We left in May of 2000. My husband, Bob Green '63, and I closed
the familiar doors from our 30 years together in Rhode Island,
and stepped onto Scallywag, our 44-foot cutter-rigged
sailboat. The boat was configured for single-handed offshore sailing,
with all sail handling operational from the cockpit.
Our itinerary included a month on the southwest coast of Ireland
and travel along the long coast of Portugal. By November, we would
be in Las Palmas, Grand Canary, which would be our jumping off
point toward the Caribbean. After wintering there, we planned
for a slow passage north through the warm aquamarine waters of
the Windward and Leeward islands, before our expected return home
in June of 2001. That was the plan.
A small group of friends stood on the dock of the Watch Hill
Yacht Club to send us off. My 86-year-old mother, her small arm
stretched over the back of our youngest son, was smiling as we
set off toward Ireland. They would spend the summer as roommates,
neither ever knowing how difficult it was for me to say goodbye.
For 10 fabulous months we had the cruise of a lifetime. I began
calling the ocean my home, my fears diminishing with each mile.
With our two successful Atlantic crossings, I gained an appreciation
for all that we had accomplished. I was on an eternal high. By
December, we'd arrived in the Caribbean.
In March we sailed into Oranje Baai, the harbor in Saint Eustatius,
hoping to spend a few days visiting this West Indies island that
"touches the clouds." Unknown to us, a series of deadly ocean
swells caused by winter storms off North Carolina's Cape Hatteras
swept across the ocean on March 6 and 7, arriving at the Saint
Eustatius harbor in the early morning hours of March 8.
At 4 a.m. the stern of our boat abruptly jerked to one side.
Bob bolted from the V-berth into the companionway and saw a 30-foot
breaking wave with our name on it. His voice calm, he said, "Ami,
oh my God, hold on -- this is going to be a bad one. We're going
over!"
When the wave hit, Scallywag rolled, and for 15 long
seconds we remained under water. Then, in slow motion, while being
assaulted by a procession of huge waves, she righted herself.
The electrical circuits shorted, leaving us disabled. I heard
Bob yell, "Ami, please come here." As I left the relative safety
of the narrow passageway, the work station broke loose. Stunned
and trapped by toolboxes, heavy floorboards and floating debris,
I began to panic. Another monster wave hit before I could reach
Bob. Tons of water poured over us, crushing our bodies.
"Stay with the boat!" Bob yelled as another wave cascaded down
the companionway. Waves continued to batter us at short intervals;
the water in the boat was now up to our knees. Scallywag
rolled back and we heard a snap -- was it the mast breaking as
it hit the bottom of the harbor? We sat huddled on the stairs,
and another wave hit hard, tearing the glasses off my face. Each
wave moved the unmoored boat closer to the rocky shore.
Then, with the gut-wrenching noise of fiberglass against rock,
Scallywag shuddered to a violent stop. The mast, now broken
in two pieces, had dropped our boom directly over the companionway.
Looking up, we realized that its power to maim grew with each
successive wave.
With Scallywag lying on her starboard side and the
waves still pounding us, we became aware of a light on shore.
Someone was trying to reach us. We yelled, telling him it was
too dangerous to come out. Several minutes later, another wave
lifted the hull a few feet closer to shore and the man moved toward
us. Within seconds, he stood up to his waist in water, close to
the hull, telling me he was there to help. The young man, named
Mike Armstrong, guided me off. Bob soon followed. Another local
resident, Tony Durby, drove us to Queen Beatrix Hospital, where
doctors closed a large gash on my hand and severe lacerations
on Bob's head and back.
The boat that had protected us for 10,000 nautical miles was
a complete loss. A few days later I wrote in my journal: "At 0940
Scallywag is torn away by a tug. The rocks that battered
her beautiful hull, that tore an 8-foot hole in her starboard
side, continue to cause havoc. . . . Looking out as the tug tries
to pull her towards Saint Martin, she begins to sink lower and
lower, the flotation bags dislodged."
Like our boat, I felt my heart sinking. But then it dawned on
me, stitched, bruised and saddened though I was, that we were
still on the journey. It had just taken a different route. The
cresting waves, the endless ceiling of cloud formations, gliding
beside us at sea -- they were still there.
