MY SALTY DAWG TALE

Written by John Hagen, SV Ileana

“There’s a rescue happening 240 miles off Halifax. I think it is your boat!” said Pat Sturgeon, who had called me on the phone.  He was the yacht broker who had sold me the boat a few months earlier.  My delivery skipper, Rupert, had sailed the boat from Greece and had planned to bring her up the St. Lawrence to Toronto before the seaway closed for the season.  Bad weather had delayed his arrival.

As chief of surgery, I was finishing my monthly Department of Surgery meeting when Pat had called.  “What happened?” I asked.  “I’ve been following him on the Marine app.  He texted me on his satellite phone this morning, saying he would be in Halifax tomorrow to be hauled out before the next dump of snow.  December is no time to be in the North Atlantic!”

“As we speak, the Canadian Coast Guard is refueling the rescue helicopter at the Hibernia Oil Rig off Newfoundland, then heading out to their last EPIRB location.  The weather is turning to shit.  Their steering broke, the sails tore, and they ran out of food, fuel, and water.”

I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.  My retirement after 37 years as a practicing surgeon was approaching.  This boat was to be my retirement dream.  My plan was to learn to sail the 50-foot Hanse on Lake Ontario for a few seasons before heading south with the Salty Dawg Sailing Association.  Those dreams were about to come to a tragic end.  37 years of dreaming about sailing on the ocean now gone. 

Guilt flooded over me as I realized the terror the captain and crew must be dealing with while I was safely on land.  The cook, Lucy, was a 22-year-old Brit on her first ocean voyage.  She had texted me a few days earlier when she had barricaded herself inside the forward cabin while they lay ahull in 76-knot winds.  She spoke of her fear of dying and how much she regretted coming on the trip.  Now she was about to be rescued.  I could only imagine how the near-death experience would haunt her for years to come. 

The delivery skipper, Rupert, had sailed boats to every corner of the vast, salty ocean.  He had never lost a boat.  This experience scarred him profoundly.  Later, his voice cracking, he tearfully explained to me how disappointed he was in himself for failing to deliver the boat as promised. 

“Rupert,” I said, “you delivered the crew safely on shore.  No one got hurt.  You are a hero for doing that.”  Despite my assurances that he was not to be blamed for the mechanical failure of the boat’s steering system, he went through a period of profound depression before bouncing back.

The incident made headline news across Canada.  Broken steering. Out of options. Lost at sea. Inside a dramatic rescue in the North Atlantic.  A dramatic rescue with the successful recovery of all on board.  The Canadian Navy, all two ships, had been returning from exercises in the Norwegian fjords and aided with the rescue.  The experience left me thinking. Maybe I should plan on doing something less dangerous when I retire. Maybe there is something else I should dream about…

Six months later, a passenger on a cruise ship sailing off the coast of Sao Miguel Island in the Azores took a picture of a dismasted, tattered sailboat as it drifted by.  The passenger sent the Canadian Coast Guard the picture. 

“We found your boat,” said an excited officer when he called. 

My hopes and dreams briefly rekindled.  But after a brief search of the area, with an analysis of the wind and currents, and no further sightings, I realized the boat was still out there floating around.  Still to this day, seven years later, there have been no further reports.  My dream is still out there on the open ocean.

My doubts about sailing south and the dangers of the ocean gradually faded.  I approached my broker with a new plan.  Pat Sturgeon had a brand-new Hanse 508 delivered to Toronto by container ship.  I have sailed south on three Salty Dawg rallies now, and I am returning to Hampton to sail south on my fourth trip south this fall. 

One thing that has impressed me about sailors is that we are not ‘normal’.  A sensible person who wishes to spend winters in the Caribbean will fly in an airplane. I t is safer, faster and infinitely cheaper.  Yet here we are, all 100 boats, ready to head south.  Is it the unpredictable weather that draws us?  The knowledge that something important will break along the way and we will have to manage?  The relentless rocking and rolling?  The sleepless nights on watch?

The irresistible force that drives us has got to be those moments when you stare up at the constellations in the middle of the night alone while the rest of the crew sleeps; or when the dolphins visit you in the middle of the ocean; or those quiet times on night watch when you are overcome with a feeling of peace and happiness.  And of course, that feeling of success after ten days on the open ocean when you anchor in Falmouth Harbour in pitch blackness.

Two years ago, sitting in the cockpit of Ileana in the Puerto Bahia Marina in Samana in the Dominican Republic, I wrote my first novel, The Sailor.  The motivation that drove me was the stories the sailors had told me.  Since then, I have written ten novels.  Last year, heading south to Antigua, Chris Parker advised us all to seek shelter in Bermuda to dodge a storm.  Not unexpectedly, Ileana arrived in the middle of the night.  Enormous waves from the east pummelled us along with 26-knot winds.  The flashing white light I was heading for turned out to be a lighthouse marking a rocky shoal. J eff, my ever-attentive crew, alerted me to the error before disaster struck.  My only thoughts were, “This is going to be a great story in my next novel.”

The most exciting part about being a Salty Dawg is the stories that go along with sailing.  My stories are all fictional, but some of you might recognize I could easily be talking about you who have lived the same adventures on the ocean.  I have found great pleasure in writing fiction, and it is thanks to the Salty Dawg Sailing Association for the exciting adventures providing the material.  My novels are on Amazon or www.john-hagen.com.