Phil Cheevers' sails "Humbly Magnificent..." (my shortened version of his boat's name), #1089, out of Niagara-on-the-Lake Sailing Club. His "Humbly" Site on Compuserve is an interesting call in itself. But for a harrowing sailor's tale try this .....

 At 2:00 On Friday September 26th 1992 I slipped the lines from dock 16 in Bronte Harbour and sailed out past the breakwater to begin a long downwind sled ride to Port Dalhousie. All morning, the weather stations had been reporting West winds at 30 to 40 knots and up to 3 meter waves. This was playtime for Humbly, my 24' Shark. We had been out many times in exactly these conditions and Humbly always surfed along downwind under main and storm jib at exhilarating speeds ahead of the crests. The weather report had been constant for the last 24 hours and no change in wind direction or wave conditions was predicted.

As I cleared the breakwater, Jimmy Buffett sang the virtues of cheeseburgers and I pointed Humbly's nose to about 125 degrees. This was too close to dead downwind for comfort so I headed up to 140. This took me more directly South across the lake but put the wind and waves a little more comfortably off the starboard quarter. I sat on the weather side with my back to the wind and the waves.

For about an hour Humbly went faster that she had ever gone before. She surfed down 3 meter waves, and in the gusts the pressures turned into humming in the hull and vibration on the tiller. There was tremendous pressure on the rig but I felt that the greatest concern was whether the pintles would take the stress as the rudder was kicking up a rooster tail. I had a spare rudder but didn't want to fit pintles and set it in such angry conditions.

At about 4:00 we were between 6 and 8 miles from the South shore when a coincidence of calamity set us up. The mother of all waves picked Humbly up, turned her sideways and heeled her almost 90 degrees. It bumped the bottom of the boat which boosted me off balance off of the seat. I felt like a volleyball set up for a spike. The wave broke over the cockpit and slammed me over the leeward coaming. Somewhere in the tremendous rush of water I took my left hand off the tiller and the next thing I remember is hanging in the water on the port side reaching up and over the transom grasping the tiller with my right hand. I was trying to decide if I should hang on tightly and risk breaking the tiller or let go before it broke.

Then the boat tilted to windward and I lot my grip and went underwater.

When I came back to the surface the boat had righted herself and rounded up into the wind with her stern about six feet away. I swam for it and lunged for the motor but missed it by just six inches and went under water again. When I came back up the boat had caught a gust of wind and moved away.

For a second I though about slipping out of the floater jacket so I could swim for it but decided that this would be really dumb. The boat was only twenty feet away but it may as well have been on the moon. I recall vividly the rage that waved over me and I yelled, "You dumb country buffoon!" The rage passed almost immediately as I started to realize what a challenge I had.

The main sheet had a knot in the end of it and the jib was cleated out as far as it would go. Humbly sailed away in a scalloping motion towards the South shore, first moving downwind under the main, then rounding up until the jib filled and pushed her nose back downwind again. It was agonizingly close but irrevokably out of reach to me.

I started to think. I was alone. I was wearing a farmer John wetsuit bottoms and a Mustang floater coat. Inside the left sleeve pocket were three small aerial flares. There was a whistle, two small flashlights, and $2.75 in change in the side pockets. I was barefoot.

I fired one of the flares in the hope that someone on the shore was watching the only boat on the lake and would report the approximate location of the accident. I had never fired a flare before. I didn't realize how dim and useless a flare would be in daylight.

The floater coat and wetsuit kept me buoyant so I thought that my biggest danger was hypothermia and I hooked up the beavertail attached to the floater coat to try to reduce heat loss from my crotch. I wanted something orange on my head for the search crews but had difficulty tying the hood closed. Even though I had used it a before in rainstorms, I had forgotten that I just had to pull the line through the toggles. It wasn't until later that I remembered that the head was an area of major heat loss.

I could see the shore when the larger waves lifted me and even though the boat was still only a few hundred feet away I started cheering her on. Humbly was headed south on her drunken course. I imagined that when she hit the rocks along the shoreline there would be a movie style explosion with flame and smoke that would attract attention and help.

Until then, my choices were to either curl up and float to conserve heat, or to swim towards shore. The wind and waves were taking me West-southwest and the shoreline was to the South. I wanted to make sure that if I drifted East that I would not miss the Port Weller peninsula because the next possible landfall would be the Thousand Islands, two hundred miles further.

I decided to swim. I still had two flares. My fragile game plan was to swim towards the shore. When Humbly's sails disappeared I would know that Humbly had hit the shore. The search would start and then I could fire off the last two flares and then rescuers would come out and get me. I had no thought that I would swim all the way to shore.

First I had to learn now to swim. Other than swimming back to my windsurfer after a fall, I had not been swimming for over twenty years. The floater coat kept my head above water but would not allow a normal swim stroke, and the neoprene wetsuit bottoms kept trying to flip my legs up and put my face in the water. I found that the best compromise was in a combination of breast stroke and pedal kick which kept me moving forward very slowly and somewhat upright.

I stroked slowly and watched my boat get smaller. I tried to remember more on survival. A billboard at the club launching ramp has listed survival times in the water but all I could remember from it was that in March you had less than an hour before hypothermia became terminal. I thought that I had between 6 to 8 hours before I started to get cold.

The next couple of hours became a series of stroke, stroke, watch Humbly stagger towards shore, stroke, try and remember anything to do with survival, stroke, sputter, and stroke. The boat moved further away but the shoreline did not seem any closer. I was drifting East and swimming South.

After about an hour I notices a seagull floating effortlessly above me. It struck me that this was not fair and I yelled to the gull, "Hey, gull! Go and tell them where I am and I'll give you a fish." He floated there for a minute and then wafted away. I told myself that he could see that I had no fish.

About 6:30 the sun sank lower to the West and I realized for the first time that I would be out there after dark. I could still see Humbly in the distance and it was alarming how far the boat was going and how small the sails were getting while the shore didn't seem to be getting any closer.

At 7:09 the sun went down and I started getting cold. I took inventory of my body, evaluating how warm each part felt and decided that everthing was just as warm as it had been thirty minutes ago. It just seemed colder as it got darker. Then I noticed the lights along the shoreline and started to fix a few of the brighter ones as landmarks.

Every little while I had the urge to speed up and a couple of times I tried to swim faster but this never lasted when I realized that slower was better. This was difficult as I have always had trouble pacing myself in anything I have ever done but this time there was no choice. Now that it was completely dark waves were sneaking up from behind and clobbering me, leaving me sputtering and indignant.

A blue flashing light caught my eye off to the left. Anxiously I waited for the next wave to pick me up ofr another look and saw the light on top of a large yellow vessel with a black hull floating about a hundred yards away to the southeast. I saw it again and reached for the flares in the sleeve pocket of my floater coat. It seemed to take forever to very carefully get the flares out of the pocket and out of the plastic bag, put one back in the bag, replace the bag in the sleeve pocket, unscrew the end of the flare, point the business end up, and pull the chain. I had never fired flares before and was scared witless that I might drop either one. The flare arced up, over and doused downwind. I was both disappointed at how quickly the light show was over and anxious that someone in the boat would see me. I waited a few long seconds. Suddenly the boat accelerated to the West. They had not seen me! As fast as I could, and with no fear of dropping it I pulled out the flare and fired it in an arc in front of the boat. It did not reach the boat, but it did arc nicely and doused off it's starboard quarter. I kept watching the boat's direction. No change...no change...no change. The boat kept on going and disappeared to the West. I yelled; I screamed; I called it names and cursed it's wake.

When I calmed down I realized that I was upset that I now had a long way to swim. This was the first time that I had to think about whether I was going to make it to shore and whether my original game plan was still sound. I decided that I was still going to make it swimming, but I didn't want to. I wanted a ride. "OK self, you have no more flares and there is a blind madman in a forty foot rescue boat driving up and down the shoreline at high speed. Just my luck he'll come back and nail me in the head."

I could see a Christmas tree type light arrangement and realized that it was the Plain and Fancy restaurant, which would put the Jordan Harbour entrance ahead of me, Prudhommes water park to the right and to the left I should be able to see the Beacon Motor Inn...."There!" A few months ago they had installed a green flashing beacon at the mouth of the artificial harbour at the back of the Motor Inn.

I settled down into a slow routine of stroking and started to daydream.

Strokes. Imagine checking into the Motor Inn and slipping into a nice bubbling hot tub.

More strokes. "I'm not swimming for Prudhommes because I am in no mood for a water slide ride!"

More strokes. " I sure hope this restaurant doesn't have a strict dress code."

More strokes. " I had my honeymoon night at the Beacon. Why is it everything I do ends up on the rocks here?"

Slowly the triangle of lights turned into vertical strands, and this transition became a warming and welcome measure of progress. I was still concerned about heat loss and swallowed a lot of water as the waves seemed to get bigger. I was still tempted to try swimming faster but stuck to the slow and steady game plan that had worked so far. I did try to body surf and caught a few waves that turned into exciting and long rides, but I realized that they were not free rides because they took so much energy.

Things were going well enough. "What can possibly go wrong?" I could hit a cold patch in the lake. I could run into a current where Jordan Harbour empties into the lake just in front of me. I could get hit by a bugs-in-teeth rescue boat driver. I worried about getting ashore. I didn't want to be bashed against the rocks along the shore by these huge waves.

I started thinking about a hot bath. Then I vowed to check into a room in the Motor Inn with a hot tub. The waves seemed to build but the suit was keeping me happily buoyant and my spirits improved again as the lights got closer.

After a while the strands of lights turned into individual lights and I felt like celebrating.

I spotted a very big, bright light up to the left and thought that it might be a helicopter on a search pattern. The light went out and I assumed that it had turned a spotlight away from me. I floated on my back and tried both flashlights. One was dead, and the other was so dim that it was useless. I couldn't get the whistle off the clip because my fingers weren't working so well and because I wasn't too committed to getting it off. Who could hear it? Should I float on my back and give a bigger orange target for the searchers or keep swimming? My arms had started to ache and I was concerned that if I spent much time resting on my back that they would cramp up. So I swam.

More slow strokes. As I got closer to the shoreline the triangle of lightbulbs started to disappear as the angle of shoreline cut it off. I was getting close!

I was about twenty yards from the breakwater when the panic set in. I was now close enough to the rocks to use them as reference points and I didn't seem to be getting any closer. How could I come this far to get pushed away from the rocks by a current! I ran out of breath and rested, collected my wits, and went back to the slow stroke, stroke, game plan that had been successful for so long. A few minutes later a wave picked me up and deposited me gently on a large flat rock. I considered it a gift from the Lake.

I called off the search by dialing 911 from the hotel pay phone. I asked the woman who answered if I could speak to the person in charge of the search for the missing sailor. She said, "Just a minute, I'll put you through to someone who can take your statement." I told her that I was the guy they were looking for and she told me to wait just a minute until she could find someone who could take my statement.

"No, no! you don't understand! I am the guy you are looking for!" She paused, and then her voice got shrill and excited. "You're the guy? You're the guy? You're the guy!" and then "Hey everybody, I found the guy! I found the guy! I got him here on the phone!" Then I heard what seemed to be twenty people in the 911 call center cheer and clap in celebration in one of the warmest moments I have ever experienced.

SEARCH & RESCUE

Humbly came ashore at about 6:00 when Mr. Heibert and his son waded out waist deep and brought the boat to shore, tying it safely to a tree, stern in and bow out to the weather, and safely away from rocks. They saved the boat from major damage from the rocks along the shore. The only damage to the boat was some cosmetic scratches and a torn jib clew.

At about 7:00 PC Don Reesor of the Niagara Regional Police went on board. He had little time to solve a puzzle and I had given him few clues. He attempted to discover what had gone wrong and to determine the missing crew's state of mind. This included a search for alcohol (none) and lifejackets (6). He relayed findings to Inspector Ken Davidson who was setting up a command post nearby. It was my good fortune that both of them were experienced sailors and both owned Sharks. I believe their experience on sailboats and particularly their Shark class roots helped them to very quickly understand what had happened. The Canadian Coast Guard was notified and they launched the search.

Imagine the task I had set for the searchers.

The Coast Guard station at Trenton, Ontario, was charged with finding an object the size of a volleyball (my head) in an area that extends North to James Bay, West to the Great Lakes, and East to Montreal, at any time, without warning. They maintain a Caribou search and rescue plane and two Chinook helicopters at Trenton Air Force base on immediate flight status between 8am and 4pm and stand down to 20 minute readiness overnight. They got their call at about 7:15 and flew 300 miles against a 40+ knot wind to arrive overhead within two hours. They fired 12 parachute flares from the Caribou. Each flare lasts about five minutes and they were fired at 4 minute intervals while the helicopters ran search patterns below looking down on three meter waves looking for a volleyball that might not be there.

The Niagara Regional Police had set up a command post near the shore where the boat had come ashore and had tasked eighty officers to comb the shoreline in the chance that I made it to shore but didn't have the strength to find help. Their goal was to walk each piece of the 20 miles of shoreline every 20 minutes. Halton and Hamilton Wentworth Police forces initiated a water and shore search to the North and West.

The Coast Guard Auxiliary launched searches from Port Weller, Grimsby, and Oakville. By the time I came out of the water at the Motor inn, the Coast Guard search aircraft were a half mile off my landing spot, directly over my swim route.

Since the accident, I have found it easy to second guess all of these efforts. But then, I always knew exactly where I was.

While my personal drama was unfolding, an international drama threatened to affect life on Lake Ontario. It seems that the rumours of war in Iraq and Kuwait had dried up the supply of airborne flares. While the Coast Guard was overhead looking for my volleyball-sized head, they fired 12 flares. They had taken off with only 56, their entire supply of flares. All other orders had been backordered due to the tremendous demand created by Desert Storm.

SAFETY EQUIPMENT

Some of the equipment I carried was useless and some was vital.

The most valuable equipment this time was the Mustang floater coat and the farmer John wetsuit. They gave me buoyancy and heat protection time and energy enough to work out a game plan and then stick to it. They almost worked against me. When PC Reesor found six life jackets in Humbly, he thought that the chances that I would be wearing another one remote. Then when he found the wet suit top, he took the chance that I was wearing the bottoms and had a good chance of surviving for a longer period of time. It is ironic that my habit of leaving all of the life jackets I own on board nearly supported the conclusion that I hadn't been wearing one. I wear the farmer John primarily because it is comfortable and it protects me from scrapes and bumps on the traveler in heavy weather.

The flares proved to be useless this time but now I carry six of the small variety in the shoulder pocket. Three of them are Skyblazers, the same kind I have always carried, and the other three are a pen and cartridge style but I have reservations that I would be able to fit the cartridge to the pen in a wild pitching sea. Both styles are very small flares with a very short duration and low ceiling but I have not purchased bigger flares because if they were any bigger I would probably not find them comfortable in the pocket of the Mustang floater coat and decide not to carry them. Why not carry them in the big pockets of the Mustang? They don't get in the way. Flares expiring in a kitchen drawer don't make sense to me.

Smoke flares that are Coast Guard approved are about the size of a coffee can so are too large to be carried casually in pockets of foul weather gear. They are about the size of a coffee can and will produce smoke for about 3 minutes. Non-approved smoke flares are available that will produce smoke for 45 seconds These are the size of 35mm film canisters which means that they are small enough to leave in around pockets for when they are needed. I have a couple in my floater coat and keep some in fanny packs that my crew clips on whenever conditions warrant it. I believe that the Coast Guard should encourage them since 45 seconds of smoke in daylight are far more visible than aerial flares. They are hard to find because they are not approved.

I also carry a 23 hour strobe in the jacket, which replaces any thoughts I had about needing a flashlight. I would like to find a compass that one could sight through in a wild pitching sea in the dark, but I am not trying to equip for exactly the same accident that happened before. The next accident I have will certainly not be exactly the same, but I have figured out that there is no way of predicting exactly what will be needed.

These are personal safety tools. Humbly carries a full sized set of safety equipment as well.

I believe that the most potent safety tool is in the conversations that sailors have among themselves. In May a year earlier, two sailors had been lost off a 24 foot keelboat off Bronte during a lightning storm. They were stranded in the water for 47 minutes in 42-degree water before recovery. They were wearing light foul weather gear and were saved ten minutes before they suffered permanent or fatal hypothermia. The telling of this tale and others prompted me to go out and spend what I considered then to be an obscene amount of money on the foul weather jacket. I now consider it cheap. Since my accident, I have noticed people around me paying more attention to safety and I encourage it and the conversations. The conversation that happens at the yacht club lounge can be the most valuable safety tool that a sailor packs onto a boat.

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