Alone on the Atlantic
A True Story
On the eve of July 31st, 2004, The NJ Coast Guard received a call from a frantic mother who's son's friend's tiny Sunfsh had not returned from a casual sail early that afternoon off the bay near Long Beach Island. The friend had not said were he was headed and did not have any food or water on his tiny sailboat. A boat so small could not battle ocean currents.
On the eve of July 31st, 2004, The NJ Coast Guard received a call from a frantic mother who's son's friend's tiny Sunfsh had not returned from a casual sail early that afternoon off the bay near Long Beach Island. The friend had not said were he was headed and did not have any food or water on his tiny sailboat. A boat so small could not battle ocean currents.
Six HH-60 Jayhawk helicopters scoured the South Jersey Coast all night and well into the next day, from as Far South as Bringantine to as far North as Barnegat Inlet. Then, before dawn on a foggy morning a deep-sea fisherman shined his spotlight on a young man wrapped in a nylon sail lying face down on what appeared to be a 12 foot sailboat without a mast. The boy signaled to the fisherman and told him the follwing.
"I'm from Beach Haven, NJ. I've sailed from the the Mullica River near the Great Bay. I think I have hypothermia. Where are we?"
The fisherman quickly radioed the coast guard who in turned asked to inquire into the boy's identity.
It was indeed who they were looking for.He had hypothermia, been at sea for three days without food or water, unconscious for two of them, and was found 30 miles off Cape May.
This is his story.
* * *
* * *
Sailing is one of those visceral experiences that done every now and then, let’s us know we are free. It is form of meditation. On one hand, for that time, you are completely isolated from all other forms of human life. The steady wind in your ears is loud enough to drown out most other sounds. Water surrounds you at all times, closer to you in a small sailboat. Usually you are far away from shore to render civilization as abstract if it were from an airplane. The art itself requires concentration and focus, but success comes when it is a second nature, at by that time, the actions are instinctual, without thought, the rewards are spontaneous. It is a dichotomy of control and precision during complete relaxation of the mind and body. Similar to skiing, you only steer and direct, you do not empower. Unlike running and tennis, weight lifting or hiking, writing or singing, dancing or sex, you, the human being, does not give or expend any of your own energy for some end justifying the means. Your control is the end, the choice is yours, you may go in any direction you chose, and there are an infinitely many destinations, the bridge, the mountain, the tributary, or an endless expanse of blue. What does it matter? You harness the energy of nature around you and are one with your surroundings wherever you go. The sensation of control and virtue of natural beauty and the elements; sun, sand, water and air against your face, current at your side, brasher with a quicker pace, completely liberate you. But unlike skiing, the craft is stopped by these elements. The body of water is the Oijia Board. Your arms, taught but poised, are the fingers holding down the lines. Yet somehow, without slackening, yours gradually loosen. The powers that be which determine the pace of the wind, guide your trajectory. After a while, the rhythm of each tack matches your heart beat, and that is all that matters. For the briefest of moments, you are satiated; content with the feeling that you have from the sun and the mist against your face, whether it be on the Hudson River near East Point or the The Great South Bay near Fire Island or a small pond in the Adirondacks, you feel a combination of hope and adventure. Impatience, restlessness, and tension of modern, feaful life all seem to vanish with the stiffness in our muscles. The water tower is your only benchmark, it begins to grow low on the horizon. And on that long steady tact during a summer day when you’re trapeze-ing off the side of a spooner pulling a 35 degree angle towards the sunset, you understand why God put you on that earth in the first place. You close your eyes, and you find yourself in love.
- written in a journal staring out on little egg habor 6/14/04
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* * *
BEACH HAVEN, NJ. I worked at Fleet Bank that summer, and dreaded putting on Khakis and a Button Down while others around me had sandals and went shirtless. Every morning I wiped the dew off the steering wheel of my Triumph Spitfire, (salty dew that no doubt caused damage to the undercarriage of the British classic), ate a pop tart, and hopped in the two seater for a wonderful 7 minute ride from my Will Marty’s house in Holgate, the southern tip of Long Beach Island, to the bank in Beach Haven. It was 75 degree top-down ride to work. Along the way, the orange sun rose on the horizon to the east on the Atlantic. The thistle grass blew in a warm breeze. Beach Mansions to the right. Tourists and locals rode their tricycles along the shoulder of the two lane road. I shifted into 4th, put one hand out the window, and leaned back against the English made leather seat – for about 4 minutes every morning, it felt like I was in heaven.
Then I drank a Boost from 7-eleven, bought a copy of the Wall Street Journal (which the Branch President did not like to see me reading during slow hours), and went about my day, recording transactions, debits and credits inside my financial dungeon. They pay was good, but the irony of my disposition was tantalizing. I dreaded the air conditioning and the view from my chambers towards Fred’s Diner, 15 more degrees left out of the teller drive through window, and you could almost make out the ramp to the beach. Almost. Scantily cladded tourists from Brooklyn would request credit card advances for 1000 dollars in Cash (25% interest rate), and the next day business owner who’s product the customer bought would bring in the same cash for deposits. It was a never-ending flow of money in and out, usually 600 dollar deposits a day from Sunglass Hut, 2000 from the Pizzaria. Predicatable, booring, but like clockwork. But the day would go buy, I would eat my hot dog and slupy on the beach, taking off my brown loafers, rolling up my khakis, and staring out at the Turquoise ocean feeding tortilla chips to the seagulls, trying my best to soak up my summer working in the resort, trying to appreciate the beauty of the ocean and the seagulls, this place, looking forward to my day off tomorrow when I could rip off my formal attire and hop into my sailboat, newly purchased for 400 dollars from the local marina.
At the end of the day I locked up my 15 thousand dollars cash in the safe and headed over to the bay to watch the sunset– even more important, to monitor the wind and currents. It was a still current, slight wind. I watched the sailboats – and I anticipated what it would be like on the bay. I had been teased by the other sailors on the bay for a month now. The bay was still at dusk, it was a sight to behold. Little islands dot the Beach Haven side. You hear nothing but the quiet roar of a distant skee-do, the twinkle of the now redish sun reflecting against the water, a young boy catching a fish and showing it to his father. The dry wooden planks beneath your feet. No memories or regrets. No future, no emails, no return in a few days. The beauty made me think of ███████. But my life and job were both on the beach for that summer, what seemed to me so far away from home. And my eyes were set on sailing the bay in the next day.
Mr. Marty, father of my friend who’s house I was staying in, always warned me about the currents. Beach Haven is on Long Beach Island, a 40 mile stretch of thin sand dune off the coast of South Jersey. To the north is Barnegat Inlet, one of the most dangerous inlets on the East Coast. To the south is beach haven inlet. Trillions of gallons of icy-cold sea water flow in and out of these waterways into the bay, and then they flow out again, two times a day. That accounts for Beach Haven’s tremendous tide flow. Most who venture out into the Ocean are experienced fisherman with twin-engine outboards. But Mr. Marty told me he never had the courage to do it. The current of all that water flowing in the bay and dumping out of it, is too much for the power of his engines to surmount. I took his observations with a grain of salt. One hand, I was no rookie to maritime navigation. My father owned a 32 foot Welcraft with twin 12 c, Chevrolet engines, we took vacations all over the the tri-state area from Fire Island to the Block. On another, Mr. Marty was a stubborn man, who had a myriad other eccentricities (as did his son). I listened to his cocksure advice on many matters, not just relating to the sea. There were his views on politics. On religion and above all, how to treat your employees. There was no debate to be had with the man. And I listened to him without saying much of anything, since I was never asked for my dissenting opinion. I was an anthropologist seeing how another father raised his family. I was paying a paltry 20 dollars a week to stay at his house. He even made me dinner, every night.
So when Mr. Marty strongly advised me not to venture out to far from the Bay in my newly purchased Sunfish that day, I nodded accordingly agreeing, half listening to his story about what happened to a man who got caught in the current. I walked into the other room and asked Will if he would help me drag the craft to the Bay cove. I grabbed a plastic bag of beef jerky and a juice box.
It was a beautiful day. 80 degrees. Boats and sailboats were everywhere, especially in the narrow canal toward the middle of the bay. To the south or left about 1 mile, was the outlet to the atlantic ocean. In the distance you could see the haze of atlantic city over the dozens of unihabited marsh islands. No one lived south of holgate. There was a bird sanctuary, a few abandoned buildings on the islands, towers, lights. Watertowers. Other strange, infrustracture, signs, staircases. I planted my 10 foot aluminum mast, connected the lines to the rudder from the mast. Ran the tiller half way through the slot in the middle of the craft. I partially hosted the sail, de-snagged the lines from the rudder in the bow, and felt the boat jerk in the direction opposite the wind. It was a wonderful feeling, the straightenting of the rudder, the concave sail and the steady stream of current flowing behind you. You have captured he first gust against a raised sail.
Then I drank a Boost from 7-eleven, bought a copy of the Wall Street Journal (which the Branch President did not like to see me reading during slow hours), and went about my day, recording transactions, debits and credits inside my financial dungeon. They pay was good, but the irony of my disposition was tantalizing. I dreaded the air conditioning and the view from my chambers towards Fred’s Diner, 15 more degrees left out of the teller drive through window, and you could almost make out the ramp to the beach. Almost. Scantily cladded tourists from Brooklyn would request credit card advances for 1000 dollars in Cash (25% interest rate), and the next day business owner who’s product the customer bought would bring in the same cash for deposits. It was a never-ending flow of money in and out, usually 600 dollar deposits a day from Sunglass Hut, 2000 from the Pizzaria. Predicatable, booring, but like clockwork. But the day would go buy, I would eat my hot dog and slupy on the beach, taking off my brown loafers, rolling up my khakis, and staring out at the Turquoise ocean feeding tortilla chips to the seagulls, trying my best to soak up my summer working in the resort, trying to appreciate the beauty of the ocean and the seagulls, this place, looking forward to my day off tomorrow when I could rip off my formal attire and hop into my sailboat, newly purchased for 400 dollars from the local marina.
At the end of the day I locked up my 15 thousand dollars cash in the safe and headed over to the bay to watch the sunset– even more important, to monitor the wind and currents. It was a still current, slight wind. I watched the sailboats – and I anticipated what it would be like on the bay. I had been teased by the other sailors on the bay for a month now. The bay was still at dusk, it was a sight to behold. Little islands dot the Beach Haven side. You hear nothing but the quiet roar of a distant skee-do, the twinkle of the now redish sun reflecting against the water, a young boy catching a fish and showing it to his father. The dry wooden planks beneath your feet. No memories or regrets. No future, no emails, no return in a few days. The beauty made me think of ███████. But my life and job were both on the beach for that summer, what seemed to me so far away from home. And my eyes were set on sailing the bay in the next day.
Mr. Marty, father of my friend who’s house I was staying in, always warned me about the currents. Beach Haven is on Long Beach Island, a 40 mile stretch of thin sand dune off the coast of South Jersey. To the north is Barnegat Inlet, one of the most dangerous inlets on the East Coast. To the south is beach haven inlet. Trillions of gallons of icy-cold sea water flow in and out of these waterways into the bay, and then they flow out again, two times a day. That accounts for Beach Haven’s tremendous tide flow. Most who venture out into the Ocean are experienced fisherman with twin-engine outboards. But Mr. Marty told me he never had the courage to do it. The current of all that water flowing in the bay and dumping out of it, is too much for the power of his engines to surmount. I took his observations with a grain of salt. One hand, I was no rookie to maritime navigation. My father owned a 32 foot Welcraft with twin 12 c, Chevrolet engines, we took vacations all over the the tri-state area from Fire Island to the Block. On another, Mr. Marty was a stubborn man, who had a myriad other eccentricities (as did his son). I listened to his cocksure advice on many matters, not just relating to the sea. There were his views on politics. On religion and above all, how to treat your employees. There was no debate to be had with the man. And I listened to him without saying much of anything, since I was never asked for my dissenting opinion. I was an anthropologist seeing how another father raised his family. I was paying a paltry 20 dollars a week to stay at his house. He even made me dinner, every night.
So when Mr. Marty strongly advised me not to venture out to far from the Bay in my newly purchased Sunfish that day, I nodded accordingly agreeing, half listening to his story about what happened to a man who got caught in the current. I walked into the other room and asked Will if he would help me drag the craft to the Bay cove. I grabbed a plastic bag of beef jerky and a juice box.
It was a beautiful day. 80 degrees. Boats and sailboats were everywhere, especially in the narrow canal toward the middle of the bay. To the south or left about 1 mile, was the outlet to the atlantic ocean. In the distance you could see the haze of atlantic city over the dozens of unihabited marsh islands. No one lived south of holgate. There was a bird sanctuary, a few abandoned buildings on the islands, towers, lights. Watertowers. Other strange, infrustracture, signs, staircases. I planted my 10 foot aluminum mast, connected the lines to the rudder from the mast. Ran the tiller half way through the slot in the middle of the craft. I partially hosted the sail, de-snagged the lines from the rudder in the bow, and felt the boat jerk in the direction opposite the wind. It was a wonderful feeling, the straightenting of the rudder, the concave sail and the steady stream of current flowing behind you. You have captured he first gust against a raised sail.
TO BE CONTINUED
NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.
So, yeah, this post ends with a TO BE CONTINUED which isn't followed up on.
But you get the gist, I think.
1. Sentimental young ingrate with boat (Could it be...?) goes off in boat
2. Gets swept out to sea
3. Gets cold and famished
3. Gets rescued -- O-o-o-ohhh! Worra letdahhn! Wot cruel twifst of fate! Wot infinite unfairness! An' the 'orrible little toerag din't even 'ave to cut 'is bleedin' arm off or drink 'is own piss or nuffin'! O-o-o-ohhh! Woy duvs calamity only befall the undeserving? Whe-e-e-ere were you God on that black day? O-o-o-ohhh! There ain't no bloody jufstice in this world I tell you, no jufstice at all! Ain't it all a bloomin' shame! Don't it all jufst break your heart, o-o-o-ohhh! and so on and so on /inexplicablecockney
NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.
So, yeah, this post ends with a TO BE CONTINUED which isn't followed up on.
But you get the gist, I think.
1. Sentimental young ingrate with boat (Could it be...?) goes off in boat
2. Gets swept out to sea
3. Gets cold and famished
3. Gets rescued -- O-o-o-ohhh! Worra letdahhn! Wot cruel twifst of fate! Wot infinite unfairness! An' the 'orrible little toerag din't even 'ave to cut 'is bleedin' arm off or drink 'is own piss or nuffin'! O-o-o-ohhh! Woy duvs calamity only befall the undeserving? Whe-e-e-ere were you God on that black day? O-o-o-ohhh! There ain't no bloody jufstice in this world I tell you, no jufstice at all! Ain't it all a bloomin' shame! Don't it all jufst break your heart, o-o-o-ohhh! and so on and so on /inexplicablecockney
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