Trapped in a typhoon, with no sails, SCOTT NEUMAN had no choice but to endure. In the final installment of a three-part series, Neuman finds himself adrift and exhausted.
The author at the helm, motoring into Da Nang. (AP Photo/Courtesy Scott Neuman)
John on the deck of the mastless Eroica, pondering a night out on the town. (AP Photo/Courtesy Scott Neuman)
Barefoot and ready for customs/immigration bureaucrats. (AP Photo/Scott Neuman)
I called my wife Linda as we thrashed around in 30-foot waves and told her I wasn't sure we could make it.
Just then, a huge roller smashed into our side to underscore the point, throwing me across the cabin. Bruised and tired on the third day of our voyage, John and I knew that as big a problem as typhoon Kai Tak was our own endurance.
When I reached Linda again on day 4, she relayed my father's weather report: Hold on until tomorrow, and things will start improving.
Even though the prediction turned out to be a bit premature, it was enough to keep me going. By now, swells were reaching the freakish height of 40 feet.
John and I talked about getting a scrap of the mainsail back up to give us a little more with which to steer. Then, we changed our minds -- still too risky.
Then, it happened. We didn't even really see it, but it must have been one of those gigantic 40-footers.
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It's hard to describe what it feels like to lose a mast. Short of sinking or a major fire aboard, it's pretty much the worst thing that can happen to a sailing vessel.
We cut away most of the rigging, but the mast rose up on the next big wave, threatening to come back down on us like a giant battering ram. We never cut the backstay; Mother Nature did it for us.
John went below to check our position and made the alarming report of "a fair amount" of water in the bilge. It took only a few moments of panic to identify the problem: one port light had been smashed through by the force of the impact, and water was ankle deep.
Everything was drenched. Books, cushions, clothes. Our stash of batteries for the handheld GPS and VHF radio had become little more than a brownish alkaloid soup. Worse still, our passage chart of the South China Sea -- exposed on the navigation table -- had becoming a soggy, deteriorating mess.
It was about five hours later that, by my estimate, we passed within about 24 nautical miles of Kai Tak's center shortly after it was downgraded to a severe tropical storm, packing 50-60 mph winds.
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The next day John and I felt an enormous jolt turn us on our starboard side -- a good 90 degrees or perhaps a bit more -- the worst hit of the trip. I held on to a side railing to keep from falling over and had a momentary thought that this could be the end.
But we didn't go over any farther -- and then it was calm, really calm, like a temporary cease-fire.
With an overcast sky but considerably calmed seas the next day, we went above deck determined to get under way, some way, any way. We hadn't been able to start the engine, but that day we shared an epiphany.
It's a rookie mistake getting a line wrapped around the propeller, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it happened, but considering the chaos aboard and the unavoidable jumbled nest of spars, sails and line that resulted from the dismasting, I think we can beg some sympathy.
With a machete in one hand and safety line around his waist, John went overboard and with three or four quick dives handed up various lengths of mangled blue nylon line.
We started the engine and it went in gear. We were finally under our own power for the first time in days.
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By nightfall, we could see the faint, slightly haze-covered outline of the Vietnamese coast. It wasn't exactly a "land ho!" moment, but we were glad to know a hot shower and cold beer weren't too far off.
The next day, as we made it to the immigration post on the Vung Da Nang River, a crowd of dock workers quickly gathered, squatting on the quay and gazing quizzically at our broken boat.
I scoured the mess for my shoes. I had been going without them since the dismasting, and now in the chaos, had apparently lost one. So, I went off to meet the stern-faced immigration officer barefoot.
We checked into a hotel across the street, resolved to have a wild night out, and then promptly fell asleep.
As I left her, Eroica was lying along a high wharf on the Vung Da Nang River, sandwiched between large rescue boats on one side and a rusting Vietnamese bulk carrier on the other.
But I wasn't eager to get rid of her. Eroica lived up to her name, which roughly translates as "heroic." Leaving her behind in Vietnam has entailed more than a little heartbreak on my part.
I figure I am in at least the "1 percent" club of the world's sailors now. Few have ever seen conditions like I did, let alone endured them for so long. I still love sailing, and if anything, I have a newfound confidence that in the right boat I can take anything that comes my way.
As for next year, though, I'm making it a bike trip.
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See the previous installment in this series:
Part I: Sailing into a typhoon http://asap.ap.org/stories/510321.s
Part II: A storm bears down: http://asap.ap.org/stories/512278.s
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asap contributor Scott Neuman is an editor on the Asia-Pacific desk for The Associated Press in Bangkok, Thailand.
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