Crew Log 207 – Snagged

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March 18, 2010 – At Sea, 06º 59’S, 083º 51’W
By Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader

Things were going great: until they weren’t. We’ll start with the great part. Yesterday afternoon, as the golden sun was just starting to make its serious, end-of-day descent into the Pacific west, I ambled up on the foredeck, carrying a big, blue bucket, my razor and a bottle of shampoo. The water was 81 degrees. There was a decent breeze blowing, from the quarter, and a gently rolling seaway; the deck was pleasantly warm. I was going to have a shave and a bucket bath, and afterwards, a short sprawl beneath the setting sun. All was right with the world.

Okay, here’s the “until they weren’t” part. You’ll soon see it’s the larger part of the tale.

Had I for the briefest moment put aside thoughts of my joyous, forthcoming ablutions and glanced forward – even for an instant – I would’ve seen the long line of buoys attached to the deep tangle of commercial fishing gear, and I could’ve yelled at my watchmate, Dave Logan, to disengage the autopilot and swing the wheel hard to starboard. In retrospect, it could’ve been easy. There would’ve been time. Fifty feet in the other direction – fifty, measly feet, at the most – and a rather major problem would’ve been averted.

“Yo, Dave! Net! Turn the boat, brother!”

These were the warnings I failed to issue. Logan still had the presence of mind to shift the engine into neutral, but a split second in arrears.

It’s not like we didn’t know they weren’t out there. The day before, we’d actually sailed over two long-lines – lines on which other, hooked lines are suspended – that passed safely beneath the keel. We’d even seen the fishing boat off in the distance. But these were lines that were being tended on a regular basis, well set and stationed well below the interface of water and air. Okay, yes, we’d been lucky. I’d spotted the first moments before we were over it – I said, “We’re over it…” – and looked down to see Ocean Watch clear the hazard with room to spare.

“You see one, you see more,” I said. I wasn’t on deck when we transited the second one. But we did, and kept on going.

The third long line was the problem, an untended, lost, massive tangle of hooks, buoys, polypropylene and god knows what else, all knotted and bundled, all of it lurking right beneath the surface. We hit it hard, we glanced astern, we could see we were dragging the entire godforsaken mess.

We were snagged.

Way back in Seattle, way back in May of last year, we all had jobs on our to-do list before we set out on the expedition Around the Americas. At the top of mine were two items I remember well: Satellite radio for the stereo, and scuba gear for emergencies. I’m a diver, it was my responsibility. In the interests of brevity, I’ll spare you the reasons we have fins, masks, a full tank, and all the things one requires for the safe and exciting activity of exploring undersea worlds…with the exception of a working regulator, the rather crucial item that connects the a) air in the tank with b) your lungs.

But man, we got some rockin’ tunes!

Seeing that I was already in my baggies (remember the bath?) and that, um, I’d forgotten to make that last, somewhat critical run to the dive shop, when the roster of candidates to inspect the situation was winnowed down, I was on the extremely short list.

Into the drink I went.

Let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty sight. There was enough line wrapped around the keel to build a corral. Fortunately, with a sharp blade, this was dispatched with pretty quickly and easily, and proved to be a minor hassle. The first big problem was the net wound round and round the propeller shaft. The second large issue was the fifteen or so feet of open water that had be gained to address it. The third major dilemma was the other thing attached to the shaft, namely, a 44-ton steel sailboat, which had a lovely, mellow, gentle motion when sitting atop it, but took on altogether different, quite sinister characteristics once you were beneath it.

Skipper Mark Schrader, always wanting to get in on my fun, was soon swimming alongside me. I’ll let him pick up the tale with these excerpts from his personal log:

“Our night of sailing was a welcome change from the light air motor-boat ride we’ve been on since Callao.  But, the reason for unrolling the jib and trimming the main had nothing to do with anything pleasant.  About an hour before sunset, with engine and propeller moving OW nicely through the water, we drove over an unmarked and probably abandoned long-line – a fishing trot line that is usually set on the surface between two marked/flagged buoys with a series of hooked lines dangling down from the surface line.

In this case, the marker buoys had been broken and were invisibly floating, along with the line, stretched across our path and moving with the current.

“The on-watch group saw the line and shifted into neutral (stopping the prop) just a second too late.  In no time at all several hundred feet of line, floats, hooks and assorted gear wrapped itself around our shaft, prop and keel.  A few of us, remembering the exact same unpleasant experience during the delivery of OW from Mexico to Seattle a year ago, let out a collective groan.  Thanks to that experience we mounted a so-called line-cutter on the shaft just forward of the prop, and hoped for the best.

“Herb was first in the water with mask and fins to do a recon of the situation.  One look and it was obvious to him that the ball of line immediately overwhelmed the line cutter and then just pretended it wasn’t there.  It was also clear we weren’t going to be motoring anywhere until the mess was cut away.  Did I mention it was getting dark and the choppy sea was lifting OW’s stern out of the water every now and then?

“Somewhere in the vast storage areas of OW is an air tank we’ve been carrying for 22,000 miles for just this occasion, and a regulator, mouthpiece and hose setup so the short-straw guy could descend and hack away this kind of a mess at his leisure.  Trying to dive under a bouncing boat with a knife in one hand, a guiding rope in the other while holding your breath long enough to avoid getting tangled up in the lines and then having some time to cut something, isn’t easy.  That much we knew, hence the air tank and gear.  What we had forgotten, however, was that our regulator was missing some important pieces making it useless for our purposes.

“On went the booties and masks and soon McCormick, Logan, Thoreson and Schrader were all in the water, with knives and saws in hand, taking turns under the boat. The sharp line-cutter proved very effective at cutting Thoreson’s hand when he was trying to find something to hang on to as the boat bounced up and down above his head.  Blood in the water isn’t a good thing, neither is a deep cut in the hand.  DT removed himself to the first-aid station.

“Before darkness prematurely ended our efforts we had made some gains and were optimistic that another attempt at first light would be successful.  A nice evening breeze filled in and with all safely aboard, we hoisted the main, unrolled the jib and enjoyed a night of quiet sailing.  New crewmember Billy Gammon served up a wonderful chicken curry on rice; we tended to DT’s hand and then relaxed for awhile.

“The morning assault on the problem started at 0930 when Herb and I hit the water with tools of the trade, a serrated dive knife and a very nice fine-toothed cabinet saw, compliments of Dave.  The prop and shaft were shedding pieces of line pretty quickly for an hour or so, and then we were down to the last bit of tightly wound line on top of the line-cutter.  Another hour of trading dives, tools and people and it looked like we had it all.  Herb made one final look and gave us a thumb’s up.  I don’t know about the others, but I had just enough strength left to haul myself out of the water one last time.

“David’s cut appears to be okay but we’ll watch it carefully and call Dr. Jarris, our emergency medical contact at Swedish Hospital in Ballard, if we see any signs of infection.  OW is motoring along, making good time toward the Galapagos, 557 nautical miles to the north.  Our ETA looks like mid-day on the 21^st, if we manage to avoid a repeat of this experience. We may be a little tired, salty and bruised, but I’m happy to report all are well aboard Ocean Watch.”

One postscript: In the Silver Lining Department, the night proved to be a memorable one. A huge flock of swallow-tailed gulls, drawn by Ocean Watch’s running lights, spent most of the evening circling the boat in orchestrated precision, swooping down to catch the thousands of flying fish that presumably had also been attracted by the green, starboard bulb. It was so quiet under sail that we could hear the flapping of their wings, their warbles and purrs, the satisfied noises from their all-you-can-eat banquet. In the glow of the navigation lights, they fluttered atop the water and spun high into the air, just a few feet frome the boat, and then did it all over again, for hour after hour.

It was such an amazing sight – so singular and unforgettable – one might be tempted to think I left that regulator ashore on purpose. Those birds in flight were just so cool. And would we have even seen them if we’d just motored on, if we hadn’t, you know, gotten snagged?

-Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader with photographs by David Thoreson

*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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