Losing Arclyd

[Our Readers Write]

	When your boat is also your home you establish a deep connection that is often acknowledged within cruising circles by referring to you by your boat's name.

By Wayne Royle

The seas had been on and off all night, line squalls to 40 knots, lots of heat lightning. No big deal: we had managed to skirt around most of it.  A typical May night passage that brought Arclyd peacefully to a point 25 miles north of Tobago at first light.

Cindy went below at 0600, checked the bilge, and then lay down on the starboard settee.We were content that the boat was enjoying her way. Now under reefed main, we were motorsailing against a three-knot current, trying to make our way windward. We moved high on the rhumb line, waiting for the next squall.

Arclyd had been our only home for 13 years. I know that a boat is a boat and a house is a house, but a home is a home. For Cindy and me, who lived aboard this 38-foot sloop, the bonds of love and respect were strong, with fond as well as frightful memories. The three of us, Cindy, Wayne, and Arclyd, had known great joys.

We had survived four hurricanes, lying on the cabin sole, holding each other with the firm belief that our ship was just fine. She would take care of us. We were never jealous or envious of another boat, Arclyd was a part of us and we a part of her.

"When you become known cruisers, people often greet you by boat name. "

When you become known cruisers, people often greet you by boat name. This would at first seem strange when miles from her in a market and upon meeting fellow sailors, they would call me “Arclyd” or native people would refer to us as “Mister and Missus Arclyd” in quite sincere terms.

On this particular night, Cindy had looked in the bilge every couple of hours. To our friends Dave and Gord, who were aboard with us for the passage, I’m sure this must have seemed somewhat obsessive. Whenever the cabin sole was lifted, the sound of Arclyd’s three-cylinder diesel heart would destroy any chance of rest. This we accepted, since it helped to pass the time and keep us alert.

A few minutes after Cindy went below, Dave, who was at the wheel pointed out a small slick of oil in our wake. I suggested that the pump was throwing off a little bilge water and within a few seconds it stopped. Gord and I were off watch but sat in the cockpit with Dave, pontificating.

At 0610 the engine’s electrical sender buzzed a fault. Gord took the wheel as Dave and I went below to answer the call. Lifting the cabin sole I reported “There’s a lot of water in this boat.” The engine was pooped but breathing. Gord, with a nod from me, reported “Shutting off the engine.” I submerged my shoulder and closed the engine seacock while Dave dug out the big manual pump. After five minutes of pumping in the sloppy seas, Dave doubted he could keep it up.

All through-hull fittings were tight. The stern gland below the exhaust trap was now out of reach. Arclyd’s sole was awash.

Jarata, a gaff-rigged, steel, three-masted schooner had been within sight all night, headed to Tobago as we were. Arclyd always sailed in company when she had a choice. Jarata was motorsailing less than a mile ahead of us. She would be our only chance for rescue.

	Should the unthinkable happen, flares are an effective way to increase visibility and direct rescuers to your boat.

I took the flare gun to the cockpit, fired two flares and sent out our first Mayday. There was no reply. Dave was pumping like a madman as water continued to rise. Taking the airpump from the lazarette, I made my way to the foredeck and unlashed the inflatable dinghy. On my hands and knees holding onto the handrail and pumping, I felt a sharp shooting pain down my right leg. Nothing new to me, just this old man’s back. Knowing enough to abandon the inflatable, I checked Dave’s progress. He was slowing down the inflow but when I joined him at the pump, I realized it really was a waste of time.

After spending three more flares, I handed the Very pistol to Gord, instructing him to save two flares. I then radioed my second Mayday.

Cindy waved and we could hear ourselves yelling to Jarata, our voices snuffed by the wind like a lost prayer. Then our VHF replied “This is Captain Rocky Dreyer of the South African sailing vessel Jarata. We are tacking around.”  She was steel, 100 tons; we were glass, eight tons.  With the seas and her great size, our mating would be a test that had to be taken. The sooner, the better.

	A welcoming sight for sailors in trouble; however in the high-seas help often comes from nearby sailing vessels as in the author's case.

With Arclyd now under reefed main alone, Jarata dropped below us then rounded up onto our heading. She luffed about 25 yards to our stern. Her skipper walked forward and I yelled, asking whether he had a cargo net. Now the wind carried my voice and within a minute a net was secured to Jarata’s starboard midships. As the skipper backed his sails, we fell off within 50 feet of the cargo net. I could see that this much larger ship was creating a lee. Rocky now powered up to gain his heading. All aboard Arclyd were standing in the cockpit. I helped Cindy put our backpack with the ship’s papers and passports on over her lifejacket. Things seemed as right as they would ever be. Hoping Rocky would hear, I gave the order  in a loud voice: “Abandon ship–Cindy, you go first.” I felt a cold rush and sucked it back. No time for broken hearts.

Cindy stepped into the sea. With the weight of the backpack, she was unable to reach the net as the current swept her past Jarata. Rocky, hard to starboard, backed again to stay with her. Now Arclyd was in Jarata’s way. For a moment, it looked like we were going to careen down her windward side.  

I put my wheel to starboard as Gord took to the water, within seconds he was aboard Jarata. Now, with Rocky’s attention on Cindy, and Arclyd wallowing in her own spume, it was clear that we were about to be rammed. I moved forward. Dave was still in the cockpit and as Jarata’s bow entered she pounded down onto Arclyd’s coaming. I watched Dave. As Jarata’s bowsprit rose he leapt aboard it and locked on for the elevator ride up. As he rose Arclyd’s backstay struck down his left hip and again Jarata hooked into Arclyd. Dave held on.

"Cindy was still unable to make any headway and was being swept out of the lee."

I looked toward the sea and spotted Cindy. She was still unable to make any headway and was being swept out of the lee. I lost sight of her behind the trough. My heart told me, go to her; my head said get aboard Jarata, as Arclyd groaned again as steel found glass. The net was 40 feet away. I stepped toward it, recognizing that at any second I could be crushed between the two hulls.  I grabbed on; Gord’s hand was there and I heard Rocky power into reverse, breaking clear to cover Cindy. She was in trouble as the seas broke over her. 

I yelled from the deck. “Just relax Cindy, relax.” And though a hundred feet away, our eyes met. As Jarata again covered her with its lee, Gord got a heaving line as I continued to spot. With both hands up, I yelled “Just relax honey, relax, we’ll have you in a few minutes.” She was gulping water and close to panic. The heaving line went out. My eyes were glued on Cindy. Rocky locked Jarata in neutral, to avoid fouling the prop. Cindy muckled onto the line and was pulled to the net.  As she scrambled from the sea, Gord and I each grabbed a wrist, pulling her to safety.  

Holding Cindy close, I could see Arclyd wounded and coming to weather Jarata powersailed clear.  Rum was offered by the crew, in celebration of the four lives saved. I could not take my eyes off Arclyd. She seemed to be game for a fight—and to be asking why wasn’t I.  I looked at Rocky and asked if there was anything more we could do.  Jarata fell around to stand by.

As the morning sun broke through, I could see no prop or shaft between keel and skeg. Arclyd was bound to leave us. At first, she slipped low on her lines.  The odd wave would lift her head, only to drop lower until her toerail met mean level and she seemed to stop sinking. With half-filled water tanks, air in the fuel tank, and an empty holding tank, it seemed she might hold on.

Rocky was now getting into the spirit.  “If we can get a line on her, maybe we can tow her aground.” Tobago was eight hours away. To me, a line would give us a chance to hold her, if only for one last time.

With my back throbbing, it was time for me to stand down. I assumed a squat position on the quarterdeck and watched as Rocky and crew grappled with Arclyd. They got her under tow, but as Jarata’s speed came up, Arclyd’s bow would go down. This was not life support.

	Unfortunately, the author wasn't as lucky as the owner of this boat who was eventually able to recover his pride and joy when she washed up ashore.

Rocky produced a cutlass and said “We’ll have to let her go.” Dave handed me a double grog, and I spliced the main brace in one toss. Oddly, as Dave turned away, I could see the seat had been torn from his pants by Arclyd’s backstay, and his red welted rump had been exposed for all the world to see. It may have been just my nerves, but at this point I laughed at the comedy of life.

The crew shortened up on the hawser to save as much line as they could and we made the cut. Within a minute, Arclyd’s head went down. She presented her stern as it rose, and I smiled a tear. Again she seemed to stop with all of her foredeck under as if to take a good look at where she was going. Then, within a few seconds, she sailed down and was gone.  

---

If you'd like to contribute to Our Readers Write section, please send your submissions to submit@sailnet.com.