Ten Degrees of Reckoning (11 page)

The motivation for these rescue efforts, and for the many more not cited, often comes from the long-standing ethical and traditional culture of seafarers rather than from international law. In the open ocean, everyone is a citizen of the same community. 

At this point, in the absence of details about the cause of the collision, Ben’s death might be attributed to an accident, negligence at worst. But Mike’s and Annie’s deaths could only be called negligent homicides. A man with no protective clothing and a fifty-pound, seven-year-old girl survived almost nine hours in frigid waters in a deflated dinghy on high seas, abandoned by the very ship involved.

And so I repeat over and over the question that haunts me: What kind of ship’s crew would ignore its responsibility to use searchlights or deploy a small launch if they had any inkling that the ship had struck something? Even if the ship’s officers chose to ignore the Laws of the Sea that obligated them to render assistance, why could they not at least have contacted New Zealand authorities by radio to report whatever they thought might have happened, and given the authorities the position of the “incident,” before continuing on their course? They were only twenty-eight miles from shore. Mike, Annie, and Judy could have been rescued in a timely manner.

“May I forgive myself,” said the mythical Captain Ahab on his ship the
Pequod,
just after he had refused to assist in the search for the missing twelve-year-old son of the captain of another ship.

“Do to me as you would have me do to you in the like case. For you too have a boy, Captain Ahab,” beseeched the distraught father.

As those many readers familiar with Herman Melville’s novel know, Captain Ahab’s obsessive pursuit of Moby-Dick precluded any ethical behavior on his part. In his efforts to hunt down the whale and avenge himself, it is a wonder he was even aware that he might have to forgive himself for his repellent act.

Was the captain of the ship that rammed the
Melinda Lee
on his own quest? Not the irrational hunt for a whale, surely, but perhaps a bonus if he brought his cargo to his home port in time? Or did the economic standards of the shipping company itself preclude any delays? Did pride, denial, or inexperience come into his decision? Did he ask himself for forgiveness as Captain Ahab did? Or even feel the need to ask for forgiveness?

Ten

Oceans of Sorrow

JUDY CLUNG TO THE OVERTURNED DINGHY, IN A STATE far beyond shock. Ben’s death, the inhumanity of the ship’s crew, the relentless attack of wind and waves—nothing prepared her mind and body for this next onslaught. She was in a state of suspension, unaware of where she was, unaware she was even alive. It was the red jacket rising on the seas that brought her back. Judy was drifting even farther away from Annie, but she could still see the red jacket. She ached to go to her, to kiss her goodbye, to do anything to make her trip to heaven easier. She might have a chance, dog-paddling her way to the body, if she didn’t drag the dinghy along. But she needed the dinghy to get to shore, to tell someone what had happened, so that she could die in peace and join her family.

She could hear herself screaming still, although the sounds seemed to come not from her lungs, but from a place so deep inside her soul and her guts and her heart that she couldn’t make herself stop. When she thought she might be able to get to Annie to embrace her one last time, she slipped off the dinghy into the water, clutching the painter, riding the waves. It took her two hours to get back on the inverted dinghy. Two hours of screaming and wailing and struggling. Two hours of bile rising in her throat. And because of the red jacket, Annie’s body was distantly visible for those two hours.

Finally, she managed to position herself on top of the dinghy’s hard bottom. She could see land in the opposite direction of the red jacket, so now it really was time to say goodbye. Her cheeks were soaked with tears, and the wind and the rain lashed at her face. She noticed vaguely that she was bleeding from the wound on the side of her head. There was pain, too, but it was impossible to distinguish the pain of the injury from the pain in her heart. Funny, when Mike and Annie were with her, she hadn’t actually noticed any pain.

She had absolutely no feeling below her waist now. As the dinghy turned with the waves, she had to pull her legs behind her to adjust to each new position, and it was getting more difficult because they were so numb. She wanted to keep land in sight, even if it was just a glimpse over her shoulder. The dinghy had deflated even more, and as a result there was slack in the painter. When the three of them were on the dinghy, it was taut, but now she had to wind and wind the sloppy portion of the rope around her wrist. Once in a while, when the wind decreased a little in strength and the swells seemed to steady out a bit, she attempted to rest her body. She knew it was fruitless to rest her mind. She had seen too much and felt too much. And she knew that if she didn’t keep repeating the facts, her memory would shatter like her heart.

She checked her watch: two P.M. It was now twelve hours since the collision. She started with the last position she had charted and went through the events in a detailed timeline. She shouted out every detail. She recited the alphabet to stay alert. She sang Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” to remind her of Ben, her little man, who always made sure that if a song was stuck in his head, it had to be stuck in hers. Just before she had cocooned him in his blanket on his last night, he told her that if a song had to get stuck, this was the one he wanted it to be.

There were jellyfish all around her, washing over her, going up her sleeves, going up her pant legs. They didn’t sting, but they didn’t leave her alone. A soaring albatross landed by her on the water and then hung around. She wanted to rest, maybe close her eyes and sleep, but whenever she stopped talking aloud or singing or howling with grief, the albatross came closer and pecked at the inflatable tube. Judy couldn’t let the huge bird damage the dinghy any further, so she kept repeating the story over and over and the alphabet backward and forward.

She checked her watch: eight P.M. Eighteen hours since the collision. The whole day had gone by without a rescue or a reprieve in the weather. It was wretched to get close enough to make out the shoreline and then to be tossed back by the whim of the currents. She had to tamp down the rising hysteria at the thought of another night in the dinghy.

The second night, there was no moon, no stars. In the utter darkness she took some comfort from following the masthead lights of the sailboats as they headed toward Opua. Each time she saw a boat’s navigation lights, she imagined she knew who it was from the check-ins on the Hole in the Net, and she would scream their names.

She forced herself to continue her recitations. She was exceptionally cold; it had been impossible to warm up after those two hours of struggling to get back on top of the dinghy. The cold made her remember a night so long ago with Mike, before they were married. They had sailed up north from Seattle in
Mika,
and they were stuck in an anchorage with howling winds and sheets of rain. She was a southern California girl, and Mike was laughing as he lit the little kerosene heater, saying, “It’s summer, Judith!”

Nevertheless, he had made sure the cabin was cozy, and he wrapped her in a blanket. When she warmed up, she took out some wool to resume a knitting project. Mike watched her for a while, and then said, “I’d like to try that. It looks like all those fancy knots I had to learn in the Sea Scouts.” Judy told him that she had plenty of yarn but only one pair of knitting needles.

“Never mind, Judith. I’ll use pencils,” Mike replied.

Somehow he managed to finish his project, a vest for his mother, with pencils rather than knitting needles. When Judy hooted that it wasn’t the prettiest of vests, Mike pointed out that his mother would think any gift made by one of her kids was the most beautiful present in the world.

Judy had agreed wholeheartedly. And now the thought of Catherine, her mother-in-law, and her own mother never knowing what had happened to them made her determined to go on.

In the darkness, with no moon, in the middle of the night, she wondered where she was. She had seen no sailboats for several hours, and she couldn’t get her bearings. She was exhausted, cold, and desperate. Each time the dinghy got close to land, the sound of breaking waves roared in her ears. She was terrified at the thought of being smashed against the rugged cliffs of the headland she had seen at dusk. She tried to steer herself away from land by furiously paddling with her hands. She knew the dread she felt wasn’t unreasonable. Part of it was reflexive; all sailors listen for the sound of breaking waves. Over the years, Judy had seen the smashed results of ships getting too close to rocks or reefs. If large vessels could be reduced to splinters, what would happen to her body?

Earlier, when the three of them were still on top of the dinghy and clinging to the painter, Judy had asked Mike for a kiss. He was despondent at the time, and Judy was surprised at the fervor of his embrace, and at the passion in his kiss. Now she yearned for him. Why should she have to long for Mike? Why should she have to long for her family? Why not join them? Being brutally shattered and destroyed by a sea cliff was not the death she had ever imagined for herself. If she followed Mike’s suggestion, submerging herself and holding her breath, it could be a quick death. And she was so tired, God, she was tired. Please forgive me, God, she prayed, but you have shown me the face of death up close and I can’t bear it. I really can’t bear it.

Despite the mounting panic, Judy knew she had to figure out a way to tell her loved ones the family was never coming back. She recalled that Maureen had often remarked on Judy’s unique “heart” ring. The stones were channel-set rather than on prongs, so the ring would probably make it to land intact. The ring would have to be the clue to their demise. She felt in the dark for the stainless steel eyebolt and untied the painter. She took the ring off her finger and slipped the painter through it. When she had worked the ring to about the middle point, she retied the painter as securely as she could. She would push the dinghy toward shore; someday when it was found, somebody would realize that a ring around a painter and an abandoned dinghy were significant. And Maureen, prearranged as her emergency contact, would know that this was Judy’s way of saying goodbye; that there was no further reason to conduct a search, no reason for the families to sit by the phone for the next two years, waiting and worrying. She pushed the dinghy on its way and slipped underwater.

“Open your mouth, let out your breath, and take in as much water as possible. Keep doing it so your lungs can fill.” She could hear herself repeating Mike’s instructions.

She rose up unwillingly. Five more times she tried to drown herself by trapping water in her pants, holding her breath, and going down, but each time she burst to the surface. Her agitation dissolved; this was her family looking after her, helping her to survive, she thought.
They’re in heaven now, and they want me to make it to shore to tell our story.

She thought she must be fairly close to the land; the water was warmer and so was she. As she warmed up, she didn’t feel so desperate or afraid, even if it meant going back out to sea to avoid the rocks until morning. And then she remembered that she had sent the dinghy on its telltale mission.

Judy forced herself to remain calm. She lay on her back in the water and rested for a few minutes, and then, most auspiciously, some of the clouds parted and left a sliver of moon and stars. She saw the white bottom of the dinghy, although it was still impossible to tell if it was heading to land or away from it. After hours of swimming, with her lower body useless and the waves still fairly high, she reached the dinghy. The undertaking used up most of the night, but she was finally approaching land.

In daylight, Judy could clearly see the coastline, the high, rocky cliffs that looked forbidding. Better not to think of that. Judy began her recitations again, positioned on the dinghy with her head toward the cliffs. The wind was decreasing and the seas were becoming more settled, and she felt more hopeful.
If I say the alphabet backward and forward sixty times, and if I recite the details of the collision three more times, and if I sing “Big Yellow Taxi,”
she told herself,
I’ll see a spotter plane.

She didn’t. She kept singing and praying and reciting, but no one came to rescue her. She checked her watch: two P.M. It was thirty-six hours since the collision. She must have wondered, Is this how I will mark time until the end of my life?

The dinghy brought her in closer to land. The waves were coming in sets, causing her to surf faster and faster toward the dreaded rocks.

“Michael, help me, help me,” she kept screaming.

She lay down on the dinghy with her head toward the slightly deflated bow. With each wave, she pulled on the painter as hard as she could to raise the bow and paddled with the other arm to control direction. The waves suddenly picked the dinghy up, and she landed with it on a rocky shelf. At last, high and dry, she thought. Out of that tormenting ocean.

But she was going to have to go back in. The ledge was too uneven, and she was unbalanced. She couldn’t take the chance that she would be swept back in without any control over her circumstances or her course. Judy pushed herself to the edge of the precipice, held on firmly to the painter and a pontoon, and waited for the next large surge to wash her back into the sea. When she was back in the water, she slipped off the dinghy, untied the painter from the stainless steel eyebolt, wound it around her wrist, and made her way dog-paddling through the rocky obstacle course. She wasn’t dragging the dinghy behind her for sentimental reasons; she had no idea where she was, and she might need it to take her onward.

She sighted a little bay with a small strip of beach, and as she paddled toward it, the strong undercurrent kept pulling her back. She persisted in trying to get to the beach, but the undertow repeatedly threw her onto the rocky bottom. It seemed to take hours, but she finally reached the bank. It was steep, and her hands were all cut up from the rocks. She was done in, thirsty, and confused. Where was she? Who were all these people? She understood that the one near the water’s edge was named Nico and that he was the chief, and both he and his wife were watching her carefully as they used their long bamboo poles to fish.