Chapter 8

Rescue

Capsizing 150 nautical miles (274 kilometres) north of the Arctic Circle, one is eminently aware that rescue has to happen quickly and efficiently if one is to survive. Extreme conditions allow little or no room for error. I knew that I had to fight for life, relying on my own skills—or I had to admit defeat and lie down and die. My alternatives were narrowed to two: life or death.

At first I was frozen, my muscles paralyzed, my mind in neutral. Shock and fear blanketed my thoughts. Trying to shake off the deadly inertia, I rolled with the sea’s motion in the pool of water trapped with me under Audacity. The bright yellow material filtered what light there was so it resembled sunshine, bathing me in an orange glow: my own extremely personal and possibly final sunset.

“Get out! Get out!”

My brain shouted the order, forcing my limbs into action. Kicking hard, I dived down, swam out from under the pontoon and partially surfaced, with the top of my head and my eyes out of the water. My lifeline stopped me abruptly. I couldn’t get higher, couldn’t get my nose and mouth clear. The line was attached to the starboard side of the boat. I had surfaced on the starboard side, forgetting that, as she was upside down, port and starboard were reversed. Still holding my breath, I dived down again, under the hull, and freed the line.

Surfacing on the other side of Audacity, I held on, gasping for air, thankful to be able to breathe again. I clung to the side of the boat for an immeasurable time, taking in deep gasps of salt-laden misty air. The storm, a bully greater than Goliath, mocked me. It poured scornful abuse on my head, submerging me with its bulk. Holding the safety lines tightly in both hands, I attempted to lift myself onto the hull. It was a good effort, but it didn’t work; the hull was too slippery and my strength not equal to the task. There was nothing I could grip to pull myself up.

Swinging round to the stern, I found the outboard motor had inverted itself. Instead of the propeller sticking up in the air, as it should have done with the boat upside down, the cowling over the cylinder head was just about level with the sea. As long as it was still securely attached, I didn’t stop to reason how or why. I climbed up the motor, using it for footholds and handholds.

Earlier, well before the accident, I thought I saw someone driving an ATV on the beach. Praying he had seen the capsize and gone for help, I stood up on the hull and waved, in the forlorn hope that he could still see me. It was unlikely, but my desperate position demanded nothing be left to chance. The next wave knocked me off the boat and challenged me to climb back up.

“Oh shit, Dalton, this time you’ve killed yourself for sure,” screamed through my mind as I grappled with the motor.

Remembering my promise to Penny in Nome—“Don’t worry. I promise I will not get myself killed up there in the Arctic”—my desire for survival translated itself into blasphemy.

“Forget it, God. I’m not going to drown in the Arctic Ocean.”

Another breaker slammed into me, emptying my lungs, bruising my back and knocking me off my perch again. Surfacing, I muttered, “No bloody sense of humour.”

Weakened by the assault, I clambered wearily up the motor once more and spread-eagled myself on the upturned hull. Even with arms fully outstretched, I couldn’t quite reach the rubbing strakes on each side. I tried to grip the safety lines—the only sure way of holding on—but couldn’t get hold of both. An eternity passed as, determined not to die, I wondered how to conduct the fight to stay alive. My mind had only one function operating: survival. Everything else had shut down until needed. I lay on the hull and examined my options.

“Killer whales patrol the Arctic Ocean.”

The unexpected, unbidden thought was a strong enough presence in my mind to constitute a warning. I looked around, expecting to see a line of triangular black fins circling Audacity. I didn’t see them, but, I reasoned, that didn’t mean they were not there. For a moment or two I fretted. Then, considering my already precarious situation, decided to ignore any tendency to fear the unknown, the unseen. I had enough to do without worrying about orcas that might possibly be lying in wait for me.

Tentatively I eased myself as far forward as possible, until I could just about paddle with my hands. Balanced precariously, face down, with my feet studying the approaching waves, my prone body was still a tempting target for the storm. A wave broke over me, slid under me, lifted me up and tossed me away, back into the sea. Using my hands and feet to stroke back to Audacity kicked my instincts up into a higher gear.

“Where are my two paddles?” I asked myself as I struggled aboard again. They were not visible, although common sense said they had to float—they were made of wood after all.

“They are right there underneath you.” I heard the reminder and thanked my brain for its neatness. Of course, the paddles would still be tucked tidily away beside the seat. All I had to do was go and get them. Reluctantly I slid back into the water and swam down under the hull. Hanging onto a safety line with one hand, I probed each side of the seat with the other. Nothing there. I tried under the seat. Nothing there either. Unable to hold my breath any longer and with no reason to linger, I returned to the surface for air.

It occurred to me that I couldn’t see very well. I reached up to take off my glasses, planning to clean them of salt spray—how, while treading water, I’m not sure. My face was bare. No glasses. They must have left me with the first impact.

On the next crest, still in the water and holding on to the safety line, I tried to gauge the distance to land. Through the haze of rain and myopia I could see little except, occasionally, a thin black line, but I was sure we were not making any significant progress. My bright red fuel tanks were already closer to shore than I was. I thought about swimming to them and using them as floats to get to land as quickly as possible, but rejected the idea immediately. The water was only a couple of degrees above freezing. I had to get out of the wet and into the dry. That meant climbing back on the boat, even though it was almost as cold up there. In fact, for a moment or two I wondered whether I might not be warmer in the water. The next time I tumbled headlong into the briny, I knew it was warmer on the boat.

I began to realize that a current—a weak one, I guessed, but a current nonetheless—was flowing out of the Kukpuk River and holding me back. The Kukpuk, which feeds Marryat Lagoon, runs roughly west-southwest off the slopes of 850-metre-high Mount Kelly, meanders toward the coast and turns suddenly at right angles to run parallel to the sea. North of Cape Thompson it collects the Ipewik River, which has its source north and west of the Kukpuk. Together they continue north past the lagoon to the sea. To counteract the current, I needed a mast and a sail. Badly.

Having no useful length of material available, my thin blue tarpaulin having departed for parts unknown, I became a human version of an unusual sailing rig. My body became the mast and the mainsail. My arms were auxiliary sails to catch a little more wind. For a few seconds I crouched on Audacity’s stern, holding her horizontal fins tightly with both hands. As the approaching wave picked us up, to pass underneath, I stood with arms outstretched—as if crucified—hoping the wind would push me closer to dry land. Immediately before the wave began to break, I squatted, keeping myself as low as possible under the circumstances.

I was too slow the first time. The wave knocked me overboard again. By then I was getting really angry. I fought my way back up. Forgetting the results of my previous blasphemy, I stood upright, clenched my right fist and shook it skyward. “Leave me alone for Chrissakes. I’m doing my best,” I roared.

The inevitable happened. Standing erect with legs wide apart on a slippery undulating surface, being battered by nature’s unfeeling elements, I neglected to lower my profile. Wind and wave hit me at the same time, bowling me over Audacity’s bow into the sea. A double blow for a sinner; more than enough chastisement.

I quickly tired of swimming in the Arctic Ocean. It was damned cold. It was exhausting. And it offered moments of sheer terror. Laboriously I pulled myself back on the boat. The unattached lifeline trailed me wherever I went. Hopefully, I leaned over the side and snapped it to the lateral safety line. At least the next arrogant wave would not be able to throw me as far from the boat as the others had. Before I could reposition myself and get a strong grip, my theory was severely tested. It worked only too well.

My lifeline was hooked to the webbed belt stitched around my waist; from there it trailed over the side to the safety line. A wave punched me in the back, picked me up like a feather and hurled me from the boat. My tether reached its fullest extent and refused to go any farther. Anchored by the boat, pushed by the wave, something had to give. With a wrench that felt as if I had been cut in half, the combined forces of boat, safety line and lifeline stopped me in mid-flight. The air left my lungs in one violent tortured explosion of sound. The wave maintained its momentum. I sank beneath it.

Furious at the unfair treatment being meted out to me, I surfaced and sucked in much-needed air. Half the intake was salt water. It burned my throat and made me gag, cough, choke, as the bile rose inside. Heaving and retching, I emptied the contents of my stomach on the sea in front of me. This time, after releasing the line again to climb up the motor, I faced the stern, flat on my face, hanging on with fingers like clamps. My throat smouldered from the acidic vomit and the effects of salt water. For a moment I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally.

Another wave shed its crest over me, washing my face clean of the remaining vomit. Dashing the water from my eyes, I looked from side to side. I couldn’t see the blur of land anymore. There was only sea from me to the northern horizon. Fighting to retain control of myself, knowing I couldn’t afford to give in to the ice-cold fear stabbing at me, I studied the situation, feeling my spontaneous anger gradually abate. If it wasn’t controlled, fear could prove a greater enemy than the wind. I forced myself to keep calm.

All thoughts of reaching Barrow, of coasting up to the pack ice, were gone. Failure was no longer a possible foe; it had become an unwanted companion.

My body and mind, which had been on or in the sea for about nine hours since leaving Kivalina, were too tired for prolonged excessive emotion. I could no longer recall any incidents from my life. I felt drowsy. A good sleep would restore my energy. All I needed was five peaceful minutes. Rested, I would have nothing to worry about. I would be fit when I woke up, fit enough to tackle any obstacle in my path. Obediently my eyes closed for a second or two or three … It almost felt good.

In a detached way I wondered if I was dying. What will it feel like? Will it hurt? I’ve heard people say that death by drowning is the best way to go. But how could anyone know that? Nobody, as far as I am aware, has ever returned from the dead to offer a discourse on the subject. Drowning or hypothermia—those were my two immediate options for death. Neither of them attracted me particularly, although, if I was dying, there was no pain, only a soothing lassitude drawing me away. Away. Away. Away. Like a fading echo. It was so easy to go. So much harder to stay.

Our mortality is based on a slim thread, which we call life, joining us to this world. When that feeble connection is cut, the world continues to rotate while we cease to exist. Nature was doing its best to sever my cord, to release me from earthly bondage, and there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.

The only consolation, if one can call it such, was that the moment of my death would immediately cancel any fears, any pain. I would no longer be cold and wet. I would cease to be, except as a useless collection of intricately connected bones, pink and blue flesh and dead tissue surrounded by wrinkled skin, all neatly swaddled in a yellow suit. A conveniently wrapped parcel of fish food. This complicated composition, this elaborate receptacle for my soul, immortal or otherwise, was my body. It was programmed by nature to automatically begin the terminal process of decomposition as I drew my last breath. Clad, as it was, in a full-length suit, it would at least be tidy when found. I began to believe that death could not be quite so tiresome as my current predicament.

The true havoc of death, of course, is heaped on those left behind. The victim feels nothing. Mortal remains simply lie there, with nothing to do for eternity except disintegrate. Families and friends mourn the passing, often for years to come and sometimes to the detriment of their health. My future mourners did not deserve to suffer for my exploits. I had to stay alive. I owed it to them. For three decades, at least, I had subjected my family to worry over my adventures. It was time to give myself back—if I could.

As if in a dream, I drew away from myself—soaring above the sea, floating on the wind, within reach of the clouds—and looked down at my body spread-eagled on Audacity’s hull. I viewed the scene as an abstract vignette, as if I was not involved. The figure below me was the only actor on the set. I saw him (I thought in vague terms of someone resembling me) lying immobile at first, his eyes shut tight, a peaceful expression on his face. The rain fell heavily, yet I could see him clearly. He appeared to be sleeping.

Then a slight movement became a shake of the head. He raised his back, as if he were about to start doing push-ups. Carefully, the figure changed its stance to a crouch, still holding the fins. He scanned the water, watching for the correct moment, and turned gingerly around, waiting, timing each movement. As Audacity rose on a crest, he stood up, taller than he had ever been. Confidence radiated from the yellow-clad figure.

Gradually, by shifting his weight from side to side, he turned Audacity until she was beam-on to the waves. Reaching over the windward side, he grasped the safety lines in both hands and leaned back. The wave lifted Audacity, tilting her on her beam. He leaned back farther, until it was obvious gravity had to get involved and either help or hinder the effort. He looked calm, though under considerable strain, as he used what was left of his strength, in concert with the wave’s energy, to turn the boat right side up.

The wave broke. The foaming crest bubbling down the steep lee side pushed Audacity down, tearing him from his perch and taking him deep, away from the storm. He surfaced five metres away. The boat floated nearby, still wrong way up. For a moment he trod water, assessing his dilemma. His decision made, he took off his soaking wet brown woollen watch cap, wrung the water from it with both hands, set it firmly on his head again. Almost arrogantly, he tilted it over his forehead until it touched his eyebrows before striking out, once more, for Audacity. He turned the boat broadside to the waves again. Doggedly he repeated the stunt. The waves refused to cooperate.

Audacity slid down another wave, turning as she did so, but remaining inverted. For a moment they both disappeared as the foam boiled around them. When it cleared, as water poured off the man and his boat, he was still aboard. Defiantly he sprawled across her, both hands clinging desperately to the safety line.

From my elevated position, beyond reach of the storm, I could see a professional at work. He had studied the situation, experimented, made mistakes, corrected them, shot his mouth off, been castigated for his impertinence, shut up and was doing a fine job. I was proud of him. We weren’t sleepy anymore. I went back to help.

I had heard of people having out-of-body experiences. I never believed them. Physically, it is impossible. Mentally, who knows? The phenomenon made no intellectual sense to me before I went to Alaska. It still doesn’t—but now … I too believe.

Another attempt to right the boat was as unsuccessful as the previous efforts. I concluded that the weight of the outboard motor was working against me. The wind continued to gust from the north. I begged it to slacken but not quit until I got to land.

“If the wind changes more than 90 degrees any time soon, I’ve had it,” I told myself.

I had no idea of time. We had passed the south side of Point Hope at roughly 3:00 PM From then to the moment of capsize took 90 minutes at most. That would mean we turned over around 4:30 PM, give or take 15 minutes. A glance at my watch showed 5:24 PM The second hand was still; a blister of water held it in its grasp. My watch had stopped. It made no difference. A ticking watch was unlikely to help me get ashore. So I had been in and out of the water for close to an hour, maybe longer. Reason told me that, as I was alive and continuing to function, my flotation suit, life jacket and other warm garments were doing sterling jobs. How much longer, I wondered, could they protect me from the deathly cold?

I was getting weaker but still working my way though the problems. Reaching terra firma alive was my ultimate goal. The firma the ground the less the terra. The old joke echoed through my mind. Inappropriate thoughts suggested I was either remarkably lucid or going mad. For a while I thought about death again, sensing it all around me, knowing it was a distinct possibility before the day was over. After the trials I had been through, I was beginning to get used to the idea.

I was wearing a life jacket with my name printed on it in bold black letters. Back in Vancouver, in the warmth and safety of home, I had recognized the vague possibility of drowning. The idea of my unidentified body drifting the Chukchi Sea, or the Arctic Ocean, perhaps entombed in ice for years before being discovered, was unsettling. As a sop to my own vanity, I had ensured that anyone who found me would know my identity and be able to ship my remains south for final rites. Perhaps, I thought now, my precaution was really a premonition.

Hypothermia concerned me more than drowning. I’m a reasonably powerful swimmer, with strong arms and legs. My flotation suit and life jacket, while impeding movement, were doing an admirable job of keeping me afloat. My fur-lined wolfskin boots were a bit of a problem. Full of big feet and seawater, they were weighing me down, but I couldn’t part with them. They offered some protection from the cold water, and if I made it ashore, I would need them. Alaska’s stony northern beaches weren’t created for bare feet.

However, even if I kept swimming, I was at risk of hypothermia. The word means “under temperature” and refers to the gradual reduction of the body’s core temperature. A drop of only slightly more than 2° C from the normal functioning temperature of 37° C (98.6° F) can be fatal. As the body’s internal furnace loses the ability to maintain its temperature in the face of external cold, the body’s core and vital organs, especially the brain, heart and lungs, become chilled. The onset is subtle, often unnoticed. Anyone exposed to severe cold for any length of time can succumb to the insidious effects. Hikers, swimmers, hunters, divers … all can be affected. High-altitude mountain climbers are particularly at risk, as are those, like me, who go boating in extreme waters.

Hypothermia feeds on fatigue. As energy dissipates, the body gradually loses its ability to resist cold. Food is the fuel our bodies use to manufacture heat. Without the correct amount of heat, internal and external, the human body cannot survive. A fit, well-fed, well-clothed body has a far greater natural resistance to hypothermia than one without adequate covering and internal fuel.

I was fit, but I hadn’t eaten since early that morning. I had consumed my last hot drink before I left Kivalina. And what remained in my stomach had been regurgitated some time before. I was well-clothed, with comfortable layers, but the icy water had infiltrated to touch every part of my skin. I was tired. Hypothermia was already at work, breaking down my biological defence systems.

The dominance of the waves oppressed me. There was no escape from their path. My body was hurting all over from the systematic bruising as each wave had a go at me. The only respite was in the canyons between almost sheer walls. And that relative peace was deceptive; from the lowly viewpoint of deep troughs, each wave appeared to be an assassin.

My efforts to sail Audacity proved slow, abysmally slow, but effective. The rain continued to slant down, the sea rolled beneath me, the waves broke above me. The land became increasingly more visible. A well-established routine kept us moving. Wait until a wave began to lift Audacity. Stand up, back to the wind, with arms outstretched. Hold position, balancing precariously. As the wave slid out from under, lowering us into another trough, sink to my haunches, clasping the fins with both hands. Practice, without which there can be no skill, was over. No more rehearsals. This was the final act, the last night. The show was almost over. Somehow, Anthony Dalton was going home.

Try as they might, the wind and waves could not topple me from my position. More than once I faltered and came close to losing my balance. Stubbornly I held on. The waves, closer together now, broke more frequently, creating more turbulence, spinning Audacity out of my control. The troughs were shorter, no longer benign. More danger lurked in their depths as there was no time to rest, even for a second, between breakers. From a peak I saw there were only two more crests to go before a steep hard beach. Where land and sea met, they created a deafening roar.

“Okay,” I prepared myself for disembarkation without ceremony, “this will probably hurt. Don’t break your neck after all you’ve been through.”

I stood up for the last time on Audacity’s courageous back. With my knees flexed and hands and arms out for balance, I was ready. We slid off the penultimate wave into the final trough. The outboard motor, and Audacity, could still cause me serious injury if I didn’t do everything just right. I talked myself through the last few moments.

“Steady now. Steady. On top of the wave, just before it breaks, kick Audacity left and jump right.”

Like a surfer I rode Audacity to the crest. My legs were braced a stride apart, one slightly behind the other. My arms outstretched, two unfeathered wings, kept us in balance. The bow reared up as it cleared the creamy foam. The motor, still hanging low, tried to drag us back to be crushed under the wave.

“Now!” I yelled, kicking one way and jumping the other. I hit the sand with my left hand first in mid-somersault. In slow motion I saw the wave, inverted now, coming down on top of me. Audacity had disappeared in the spray. I landed heavily on my back, feet pointing uphill, head in the sea. The wave thundered onto the shore, onto me.

Choking, spewing salt water, I rolled face down, turned and scrambled out of reach. The undertow felt for me, liquid tentacles holding my boots, drawing me back. My fingers and hands dug into the cold wet pebbles, held me there long enough, until the next wave broke. Unable to defeat me on the open sea, the Arctic Ocean did its best to pound me into submission on a deserted coast.