, please. My legs gave way—I hung onto the boom and retched again.

He couldn’t be gone. The dry heaves choked me. In total fear I clung to the boom and lay dazed, my cheek against the cold aluminum.

GET UP. MOVE. An inner voice slammed into my thoughts.

Bawling, I crept over the broken-down boom, reached into the companionway, and groped for the binoculars. Miraculously, they were still strapped in their place.

After slithering back over the boom, I stood bracing myself, thinking, “I can save him, I can save him,” as I scanned the ocean around me with the binocks. I could not stop trembling: The eye holes of the magnifying glasses pressed hard against my skull, drumming against my eyebrows.

I peered in every direction. All I saw was a vast desolate sea, with rolling six-foot swells. Nothing, not one goddamned thing, was out there.

Try the engine! the inner voice barked.

I pulled out the choke, adjusted the throttle, and pushed the engine’s start button. Nothing. Not even a grunt or grind. I didn’t realize how much hope I was holding that the engine would start. My nerves spasmed and my stomach convulsed. When I hugged myself I felt the EPIRB still attached to my waist. I fumbled to unbuckle it. I couldn’t center my mind. How does this thing work?

Remove the guard. Press the switch. Nothing. I stood up and held the radio device in the air. Nothing. I turned it in circles. Nothing. I sat down and started over.

With jittery hands I put the guard back on and then took it off. I pressed the switch and held the EPIRB up. Fumbling, I pulled out the batteries. With trembling fingers I wiped off the connectors and then put everything back together. Nothing. Damn it!

Water. The EPIRB needs water. Yanking open the seat locker I could see the bucket lying deep in the hole. It was the bucket Richard and I had used to pour saltwater over each other to cool off. Stretching, I grabbed the line on the bucket.

Holding the stern rail I threw the bucket into the water, scooped up as much saltwater as I could lift and heaved the bucket into the cockpit. I dropped the EPIRB into it. Bubbles rose, but nothing else happened. No lights or beeps. I yanked the EPIRB out of the water and shook it. Nothing. Disgusted, I threw it back into the bucket. Saltwater splashed all over, burning the deep cut on my shin.

I couldn’t think clearly. My head throbbed and my body ached with every movement. There was nothing else I could think to do, short of jumping overboard and ending this nightmare. If Richard had beckoned, I would have jumped.

Don’t, he could be alive.

“How in the hell can he be alive? Is he alive? Where is he?” I looked frantically in every direction. “Is he below? IS HE BELOW?” I shouted, expecting God to answer.

“WHERE IS HE? DOWN BELOW?” I struggled to get below as quickly as possible.