Syzygy Sailing

I gunned the engine fighting to move forward in the 4 knot current that was rushing through and under our marina. The four knot current looked tame compared to the 10 knots of the river. I had only 20 feet of room forwards and backwards within which to maneuver. The dinghy trailing behind me had already banged into the dock behind me once and I had twice nearly missed banging into the boats in front of me. Five people were managing the two dock lines that were holding me against the current. Somehow, Syzygy had been chosen to be the first of three single-handed sailboats out of the marina. With all of us lined up right next to each other, we were hoping to figure out a way to get us out. We needed to get out because the latest flood predictions were that in 24 hours the river would rise enough to lift the marina dock above the pylons that allow for the dock to rise and fall with the tide. If the docks got above those pylons, the flimsy gang plank leading from land to the docks, the only actual solid tethering the docks have, would be no match for the rushing river. The dock would start to whisk away along with boats still tied to the dock. You can imagine that the keel of any boat would inevitably crash into the just submerged concrete pylons, massive damage would ensue.

It didn’t seem possible that flooding of this magnitude could happen. Brisbane is an an area of Australia called the Sunshine Coast. It’s supposed to be sunny. Not epic rain. They did have an epic flood here in 1974, but afterwards built a dam that was supposed to be able to contain any flood imaginable. Apparently rain 40 out of the last 50 days didn’t fit into the designers’ imagination. I had been melancholy and miserable over the month; the rain makes it difficult to a) get any work done on the boat and b) to have much fun around town. But up until two days ago, I didn’t give a single concern to the safety of the boat.

Here’s an excerpt from an e-mail I sent to Gary on the 10th:

“The Brisbane River is a small catchment, you only have to go a short way, and rivers start flowing west instead of east towards the ocean, which is crazy.  So that and flow controls on the Brisbane River itself mean there is no flooding here.  However, to the north and to the west they are not so lucky and flooding has been of biblical proportions.  I read somewhere that an area the size of France and Germany combined is under water. “

Everyone, every-one… said the Wivenhoe Dam would make floods like 1974 impossible. Then at 3 pm on Tuesday marina residents got an e-mail from the marina office forwarding on the most recent flood warning and politely saying, ‘Get the hell out of here.’ A mass exodus of boats left immediately. I spent the next 6 hours hurriedly getting the boat back into shape to be sailed; half finished projects were everywhere. All of the reef lines were in the sail were off. The sail wasn’t fastened to the mast track in places while I worked on the batons and baton pockets in the main sail. The rail boards we tie our extra water and fuel containers to were off and the containers strewn idly about the deck. The automatic bilge pump wasn’t working.

I and a dozen other boats talked and discussed and planned for a departure the next morning just after low tide Wednesday. The hope was that the tide coming in would partially mitigate the strong current heading out making the current easier to manage. And then, we watched the carnage float by. We watched as boats passed by spinning wildly. They were probably from private docks of people who live on the river bank upstream, were clearly unmanned and had simply torn free from their dock. Other boats floated by still attached to the the dock, the entire dock having ripped away from land. A boat still on air pontoons which keep it out of the water floated by. Another boat floated by attached to it’s dock. On the dock was an electrical box still intact, a gas grill bolted to the dock and a jet ski mounted there. The entire ensemble pirouetted by, rushing towards the sea.

We also just waited. And the waiting was difficult. A lot of time to think about how to actually get the boat out. Too much time to think about what could go wrong. Plenty of time to question whether, honestly, I was up to this. I reflected on my lack of experience. I’ve never captained this boat before. I’ve never single-handed. I’ve never been alone with the decisions on me, and me alone. I reviewed my meager sailing resume in my mind. I just learned to sail three years ago and ever since, even if I was calling the shots on board, there was always someone, Matt, in the end to nod, confirm and assist if shit went wrong.

To my family and Allison I e-mailed: “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” To Matt, the title of my e-mail was: URGENT and I went over preparations and what needed to be done, soliciting advice, counsel and a reassuring tone. He knows the boat and right now that’s what I needed.

Because I was driving myself crazy with anxiety and nervousness. My first adventure as captain wasn’t supposed to be until March. A friend of mine with some sailing experience would be joining and I would captain us out in easy, fair conditions. We would go sailing and enjoy ourselves as we soaked in the sun, leisurely meandering our way up the Australian Coast. Starting out in a high stress situation was not what I had anticipated.

Syzygy had been sitting in it’s dock facing down stream, it’s fat bottom aft was upriver. The plan was to slowly ease out of the slip and start to turn towards the marina exit. As soon as I started to turn the current would catch the boat and whip it around. Lines from the front of the boat would still be attached to the dock, so Syzygy would do a nice 180 degree turn and then be facing up river. Facing upriver would allow me more control over the boat; I could use the engine much more effectively to battle the current and maneuverability would be better facing into the current. Then work the dock lines holding the bow to the dock from one finger of the dock to the next until we were at the end of the dock and next to the marina exit. Then gun the engine forward, let the bow lines off, turn the nose into the river and gun the engine more to get the boat far enough into the river so that it didn’t crash sidelong into the dock 20 feet away from Syzygy’s rear. This was the plan. The plan wasn’t going so well.

After being eased slowly out, just as planned the boat started to rotate around, pivoting on two lines tied to the bow of Syzygy and to the dock. I had to gun the engine and get the boat moving forward into the current. As anticipated there wasn’t enough room for the back end of the boat to simply drift down and swing around. That would have required at least 80 feet, probably 100. We only had 70 feet to work with. But the turn was managed and Syzygy was now facing upriver and held on by two dock lines. We then spent the next 45 minutes trying to get Syzygy closer to the marina exit. We moved one dock line closer to the marina exit. I would let Syzygy drift back twenty feet, until it was nearly touching the fingers of the dock behind me. Then gunning the engine I fought upstream within the 70 foot space between docks, trying to turn towards the marina exit, trying to inch the boat closer to the exit. Coordinating my actions at the helm with the people manning the lines, when to ease one line or pull in another, was frustratingly close to futile. Turning our 12 ton sailboat in calm water is a slow momentum laden process. Pulling into a dock in calm water with even the tiniest amount of wind has me on alert. The wide open ocean is easy. The narrow confines of a marina, boats only a few feet away, their bow and stern frequently laden with anchors and other objects which are either easily breakable or, like anchors, could easily do damage to a boat. Or catch on a bow pulpit and rip it off.

Adding to the mayham, Syzygy would surge five feet backwards downstream randomly when the current would pick up. Or an eddy would develop and the current slacken and Syzygy would surge forward five feet. At one point, one of the dock lines got tangled in another boat. I narrowly missed two other boats in front of me. I had poor visibility of how close the bow actually was to the boats in front of me. Poor visibility and the random surging made me hesitant to get too close, reducing further the scant room I had for maneuvering back and forth. The steerage felt all wrong as well. When I tried to move forward and turn to starboard, the right, the boat usually seemed to move to port. When I tried to steer while drifting backwards slightly, the boat never responded. The stern drifted a few degrees in one direction or another seemingly at random, immune to my steerage and following the haphazard chaos of the churning river. The people manning the docklines couldn’t just pull the boat the boat along from one finger to the next. The force of water on a 12 ton boat was enormous. It was all they could do to keep lines secured to cleats, and they were only able to bring in slack if I was able to put slack in the lines by maneuvering closer to where the lines were anchored.

Finally, after 45 adrenaline laden minutes, Syzygy was tight onto a dock line on the last finger of the marina. The river surged past right next to me at 10 knots. David who rented the neighboring house boat (the actual owner of which had said to David just leave the boat, it’s insured, effectively sentencing David to losing his home if the marina did float away) climbed on board at this point; after having helped man the dock lines, he was going to accompany me down river to the new marina. This was it. Up until now I had been attached to the dock in some fashion. Now was time to cut loose and move into the turbulent river. Literally cut loose.  In a chaotic but coordinated event, when the stern of the boat kicked into the marina a touch, I revved the engine to start making my way into the river. At the same time, people on the dock cut the two bow lines holding me to the dock. As soon as I was free, I opened up the throttle all the way trying to move the boat as fast as possible away from the finger of the dock that was behind me only 30 feet away. This had to go off perfectly and it did. I cleared the dock easily the bow drifted down and pointed down river, and we coasted along to the ocean at 11 to 12 knots. Steerage was surprisingly good.

Still amped with adrenaline, we looked hard for any debris like we had seen coming down the river in the evening. While the large docks that had floated past were imposing, however, I was confident that since we could see those we would have enough maneuverability and time be able to avoid them. I was most concerned with large wooden logs and tree debris that would be hard to see and that if got caught in the prop or the rudder could have horrifically bad consequences. As we made our way further down-stream though, the adrenaline wore off and emotion built up at how harrowing and edgy it had been. The intensity drained and I was left with the feeling that I was already having a hard time recalling exactly how I felt in the moment, how minuscule room for error was, and how intense it had been.

I radioed the coast guard to ask about debris at the Gateway Bridge, we had heard rumors of sunken and submerged boats there, a terrifying prospect to not be able to see what you might hit. They came back with an all clear though. We saw none of the large debris pieces on the river. As we reached the river’s edge and pounded through waves that were like the standing waves of an atoll opening, the mudflats off to port caught our eye. A dozen boats had either eddied out into the mud flats to get stuck there, or the coast guard had towed them there. A 20 foot diameter water tank tumbled around. Once free of the river, I relaxed even more. Moreton Bay’s weather seemed like typical San Francisco Bay weather, and that, I was used to.

I later learned the two other single-handed boats I left behind used the same techniques to leave the marina, having an easier time leaving after having learned a bit getting me out. One though, Dagmar, did not have such a trouble free time down the river. His engine overheated and so he had to begin sailing. Having to sail into the wind with such a strong current was not enjoyable. He got stuck once while tacking back and forth. He tried to set an anchor, only to a have a 4 story high 100 foot long paddle boat that had broken free bear down on him. He hastily got out of the way only two minutes before the paddle boat came by his old anchor point. He also saw an entire river side restaurant that had broken free and was now floating down the river.

I have to hope this is the most intense experience I will ever have on the boat. The next day, sitting in a perfectly still marina The Royal Queensland Yacht Squadron in Manly, you wouldn’t even know the flooding is happening just 5 miles away. I’d prefer this for the rest of my time on the boat, thank you very much.

This is just my story. There are tens of thousands of people who also have stories. And there are thousands of people who lost their homes or businesses. Their loss is certainly more crushing than me simply having to deal with an harrowing moment. My heart and thoughts go out to them as they try and cope with the disaster. It looks like today and the next four days may be rain free. What a relief!

For Karen and me, this journey is completed. We departed the San Francisco Bay in mid February, and arrived in Australia nine months later to the day.

In the beginning, when asked how long our trip would be, we would say “anywhere from a few months to two-years; however long it stays fun and the money lasts”.  And that’s how it turned out, too.  Nine months has been a pretty ideal length of time for us–both for the fun factor and the money factor.  When we return to life in the US (the details of which remain unknown), I will feel a measure of sadness about leaving this cruising life behind, and a distinct sense of happiness and gratitude for the future that I am returning to.  So: I am glad that we did it, and glad that we are moving on.

I feel generally uncomfortable with the feeling of pride, and decidedly uncomfortable with any form of boasting–I don’t think they are attractive traits or behaviors, it being more respectable and impressive in my mind to, well, just do it, and then not mention it.  It is an indication that one is motivated by the right reasons: if you are willing to plan big then do it and afterwards not brag about it, then you sure didn’t do it merely “to say that you did”.

But in this case, come on, right?  Can I throw my arms up here and give a shout?  We accomplished something pretty big here–who can look at this whole thing and say that I can’t do whatever it is I set out to do?  Even if a) I didn’t grow up doing it b) we don’t even know if I’m going to like it c) I have none of the required skills d) didn’t start out with any money e) almost everyone thinks I’m crazy f) it’s really hard, apparently these are all surmountable.  Well, hell yeah.

We arrived in Brisbane on the 10th in the dark in the middle of the night–we seem to have established a predilection for navigating foreign ports in the dark. The passage from New Caledonia was the most enjoyable yet: we buddy-boated with a couple on Dagmar, staying within sight of them almost the whole way. We kept the radio on a private channel and used it like a phone all day long, which turned out to be a novel and successful way to stave off boredom.  Jamie and Isabelle rock.  Besides the friends, we also had killer wind–after an initial zone of the windy rainy shitty shit, we had perfect wind from the perfect direction for four days. On the final day jon set up as many sails as possible–the jib poled to windward, the drifter out to leeward through the end of the main boom, and the full main besides (which was sort of extraneous at that point).  It was beautiful–and we almost kept up with Dagmar.

Brisbane is truly wonderful, especially for this convenience-starved traveler. The river runs right through the center of it, so the public transportation starts with an extensive and efficient ferry service, and continues with a large rail system and enormous bus network. To give you an idea of the emphasis they have put on the public transportation: some of the bus lines have their own dedicated overhead roadways (as do the railways, sometimes right next to each other). The whole city looks brand new, and everything is spotless. Walking through the financial district as people get out of work, you’ll see women in their business attire walking home barefoot down the city sidewalks–that’s how clean it is. Instead of having a single trendy district, it seems to be the whole city motto; every neighborhood we visit has a bewildering number of neat/trendy/upscale bars, restaurants and cafes.  They built a floating running path out in the river along the edge, extending around two bends of the river right in front of the financial district.  On the other side, there is a half-mile long rock cliff along the river with public climbing, lit by spotlights at night–climb as late as you want. Yesterday I got confused (turned around, partially lost if you will) while shopping with karen, in some sort of 7 floor maze of a mall, an underground bunker of womens clothing and jewelry and food and coffee and perfume-yness . . . that was just one building along an entire 10-block walking mall filled with identically sized buildings.  There’s a trendy restaurant district next to a park next to the river, with high-end stainless propane grills under gazebos, first-come-first-served, and four or five artfully landscaped pools spread out through the park, some with beaches, others with complicated fountains and waterfalls–go swim whenever you want.  Having the river through the center provides a gap of space, so that you can step back a bit to get a good view; they have seating on the roofs of the ferries as well.  At night, the city is particularly beautiful.  The downtown district of skyscrapers is lit up the way a city should be (all pretty-like).  Of our entire trip, this experience feels most like a honeymoon for karen and I.  I’m digging it, not gonna lie.

With my departure, Jon becomes captain, and the responsibility for the boat passes to him.  Since joining us in the Tuamotus, he has come fully up to speed and turned into a first-rate sailor, and I have no qualms about leaving the boat in his care (no more trepidation, at least, than I would have with anyone else I’ve ever met).  Some people are never very good with finessing the sails, seeing and actually comprehending the systems; a good sailor gets it.  And Jon gets it; he understands the sailing, he can sense the nuances of trimming the sails just right.  He hears and knows when something isn’t right in the middle of the night.  He knows how to best baby the main so that it isn’t getting needlessly destroyed on the spreaders.  He sees and fixes things that aren’t just right–the way they should be, that is.  In fact, for a couple of months now he has been sailing the boat at least as well (or better) than me–a couple of times now he has corrected the trim of the sails to make things better after I went off watch.  Granted, he may not yet have fixed or f’d with all the boat systems that I did, but who in the world did?  That was part of the point of fixing it in the first place, so that it wouldn’t be breaking now.  So if something breaks he’ll have to figure out how to fix it, but that is no different than all of us, all the other sailors out there, and quite frankly he already has far more skills in that department than most other sailors out there.  So I’m not worried that he’ll fix whatever breaks.  In short, he’s fully ready to be the numero uno on Syzygy, and it is a relief that I can walk away from the boat knowing that, if anything happens, it will have been something unpreventable (or at least as unpreventable as it would have been even if it was me in the hot seat).

There’s nothing to match the responsibility and reward of being the one to make the hard decisions–calling the quick shots when the squall hits, saving the day when the engine quits, slipping out of sticky situations, but also deciding wherever in the world to go, whenever you choose.  This trip didn’t turn out as it was initially conceived; specifically, it was originally three single guys and instead it started out as a newly-wed couple and became a newly-wed couple plus my best friend.  I know that Jon hasn’t had the same experience with Karen and I as it would have been with Jonny and I.  I also know that he’s okay with that, no problems, and has enjoyed the trip for what it is rather than what it might have been.  There’s never been any judgment on that account.  At the same time, he gets a different experience now flying solo, responsible now as captain in a way beyond even my experience (I always had someone else to share in the responsibilities).  I regret that I am leaving him to continue on by himself, but at the same time my departure will make possible a different level of satisfaction, and I wish him all the joy that the responsibility brought to my experience.

As they used to say to newly promoted captains in the British Royal Navy: I wish him the joy of his command.

(This post refers to events that happened September 21st and 25th)

I had designs to dive on beautiful reefs and coral bommies in Fiji while our guests were here.  Fiji is proclaimed as the soft coral capitol of the world.  I don’t even know the difference between hard coral, soft coral and mean coral but ‘capitol of the world….’ That must be good right? Alas, a broken wrist prevented Allison from being able to dive.  And while we did some great snorkeling, I never motivated to pull out the dive gear to dive while others snorkeled.  I am motivation-less when it comes to diving.  It’s also hard to bring along the dive gear in the dinghy when five other people are in there as well.  Dive gear being bulky and all.

So while I never dove while others were snorkeling above me, or dove down to see beautiful coral, I did do two dives, both alone and to mundane non-beautiful things.

The first dive was just off Octopus Resort on Waya, the day Gary and Anna arrived.  I am willing to bet large sums no one had ever dove my dive site, and so I feel empowered to give it a name. The dive plan was to head straight down to the bottom, a depth of forty-five feet.   Swim with the current along the bottom for sixty feet.  Then shift in one direction perpendicular where you just swam by about 8 feet.  Then swimming parallel to your original track, swim back to where you started.   Due to large amounts of silt, visibility was a mere fifteen feet.  During the quarter of an hour dive I saw no fish. The bottom was flat sand, bereft of any life or even a rock to break the monotony of the bottom.  Completely bereft save one item.  Matt’s snorkel mask.  The one item I was looking for.  This dive site is named Matt’s Mask.  I would not recommend this dive as the major attraction to the dive is no longer there.  I felt compelled to take it with me.  (As an aside, the snorkeling off Octopus Resort is excellent, we were anchored a bit away from it)

The next dive site was located off Navadra Island.  There was actually some particularly nice coral to look at just a little ways away, in predominantly twenty feet of water or less.  Allison was up above snorkeling, so why bother dinking around in twenty feet once I was done with the dive’s purpose?  That purpose being to retrieve our $800 Fortress stern anchor because the line attached to the anchor had chaffed through during the night.  This dive lasted just over five minutes as our GPS point of the anchor location was exactly on.  The dive plan consisted of going down to the bottom at fifty feet.  Visibility was only thirty feet; the water was cloudy here, though near the better snorkeling, visibility seemed improved.  Once at the bottom, dig up the anchor which is excellently embedded in sand, two feet away from the large coral reef which chaffed the line.  This will reduce visibility to six inches, so digging must be done by feel.  And you will not see approaching sharks, which are probably large 25-foot man eating ones.  I don’t know if there were sharks approaching, visibility was six inches, but I assume there were.  None, thankfully, penetrated the six inch visual field.  None, not even tiny reef sharks, actually penetrated the entire visual field of anyone that day during a combined four plus hours of snorkeling.  While my visibility was six inches though, I am sure the man-eaters were approaching rapidly.

Once the anchor is dug up, tie on a line to the anchor and return to the surface.  Job completed.

Another two dives bring my total to an impressive six dives in the last five months.  Seven dives, if you include the pool in Denver where I took the refresher course.  Other things have taken my time, energy, focus, and enjoyment.  Perhaps Australia will bring more regular diving!

(this post refers to events that happened on September 14th)

We ran aground.  It wasn’t our fault.   We were within the channel markers, so perhaps Port Denarau was to blame for faulty markers.  We were giving a little space to a high speed catamaran that impatiently steamed by us, so perhaps South Seas Sailing is to blame.  Visibility into the water was zero feet, so perhaps god was to blame.

Anyway you slice it, we ran aground.  Thankfully, it was a slow, easy, decrease in speed to zero, dirt and mud gently easing us to a stop.  Hard coral or rock would have been more jarring and unforgiving to our boat.

As the high speed catamaran passed, the crew were motioning to come closer to them, a motion which is not at all clear as to its intent when viewed from fifty yards away.  We had turned slightly to port to cede more room to them, their large boat and their large wake, but when I realized what they were motioning for, I quickly tried to turn to starboard and sped up a touch.  Neither helped, and we gently came to a rest.

Matt sprung into action, quickly getting out 200 feet of line, jumping into the dinghy which we happened to be pulling behind us, and clipping out orders for Karen and I to follow.  Get the anchor off it’s mount.  Tie the line to the anchor.  Move the line to the bow roller.  Tie on another line.  And with that off he zoomed with the anchor into the middle of the channel where he dropped the anchor.  Back at the boat, with Karen at the helm, it fell to me to pull us through the mud towards the anchor.  Pulling us primarily forward would allow us to use the engine to help propel us forward, assuming the mud wasn’t all the way up to the prop.  When I had pulled as much as I possibly could, we then wrapped the line around the anchor windlass and with Karen tailing, I cranked away, pushing and pulling the lever on the anchor windlass with all my might trying to pull us closer to the anchor Matt had dropped, and hopefully not simply pulling the anchor closer to us.

We were inching closer when we caught a break.  A mid-size troller was exiting from the marina through the channel.  We tried hailing them to warn them of our anchor in the middle of the channel but they didn’t respond.  They did however, increase speed which through up a larger wake.  The larger wake allowed our boat to rise and break free of the mud.  As we rose, I desperately cranked the line as fast as I could go to get us over deeper water.  And then we were free.

It was over in less than ten minutes, and Matt was particularly proud of our fast reaction that led to getting freed.  But we got stuck in the mud.  How embarrassing.

(refers to events on July 9th)

The dinghy has provided a constant source of amusement for us.  Matt and Karen probably would chose a different word from ‘amusement’.  Like ‘hatred’.  This has only increased since I arrived.

Since we have an inflatable dinghy, it does not deal with rough water well.  A hard bottom dinghy would do better. In rougher water with larger waves, larger being over 6 inches,  a blast of water will spray up over the boat.  The spray only increases with speed and wave height.  Luckily our dinghy, handicapped as it is by a poor engine, never goes very fast.

I’ve noticed up until this point that to combat this spray, Matt or Karen will stand at the bow and pull up on a line connected to the bow.  The idea is that you pull the bow up so that a: waves more easily pass underneath the dinghy and b: even if they don’t a higher bow will block some of the waves.

Now, I generally thought this dubious at best.  The bow, in my opinion, seems to get pulled up about one inch.  Better to just grin and enjoy the spray, a reminder that we are not cooped up in an office, working our 40 hour weeks, dressed in slacks and a button down, and paying lots of bills.  However, on one fine day in Rangiroa, I decided to give my hand at trying this, if for no other reason than everyone else on our boat was doing it, so I wanted to be cool too.

As we pulled away from the dock, I grabbed the line and stood up.  Another boat passes by.  I note the wake (the waves eminating from behind the boat) they create, and think: not a problem.  Their wake reaches us and rocks us side to side.  I then think: this is a problem.  I stumble from side to side, and as there is not much room side to side on our dinghy, I proceed to be clipped in the calf by the sides of the dinghy and tumble backwards overboard.

Man Overboard!

I am perfectly O.K. save a bruised ego, and once Matt has ascertained this he immediately starts laughing.  I am not laughing.  Not yet.  I am frantically trying to get things out of my pockets that I don’t want to get wet.  Money.  My journal with months of entries I don’t want ruined.  Two long letters to Allison.  If those get wet, oh I would be so upset.  Hence my franticness.  However, the journal and letters are in a waterproof bag that I had remembered to seal, and the money was in a ziplock.  After fishing those out of my pockets and realizing they were fine, I too laughed at myself, treading water and just laughing.  Two cheapo glasses I had bought so you could look directly at the sun during the solar eclipse are within reach and I grab at them.  The third has already started to float under.  I pull myself back into the dinghy, sopping wet and laughing.

I take inventory and as Matt is starting to pull away, I realize I’m missing something.  The handheld VHF radio.  The extremely-nice-christmas-present-from-Matt’s-parents handheld VHF.  Matt is displeased.  Both of us without even telling the other simultaneously start trying to take a bearing on land.  If you line up two points, say a pylon and a tree, then you return to this spot you can again line up the pylon and tree and know that you have returned to somewhere along that line.  Do that with another 2 objects, preferably two which form a line perpendicular to the first two, and you have two lines which can only intersect in once point.  Theoretically you can return to the same spot.  As long as you don’t use a mooring ball which might move with a shift in wind and current.  And you don’t forget what you used.  Both of which happened to me.

After going to the boat to pick up snorkeling gear, we return to where we think I might have fallen in.  I flop out of the dinghy, and swim around, frequently diving down to the bottom, it’s only about 15 feet, looking around.  Matt moves around in the dinghy to scan a larger area, dunking his head in the water periodically.  Ten minutes of searching.  Twenty.  Thirty.  It seems inconceivable to me that we can’t find anything.  I know other things fell out of my pockets.

And then I see the pair of glasses that had had been out of reach and sank to the bottom.  Here’s the right spot!!  Ten more minutes of searching.  Search time no longer feels fruitless.  The VHF must be here.  I find a coin, 100 francs, about 1 US dollar, bright and shiny.  This must have also fallen out of my pocket.  And there is a AA battery I bought for the GPS.  it must be here.

And finally there it was.  A swell of relief first then a swell of apprehension.  Would it work?  I pop up out of the water.  The smart thing would have been to take it back to the boat, rinse it with fresh water, let it dry out thoroughly, open it up and continue to ensure proper drying.  I didn’t do that.  It was still on, and so as soon as I popped up on the service and waved to Matt and pushed the boat to call Karen back at our boat.  “Syzygy, Syzygy, this is Jon.”  Karen replied.  It worked.  Thank you to Matt parents for buying such a nice VHF that it withstood being in 15 feet of water for over an hour!  Misadventure part 1: a success!