The Wave An Epiphany Tale

Leaving Catalina’s west end astern, Cliff Raynor headed for the Alamitos Bay Marina, Long Beach. The perfect week on a Cat Harbor mooring soothed him. A beam reach on the westerly breeze took the Daimon II up to hull speed just beyond Bird Rock. He trimmed sails for home, set the wheel for 010 degrees, and went below for a few minutes to fix lunch. Back at the helm, he ate and settled in to enjoy a familiar sail home to his slip in Basin Four.

Soon, nearly to mid channel, a gentle swell toward Huntington Beach periodically lifted the stern, giving his sloop a slight surfing assist. Cliff sleepily tended the wheel with each swell, easily keeping on course, not having to tend the sails. Flying fish glided several hundred yards ahead of the starboard bow. He could hear barking seals on a buoy far ahead, near the oil island to port.

At 1340, he was startled by a demanding familiar voice: “Life jacket! Get your life jacket! Close the hatch! Secure the hatch! Get your harness on, quick! Quickly. Cliff, move!”

No mistake, the voice was his brother’s. How could this be? Cliff, alone at sea aboard his boat, having no communication even on the VHF radio this whole week, how could his brother be telling him what to do? Dismayed, he searched for a sign or a source. Except for the gentle Hungtington swells, the sea was quiet and the port breeze was a steady 12 knots. Conditions could not be more serene. Why would he be told to get a life jacket and secure the hatch? Why, in these ideal conditions should he need a harness? But, he obeyed the commands.

Maybe I’m losing it. Whatever this is about, I better do what I’m told.

He knew stories of fatigued sailors hearing voices and seeing things at sea. But, he was fresh, relaxed, and almost blissful this afternoon. For over a week on a sailing vacation he’d planned for a long time, he soaked up the beauty and peace at sea, secure on a mooring, within easy swimming distance to shore.

Nothing can ruin this trip. Not now.

With the jacket and the harness strapped on and the hatch secure, he warily tended the helm. Only two other sails were visible toward shore, about eight miles ahead. Then he saw it. Rolling toward him astern at tremendous speed—an immense wave . He could not judge its height, but it looked to be much higher than his forty-foot mast. The wave curled toward him faster than he could maneuver, violently lifting the yacht, throwing it sideways a beam the wall of water, heaving the port rail under water, burying the entire port half of the yacht. He desperately released the sheets, freeing the main and genoa, as the sloop’s mast slipped into the water, stabbing into the wave’s passing trough, nearly capsizing the boat. He held on with all his strength, the cockpit half submerged, the boat careened on its port side with the sails water filled. In seconds, the wave rolled past. He hung suspended from his harness, gripping the useless helm, his feet in the air, prepared for a rollover. With the sheets free, the 4300 pounds of lead in the keel won the struggle against the sea. The foundering Daimon II came upright, just as a second, smaller wave hit. This time, the boat surfed, not broaching, stabilized by weight of the water in the cockpit. He spun the wheel this way then that, struggling to keep the bow forward this time. He succeeded. The soaked untrimmed sails whipping with menacingly thrashing force as the wind whipped them, violently straining the rigging. He glanced astern. One more small wave followed with no threat. No more waves were visible. The sea was ghostly flat aft. He snugged the sheets enough to control the banging rigging. He judged the stays and shrouds to be secure, marveling at the running rig’s strength. The only damage topside were three bent lifeline stanchions, a bent boom, and a forward hatch ripped loose, dangling from a single hinge. Even the mast remained in place through the knockdown.

Cautiously, he opened the hatch and looked below. Sole boards floated in deep water, along with books, clothes, and food in the littered cabin. The working automatic bilge pump signaled the batteries were in place and connected. He inserted the Gusher hand pump handle and frantically pumped to discharge the sea water overboard. The four cockpit drains worked well, quickly dropping the water below the hatch entrance.

Cliff again trimmed the boat for 010 degrees, set the wheel, and went below to assess the mess and damage. Putting the rotary switch on “Both,” he attempted to start the diesel auxiliary. It spun freely with the compression released. He let go the compression lever and the two-cylinder diesel started with a rough idle. He keyed the microphone on 16, calling, “Coast Guard Radio Long Beach, the Daimon II calling.”

“Coast Guard Radio Long Beach to the Daimon II.”

“At mid channel, heading 010 degrees, about eight miles from the Alamitos entrance. Had a knockdown from a rogue wave.”

“Need assistance, Daimon II?”

“No. Everything is under control now. Just warning there’s a rogue wave out here, in fact two of them with a small third following.”

“Roger, Daimon II. Coast Guard’s responding to other distress calls now. Stay on 16. Report again in 30 minutes. Coast Guard Radio Long Beach off to the Daimon II.”

Later that evening, the boat tied up in her slip, the electric power cord and phone line attached again, Cliff worked steadily to put the cabin back in order, hanging cushions and clothes on deck to dry in the warm night air.

I’ve got to call Mike. I’ve got to tell him his voice may have saved my life. I’ve got to document this in my log and see if I can make sense out of what happened this afternoon. Maybe there’s some news about these rogue waves, too.

He punched out his brother’s phone number. In three tones, a woman’s voice answered. “Hello.”

“Cheryl, this is Cliff. May I talk to Mike?”

There was a long silence. Then he heard her crying.

“Cheryl. What’s the matter? This is Cliff and I need to talk to Mike.”

“Cliff, Michael died this afternoon. I thought he could wait for you, but he couldn’t. He died in his sleep about one this afternoon.” She cried and he held the phone to his ear, speechless.

“Oh, Cheryl, I’m so sorry. I’ll come right away. It’ll be late, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll come up after I get the boat put away. I’ve got to tell you what happened a little after one this afternoon when I was coming home from Catalina. You won’t believe what happened. No one will, I suppose.”

“Cliff, I’ll believe anything after the past few days we ‘ve all had with Michael. I’ll believe anything. Come as soon as you can. Love you and we’re glad you’re back safely. Michael was so worried about your sailing on this trip. He was so sick, but still worried about your sailing on this vacation. I’ve never seen him that way. He talked about your sailing just moments before he died.”

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours, Cheryl. Love you, too.”

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