Lost at Sea

Lost At Sea

Looking out upon the open Gulf from Southwest Florida’s Pine Key, I felt safe. That’s because I was only looking, and the translucent water was calm. When I would actually be on the water in some type of watercraft, that’s when trouble often occurred. I even became lost at sea on two occasions, and no one wants to be lost at sea.

The first time was in a kayak when I was fishing offshore and a tarpon dragged me out a couple of miles. It was a fun ride until the line broke and I lost my sense of direction. I kicked myself for not having a compass or GPS. I floated all night until the Coast Guard came the next morning. A second time occurred when I was fishing with a friend in a Boston Whaler and we had engine trouble thirty miles out. Scary waves came and we were stranded a day and a half trying to keep upright before rescuers came.

You would think I’d learn something from all this and just stay a landlubber, but when I started dating Joyce, she loved the shore and sea. She taught yoga on the beach and preferred making love after dark where waves lapped our bodies and sand was everywhere. Everywhere. Oneness. So, to take our relationship to the next level, I thought we needed something on the open ocean. Remembering my earlier fiascos, I chose the safest path and hired a captain named Karen and her first mate Mike to take us on a full day sailing trip in their 25-foot rig. Glowing testimonials had been posted on their website and fancy food and wine was provided.

Out on the open ocean, it was easy to relax with the wind and waves, and it confirmed to me why I was always drawn to the sea. What could be better? The wine flowed freely, Karen and Mike joined in, especially Mike, and by the third bottle, we were toasting the sea gods, dolphins, gulls, anything we saw that made us happy. Blissful was the word that came to mind and when I looked into Joyce’s face, I saw a visage of wistful freedom. I had made the perfect choice of adventure. Joyce could be THE ONE, I thought.

The trouble started when the rudder somehow got snagged on a large half-submerged fishing net, causing us to lose speed and the ability to steer. Karen ordered Mike to dive in and cut the rudder free. Mike looked down, said he saw shark fins, and staggered back. “Hell no,” he slurred. “You better do it. Fucking sharks down there.”

“Oh, you big baby,” Karen muttered, putting down her wine glass. “That’s why I’m the captain. Give me that knife!” She grabbed the long fishing knife from Mike’s hand and was about to leap into the water when she, too, said she saw sharks, and not little ones, either. Joyce and I saw them, too, and snuggled closer together. The sharks were attracted to the fish tangled in the net. “On second thought,” Karen said, “Let’s see if we can get closer to those outer islands and cut the net free in shallower water.”

The currents and wind were bringing us toward a row of sandy islands covered with palm trees and live oaks. We moved slowly, dragging the big net, the wind picking up and catching our sails and moving us faster. Suddenly, we lurched forward and the boat leaned sharply to the right before rapidly gaining speed. “We’ve lost the rudder!” Karen shouted. “Take down the main sail!” Mike and Karen grabbed at ropes, but it was too late. We hit one of the island beaches at a high rate of speed and the impact knocked us all forward. Mike was thrown into the surf while Karen hit her head on the mast, nearly knocking her out. Joyce and I were thrown to the floor, and we scraped our knees and elbows. Red wine spilled across the wood floor like thin blood. I leaned over to Joyce. “You okay, Sweetie?”

“I think so,” she said, slowly sitting up, “but we’d better check on Karen and Mike.” Karen was now on her knees, groaning and holding her forehead, while Mike was scrambling to stand up in the surf, cursing and spitting saltwater.

I found some ice and made an ice pack for Karen’s head, which was already red and swelling. “You just take it easy now, Karen,” I said. “That’s a nasty bump.”

Stranded on the beach, the boat was rocking back and forth with the wind and rolling waves. “Can you get the sail down?” Karen said in a near whisper. “That will help keep the boat from rocking.”

Not knowing much about sailing, Joyce and I managed to take down the sail while Mike crawled onto the beach like he had been swimming for miles after a shipwreck. “What now?” I asked no one in particular. I felt a bit like Gilligan but without a healthy skipper, or a professor, or the Howells. My girl Joyce was a cross between Ginger and Mary Ann, but now disheveled looking, like a kid who just fell from her bike onto the sidewalk. I pictured us having to make shelter and find food and water, beginning a desperate struggle for survival, when Joyce said, “Shouldn’t we call for help?”

“Oh yes.” I fumbled in my day pack for my cell phone, trying to shake the wine fog. “Who do I call?” I asked Karen.

“The Coast Guard,” she said, her voice still weak.

“What’s the number?”

“Oh hell, let me see if the radio still works.”

Karen stumbled to the captain’s chair, holding the ice pack to her forehead, and fiddled with some knobs and buttons. “Shit, nothing’s working. Shit!” Her full voice was coming back to life. She glared at me accusingly, as if I had something to do with this predicament. “Just dial 911 on your phone!”

“Oh yeah,” I said. I dialed 911 but didn’t get an answer. “I don’t have enough bars,” I announced.

“Damn,” Karen cursed and plopped into the captain’s chair. “We’re stuck.” I glanced at Mike and he was stumbling along the beach like a drunk, which probably reflected his true condition. No help there.

“Three fires,” I said. “Doesn’t three fires on the beach indicate an emergency?” Karen frowned but nodded. At that moment, I felt like the only one capable of getting us rescued. “Okay, I’ll go gather some wood.”

It didn’t take long for me to gather sticks, driftwood and dried grass and place them in three piles. I smartly decided to place them near the tree line in case the rising tide smothered them. Karen gave me a lighter and, feeling a bit like Daniel Boone, I lit our emergency fires. With the sea breeze, they roared to life. Now, this will bring some help, I thought, stepping back from the heat. I admired my fires, which quickly turned into one fire because the island grass caught fire and began to spread inland.

“Put it out, put it out!” Karen screamed, still holding the ice pack to her head. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Joyce just looked wide-eyed, her mouth agape. I grabbed handfuls of sand and threw them onto the flames. That didn’t do much. “Take this,” Karen ordered, and tossed me a plastic bucket. I promptly ran to the water, filled it, ran back to the fire and threw water on the flames. But by this time, the fire was spreading out of control. A bucket brigade would not have stopped it. “Damn,” I muttered, stepping back, feeling the heat. After a few minutes, Mike came staggering towards us with a half-crazed look. “There’s a fire. Fire!” The rest of us said nothing because there was nothing to say. We could only back away and wade in the water to avoid the heat, watching flames leap and birds flee. Before that day, I had never seen the top of palm trees explode in flames like scary fireworks. Haunting.

Well, the fire did as I intended. Emergency officials came, and law enforcement. We were being rescued! But that’s not how they saw it. One husky man wearing a federal fish and wildlife service brown uniform approached us. “Who started this fire?” he gruffly asked. Karen, Mike and even Joyce, my beloved, immediately pointed an index finger at me. I was surprised they didn’t suffer some type of hand or wrist whiplash.

“It was an accident,” I stammered, my head starting to throb. It seemed like days ago we were sailing on open waters as carefree as dolphins. “We couldn’t reach anyone on the cell phone or radio, so I simply made three fires to indicate emergency. The wind came up and—.” I yearned for an Advil or five.

“Did you know these islands are part of a national wildlife refuge?” the officer said. “Endangered terns nest here and you’re just lucky it’s not nesting season because I’d arrest you on felony charges. You’ll still have to pay a hefty fine, though. You got off lucky this time!"

Yeah, real lucky, I thought.

Another man approached us, this one a no-nonsense state marine law enforcement officer. “Have you four been drinking?”

“Just a little wine,” I said.

“Who is the captain of this vessel?”

Karen meekly raised her hand.

“Would you agree to a breathalyzer test?”

She exhaled loudly and nodded. She promptly failed the test and was given a citation. “Shit,” she muttered, glancing at her boat. “Plus, I got to get this thing towed before the next storm.”

It was a quiet and sullen boat ride to the mainland with our rescuers. And afterwards, Joyce wouldn’t see me for days, always making some excuse. Finally, I came up with a plan to win her back. A cruise. A long tropical cruise on a really big ship. Now, what could possibly go wrong?