A good read
Battling for survival in 1979
I decided to scrap all thoughts of looking for my medication – there was no point at all. The Tupperware box in which they were sealed was long gone from its safe haven near my flooded bunk. 24 hours must have passed since my last 30mg tablet; normally I'd have taken it twice daily. This was the first time I'd ever missed taking it since the diagnosis of my epilepsy. I knew that fitting or convulsing down here could lead to serious injury, to drowning, but talking myself down from a state of near panic, I reminded myself that so did every other option, and with that I prepared to bail.
With a piece of splintered wood, I scratched a mark on the forward bulkhead to give me the current water level. The boat's continuous seesaw movement made it impossible to determine the real level, but I had to have a reference point, something to encourage me. I unhooked my bucket and started to bail. The most effective way was to throw water up out of the companionway entrance, where I was positioned, and into the cockpit, which was self-draining. Getting into a rhythm was difficult at first. Apart from the continual swaying in the cabin, my clothing felt tight and cumbersome, heavy as lead from the immersions and constant drenching, but without it I would already be dead. Despite the discomfort and restriction, something was telling me to keep going, and I soon settled into bailing with a will.
For a while, maybe half an hour or so, I went at bucket-chucking non-stop. Having something to do – a task with an aim, ridding
Grimalkin of water, bailing her dry – lifted my spirits and my self-esteem. For the first time in hours I had a chance of achieving something. No longer a passenger hanging on for grim death, I felt elated, in control. This blue bucket was a joyous possession.
While bailing, I also became really deeply immersed in conversations with Gerry, which ranged from football to Formula One. I also updated him with what I was encountering below in the cabin with an ample supply of expletives. Eventually, all too soon, I was out of breath. I decided to go up into the cockpit and check the weather.
I sat on the edge of the cockpit taking deep, slow breaths. God, this was so surreal – me and Gerry trapped on this tiny, lowlying yacht surrounded by tower-block swells. If only this storm would blow out as quickly as it had peaked. A foamy spray doused me, cut my face, chilled me to the marrow. With nothing else to do, I carefully studied the sea’s movement and frequency. A monumental swell still ran, but I was sure that only every fifth or sixth
‘Having something to do, a task with an aim, lifted my spirits’
wave was taller than its neighbour – rather than every second or third, as it had been the last time I’d looked.
‘Looks like it’s eased off a bit more… there might be some hope for us yet, hey Gerry?’
Even so, this was still a dangerous, possibly fatal place to be. I had to get bailing again.
Back below I counted ten buckets out, then stopped for balance and breath. Slumped over, I caught my breath and let the spasms slowly lessen.
With my hand still locked round the handle of the blue bucket, I checked my marker. The water level was the same. But I managed to convince myself that I was making an impact, because while the water level may not have gone down, neither had it gone up. My bailing was keeping it at bay, and for the moment that was good enough for me.
Trying to get a rhythm back, I started singing ‘Ten Green Bottles’ – it worked.
‘Come on, mate…join in,’ I shouted up.