7 POWER

White Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas // February 27, 2010

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is sailing vessel Wild Hair, Wild Hair, Wild Hair. My position is north 25 degrees 36 minutes, west 77 degrees 43 minutes. Repeat: north 25 degrees 36 minutes, west 77 degrees 43 minutes.” I swallow hard; my spit feels like sand in my mouth. The tempest screams. I fear Dave is washed away.

“We are west of White Cay in the Berry Islands of the Bahamas. Our vessel is on the rocks. One person is on board the vessel, and one person has blown out to sea in an inflatable dinghy. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” I wait for a response. The radio crackles into the void. “SLOWLY—CLEARLY—CALMLY,” the placard on the radio reads. “Follow these instructions ONLY when there is IMMEDIATE danger of loss to life or property.”

No problem there. After a long beat, I repeat the Mayday and location but feel incapable of explaining the exact nature of my distress.

“I am onboard the vessel but the captain has blown out to sea—into the Northwest Providence Channel—in a ten-foot dinghy. Wild Hair is standing by on VHF channel sixteen and SSB distress channel 2.1820. Please, come back.”

In my imagination I see my husband wearing a headlamp, raincoat, and an inflatable floatation device. The outboard is dead and there is no paddle. All he can do is hold on as the storm flings the dinghy back and forth in the thirteen-foot seas roaring outside the harbor. The image makes me dizzy with helplessness and I slide into the booth. The boat, resting on the ocean floor in a falling tide, tips off-kilter. I use my feet to wedge in place.

The EPIRB, our ship’s Emergency Position Indicator Locator Beacon, glows neon yellow with potential in its mount. Maybe I should flip the switch, bring a search and rescue team here to the radio transmitter. But I don’t want coast guard helicopters here because I’m perfectly safe aground in the boat; I want the Jayhawk and Falcon aircraft—with full military force—hovering in the Channel searching for Dave. Confusion is the last thing we need. I’ve got to talk to someone so they understand.

I send a third Mayday. Static sizzles in response. I feel impotent, unable to help Dave. “C’mon, Heather. Keep it together,” I say aloud. My will keeps my emotions in check. I take a breath.

The VHF broadcasts as far as a person can see given the curvature of the earth. It’s a line-of-sighe radio. White Cay is uninhabited, but I’m hoping sailors in the one boat anchored a half-mile away have their radio on and that they have the stuff to come out tonight. I keep the VHF tuned to hailing and distress channel sixteen.

The SSB is a marine version of an amateur ham radio. Its signal has horsepower enough to travel to the ionosphere and back to earth at various angles and distances, depending on the frequency. I dial the second of four distress channels—4.1250. Perhaps someone a little farther away will hear my cry.

Suddenly, I remember the satellite phone in the cupboard. I preset seven Coast Guard emergency phone numbers for stations up and down the East Coast to use in a pickle. I lift the phone from the case. It is surprisingly heavy. My finger hovers above the buttons.

“OK, Heather, how do you find the preset numbers?” I blink and scan the surface for clues. I close my eyes and try to remember. Wild Hair’s hull scrapes rock as it tilts. Sweat beads on my nose.

“Arrr…I can’t remember! You’re nothing but a paperweight,” I say, dropping the phone in its case and taking charge of the radio mics again.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is sailing vessel Wild Hair, Wild Hair, Wild Hair.” I repeat the script three more times, pausing to listen and breathe in between. Nothing but white noise leaks through the speakers.

The DVD cover for the TV series Lost falls from the sofa and slides across the tipped salon floor. We chose this harbor days ago because the weatherman predicted back-to-back storms, and we thought we could find protection within this circle of islands. One storm passed harmlessly. Thinking we had things under control, we ate a big dinner and started binge-watching season three when—simultaneously—the tide reversed and the storm clocked, unhooking our anchor from the sea floor.

Bam-ba-bam-BAM. The hull heaved and shuttered to a stop. Dinghy, who had been asleep on my lap, sprinted like an Olympian to the forward berth and hid behind a spare sail.

“What the hell?” Dave said, leaping the stairs to look outside. “Heather, start the engine—we’re aground!” I flipped the switch to arm the controls at the helm, and Dave started the motor and put it in gear. The engine revved, but rocks blocked Wild Hair’s keel. Our attempts to drive off were useless.

A pen and a few papers follow the DVD’s lead onto the floor. I question my safety as the ship tips further. “Well, Heather,” I reason, “The tide is going down, so you’re going to keep tipping. But the boat can only slant to the side so far. When the tide returns, the boat will right. If there’s a hole in the boat…well…the boat is far enough on shore that it won’t fully submerge. You’re safe, honey. Focus on Dave.” Fresh panic pricks my muscles. I flip the SSB to the third distress channel: 6.2150.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday….” After two more tries, I switch to SSB channel 8.2910—the final distress channel. Still, I’m met with nothing but silence.

“God damn that outboard!” I set the mics down and rest my head on my balled fists. Anger surges through my limbs. The bloody thing started acting up months ago in the Chesapeake, and has only worked intermittently ever since. Experts told us the ethanol additive in gasoline had coated the motor’s interior like varnish. We carried it to a shop where a mechanic disassembled, steam-cleaned, and reassembled each part with the precision of a Swiss clockmaker. The outboard still doesn’t have the goods, despite a strict diet of marine-grade gas. Every other day, Dave studies the manual, surfs discussion forums online, or speaks with someone at the manufacturer’s technical support hotline. We keep thinking the problem is fixed, but then the beast dies again. It’s been a pain, but I never imagined the problem could prove fatal.

“Run through the SSB channels again, Heather.” I double-check the VHF is on sixteen, dial the SSB to 2.1820, and start the script again. SLOWLY—CLEARLY—CALMLY. Dave’s life depends upon me. I recommit to the task with vigor.

A dragged anchor isn’t always catastrophic; sailors muscle their boats to safety by setting a spare anchor ninety degrees from the hull and—as the tide rises—winching the ship in the same way a tow truck hauls an automobile from a ditch. Our self-rescue drill began smoothly enough. I got the spare anchor from the lazarette and passed it and the line to Dave in the dinghy. The small inflatable boat made wet rubber balloon sounds against the hull as it bounced in the three-foot waves. Dave yanked the starter cord, the outboard sprang to life, and my man zoomed away from me. An unlucky wave knocked the anchor from the dinghy gunnel too soon into the drink. Then the outboard choked and quit. The dinghy, carrying Dave, slipped sideways in the wind faster than a car on ice.

“FUCK!” I could hear Dave’s voice from the boat.

The moon was full, the light sharp. Events unfolded in black and white, with the high drama of a silent motion picture. Dave struggled to restart the outboard. Rip…rip…rip. His headlamp swung wildly. The 35-knot winds pushed the inflatable and Dave slipped through an opening between two islands and was gone. I stood in shock, unable to breathe.

The sea beyond was a violent expanse. The next landfall is continental Africa; the whole of the Atlantic lies between. I was alone, naked to nature and its dominance.

Gusts pushed me about but didn’t knock me down. My hands took hold of stations and lifelines. My eyes remained frozen on the gap, confused. “Should I issue a Mayday?” I talked to myself for comfort. “No, Dave is a cat with nine lives who always has a trick up his sleeve.” This sounded ridiculous. “Yes, of course I should. He’s going to die.” I rubbed my hands upon my face to stimulate inner strength and decided to count to ten—give myself time to think.

“One…two….” Dave’s last word echoed down my spine and stripped my confidence. “Three…four….” I recalled the equipment stored in the dinghy, then realized the storage box was at my right foot on Wild Hair’s deck. He lacked a radio, EPIRB, motor, or paddle. “Five…six….” I looked toward roiling cumulonimbus clouds. Dense towers stretched to twenty-thousand feet. They undulated like dragons in the wind. I felt defenseless—like a prisoner before a firing squad. Even so, the cloud’s beauty surprised me.

“Seven…” Then something really odd happened; it was something beyond words. A great causal stream registered with me, deep down: this was because that was, and that was because of this. In the constantly flowing river of cause and effect, there was nothing and no one to blame.

“Eight…” Again, the wind pressed my rain jacket and separated around my body. The wind accommodated my presence, and this struck me as profound. It accepted I was there and adjusted its course without complaint. The universe allowed me to be. I concluded from this gesture that there was nothing personal in Wild Hair’s twist of misfortune.

“Nine…” I looked west toward the storm and took it all in—the magnificence of the blameless, untamed wilderness. I looked east toward the island and the gap; my longing for Dave felt knife-sharp. I looked down at Wild Hair and noted the starboard deck was low. I looked up at the moon and witnessed the purity of light reflected. In the whole of my view, I was the only thing with consciousness. Each element in the world around me responded to stimuli without thought. Everything moved in simple cause-effect relationships. I alone had the power of choice to decide how I would respond to events.

“Ten…Heather, call a Mayday.”

I bump the SSB dial to the next frequency—4.1250. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” I keep struggling in every call to articulate the nature of the emergency in a single sentence. I wait, listening to the nothingness of space. I roll forward to put my forehead on the desk. My muscles clamp tight. I feel completely helpless. “Maybe I should trigger the EPIRB beacon after all,” I whisper. “Where is everyone?”

“Hea-THURR!” Dave’s voice shouts above the gale.

I spring upright. Thoughts jumble. He’s here! Where? It’s my imagination. Change frequency and call again. No—stop! Put the mics down. What if someone answers and I miss them? Move!

I climb the tilted ladder, finding new handholds to stay upright. My pupils adjust. Wild Hair’s mast points oddly to shore. I search for a swimmer in the water, but spot Dave slide-walking down the island’s steep dune. Sand avalanches with each step. He moves stiffly—arms extended—down the forty-foot face. Arriving at the beach, he trudges through calf-high water toward me. Wild Hair kneels for him like a trained elephant, and he easily hoists himself onboard. I step to him. My man is drenched, shivering, and unnaturally large because the personal floatation device triggered beneath his rain jacket. The swelled inner tube under his clothing doubles his normal size and prevents him from embracing me. I wrap his shaking, bloated form in my arms, overcoming the fear locked in my muscles.

“Damn outboard—”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“I saw you blow between the islands…out to sea.”

“No, I didn’t. I paddled to the island and walked home. I’ve got to go get the dinghy and we’ve got to try to drop the anchor again.”

“Wait, you had a paddle? I’ve been calling a Mayday.” Dave looks at me. “I thought you were out there!”

“Oh boy, no. Didn’t you see me? I paddled like hell to shore. I guess I caught the backside of the island. There was a shoal. It was underwater when we came in, but it’s exposed now.”

“—past my sight, where I couldn’t see you?”

“I guess.” He takes in my fear. “Sorry, baby.”

“You’re wet.”

“Yeah. I waded the shallows and there was a hole. I was walking, then I was swimming.” He laughs. “Boy was I surprised! It blew my life jacket. We’ll have to get another cartridge to arm it.”

“Forget that, you’re here!” My hands grip his forearms, hard, and the capacity to smile returns.

“Yeah, I’ve got to get some warm clothes on. Then I’m going back to get the dinghy and we’re going to try this again.”

“No! We are absolutely not doing this again.” My determination is ferocious. “I just spent the last however long calling a Mayday because I thought you were battling for your life!” Frustration crosses his brow. “We will not trust the outboard again with your life. No way.”

“Heather,” his words have force. “I am not willing to lose this boat! When the tide rises the wind will push the boat higher onto the rocks. We’ll never get it out then. We’re lucky this happened at low tide. We have a chance to save her. We’ve got to try again.”

“Not with the dinghy we’re not. Absolutely not. I’ll lose the boat. I’m not losing you.” A cloud passes in front of the moon and the world darkens.

“OK, look.” Dave is pissed. “I’m going to change clothes because my teeth are chattering and I’ve got to conserve my energy. It’s going to be a long night. Get the spotlight and send an SOS to the boat across the harbor. Maybe they can help us with their dinghy.”

I pull the spotlight trigger and the beam soars through sheets of rain to illuminate the neighboring ship. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Pause. I repeat the series of short and long SOS flashes, wait several seconds, and repeat them again. And again.

“C’mon, c’mon. Don’t be asleep. We need you!” I check my watch: 10:17. Hopefully, our neighbors are still awake. The blinking beacon shines bright on their boat. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Far off, a light switches on. A figure, silhouetted by the moon, climbs outside. The tip of a cigarette glows orange in the distance.

“Yes, I mean you!” I flash the SOS repeatedly. After a beat, the figure goes below. The light turns off.

“What? Buddy, you have got to be kidding me. Get over here!” My finger grows emphatic on the trigger. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Over and over I signal. The figure and cigarette reappear. “Yes, that’s right. You come here. You come here. You come here,” I say in synchronicity with the beam.

Again, the figure goes below.

Is he getting dressed? Mobilizing for a rescue? He should give me some sort of sign that he’s on his way. He is certainly taking a while. The neighboring ship’s inside light flips off.

“No, no, no, you son-of-a-bitch! I will haunt you with this light all night if I have to.” My pace becomes frantic. My teeth clench. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Minutes pass. The light flips on. The man steps into the moonlight again.

“OK, you motherfucker. Look at this!” I swing the spotlight toward the island and set a wall of sand and stone ablaze. I scare myself. The nearness of the mass shatters nerves. We are on the island. With longer arms, I could touch the wall from here. Tree limbs twist in the glare—a haunted spectacle. I swing the spotlight back to my harbor-mate. “Got it?” I ask with my short-long-short voice.

The figure moves at a faster pace. Back and forth it walks. It disappears quickly below and reemerges. I light the man’s actions with my beam so he doesn’t stray from his purpose. Short-short-short-​long-long-long-​short-short-short. Soon, the man and his dinghy steam toward us through the sideways wind and rain.

He is a chiseled Frenchman—slight but able-bodied—with not a word of English. I hug him as he steps aboard. He smiles.

“What is your name?” I ask above the wind.

“A-gggha—” he replies.

“What? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“A-GGGHAN.”

“A-GGGHAN?” I question.

He nods and smiles. “AGGGHAN.”

With hand gestures and a smattering of universal sailing terms, a plan develops. The men will tow our dinghy home. Then, using Aggghan’s dinghy, the two will set the spare anchor in place.

“Wait!” I shout before they depart. “Aggghan, you need a PFD.”

“Non, non, non—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I say with force. “This is a night of DANGER!” I hand him a spare PFD with a look that means business.

When the men return, I tie our dinghy to the side. Powered by Aggghan’s outboard, Dave and the Frenchman drop the kedge-anchor ninety-degrees from Wild Hair’s hull; I loop the anchor rode around the winch and turn the handle until Wild Hair is under tension. Back on board, Aggghan removes the PFD, which in the fracas spontaneously inflated.

“So-ree,” he says.

“No, no—it’s good,” I hug him again. “Thank you!” Dave shakes Aggghan’s hand. Our helper retreats to his ship.

It is low tide. The boat is tipped over, the mattress is vertical, and I am essentially standing sideways across it with feet wedged into the wall. I can’t sleep. Dave snores loudly from the only real bed available with the boat on its side like this—he’s snoozing on what normally is the backrest of the salon sofa. His comfort makes me insanely jealous and I want to rattle him awake and rant about his selfishness, but I don’t. We’ll need his well-rested brawn in the hours ahead. Time passes.

A loud ripping sound rakes my attention. Its 05:04, the tide is rising, and Wild Hair is starting to float again. But with each surging wave, the rudder is slamming backwards onto a submerged rock. I get up and walk along the wall to get out of bed and grab my shoes.

“Let’s drive her off, now,” I say to a groggy Dave as I wiggle a heel into place. I arm the engine, climb the tilted ladder into the cockpit and slide behind the steering wheel as he follows me and gets busy attaching a plastic float to an anchor line.

“I’m gonna release this line and anchor as we drive off,” Dave explains. “The float will tell us where it is so we can pick it up later. “I nod as I hand-over-hand the wheel hard to port and lever the throttle to full. The engine roars and the boat tugs. The hull inches forward and the screeching sound against the ship stops, but Wild Hair doesn’t break free. We have to wait for more tide, more lift. I am desperate to be free, feeling as patient as a dropping paratrooper waiting for her chute to open.

Thirty minutes pass and the rupturing noise starts anew. I scramble back to my place, rev the engine, and Wild Hair strains forward. Dave is again at the bow, on the balls of his toes and shifting his weight to stay loose, a prize fighter before the match. I can tell by the way he’s looking and not looking that his imagination is taken by a vision of Wild Hair’s keel stuck into the sea floor.

“C’mon honey. Push!” I say to the boat. The prop spins, kicking up sand. The worst grinding noise yet shutters from stem to stern. I gulp. My ship hops, clunks to a stop, shifts, and finally springs free.

“Heather, that one,” Dave shouts and points—panic is in his eyes. I look at the winch. The line he draped in big loops around the drum is paying out fast. There’s an anchor on the end of this line and we’re about to tangle the rope into a mess on the winch. Snagging the works would halt our escape. I lunge. My fingers flip the snarl onto the deck before the mess goes taught, and I watch the line zing over the side. Just like that, we abandon the first anchor.

Bit by bit, Wild Hair bucks and claws its way from land. But the bow anchor, which we must have dragged into the shallows as we went aground, now lies to our portside. Driving past it, this second line becomes taut. The anchor at the other end has a tough grip, and all at once its pull makes Wild Hair’s path arc. In an explosive move, Dave dives to his knees and saws the line viciously with the serrated pocket-knife attached to his life vest. He’s a wolf chewing off a leg in a trap. It tears clean through but I realize we’ve lost a limb—the jagged end (and the anchor it held on the opposite end) disappears in the next wave. Dave kneels and looks at me with tired eyes.

“I didn’t have a float on that line,” he says.

Damn.

My hands spin the wheel right and left to test the rudder’s soundness. The boat turns well, so it appears the rocks didn’t harm Wild Hair’s steering. That’s a relief. Also, I don’t feel any shimmy underfoot—a good indication that the prop shaft isn’t bent. Unexpectedly, a ray of daylight pierces my attention and I turn. At some point, when my focus was elsewhere, morning arrived and the sunrise is glorious: pink, green, and gold. The spectacle is so congruous to the moment, I want to look around to find the audience to this comedy. I half expect a choir to sing an extended major chord to harmonize with the light and a marching band to float past—horns tooting—to celebrate our success. I laugh at the synchronicity of new beginnings—the morning’s and mine.

“The storm is over,” I say as Dave nears.

“It’s a beautiful day, baby! I’m checking for leaks.” He disappears below. I grin to the horizon, thinking: we are free and we are safe. I am exhausted.

Out a ways, our third anchor splashes, but neither of us trust the ground to hold the ship. We nap in shifts. Eventually the breeze calms to ten knots and the sea lies down.

Late in the afternoon, Aggghan and his wife dinghy over to see how we made out. Mrs. Aggghan speaks English.

“Alain was wondering if you intentionally reanchored before the storm,” she says.

“Wait, your husband’s name is Alain?”

“Yes,” she says, “Alain.”

“Aggghan,” Alain says nodding, smiling.

“Oh,” I say, feeling dense. “No, we would NEVER reanchor before a storm. We thought we had a good set from the first blow. We wouldn’t mess with something that was working.”

“He wondered because he saw you late in the day in a new position, closer in.”

“We must have dragged before the sun went down and didn’t realize—”

“We’re going to have to keep better tabs on our position at anchor,” Dave says.

“And he wants you to know that he couldn’t see you were in trouble. It was good that you shined your light on the island. He didn’t know you were grounded until you did.”

“Ah…I figured.”

“It was a good thing you flashed your light when you did, because we were about to go to sleep.”

“To sleep,” Alain nodded. “Then we see you no more! We don’t come.”

“Wow,” says Dave. “We are so lucky for your help! Thank you, again.”

“Thank you for risking the dinghy ride in the storm.”

Alain gives a small shrug. He thinks his actions unheroic, simple. But his working outboard saved our boat and maybe even Dave’s life. With his wife translating, I tell Alain the full story of the night, including the Mayday. My words peter.

“I’m so glad you were here.” My chin puckers and I look away. We sit in silence—four sailors with a common understanding of how bad things can turn in an instant.

The wind disappears and peace settles as the sun sets. The plot of Lost lacks thrill for us now. We practice a new habit: each time we stand, we check our ship’s location through port holes. At bedtime, the mattress is horizontal and we sleep together as sound as puppies.

The next morning, I locate Charles’s phone number in small print deep in the pages of a Bahamian guide book, and telephone on our Bahama cell phone. He is the local man-on-call for BASRA. He arrives in minutes from Little Harbour Cay to help fetch our lost anchors. Charles and Dave zip about with the man’s mighty outboard.

“You’re never going to believe it,” Dave says on their return. “I thought we lost the CQR for sure since there was no float on the line. But we lifted the line for the plow anchor and the CQR’s line was draped on top.”

“You recovered a thousand dollars’ worth of equipment,” I cheer. “You—Charles—have superpowers! Party on Wild Hair!” The men laugh. “Charles, I know it’s only nine in the morning and it’s the middle of the week, but would you like one of my husband’s beers?”

His eyes look toward the horizon with the seriousness of a sage. “I never did say no to refreshment.”

Sipping my morning coffee, I tell Charles our story.

“Dis here is a marl bottom,” he says. “You tink it’s deep? De sand is nothing but rock with a bit of dust on top. It tricks everybody and their anchors don’t hold.”

“Charles said he helped salvage an 85-foot sail yacht last month. The professional crew blew aground like us, but they did it at high tide, so they couldn’t drive off when the water came up.”

After lunch Wild Hair motor-sails south. The Northwest Providence Channel is benign—a coiled snake. Deep blue water sloshes in four-foot waves. Droplets sparkle. We arrive at Frazer’s Hog Cay in late afternoon. It is a small settlement with a lively marina. Mooring balls dot the harbor. I snag the loose tail swinging from a fat, white float with a boat pole, thread a starboard bow line through the loop, and cleat it off. Before Wild Hair swings in the breeze, I thread a second line from the port side. Sailors in dinghies speed our way.

“It’s Wild Hair!” someone shouts.

“Oh, it’s Wild Hair,” a woman on the next boat cheers. “Look!” she says to the crew of a trawler as she points.

Behind, folks shout, “Hooray!”

A fellow on shore jumps into his dinghy and joins the commotion. About a dozen dinghies collide near our hull like bumper cars.

“Are you OK?” a woman dinghy driver asks.

“Do you have everyone onboard?” a grizzled sailor with an uneven-buttoned shirt questions. A cigarette hangs limp from his lips.

“Is the whole crew accounted for?” a young man asks. His pretty wife looks on.

People keep arriving. My mind spins to catch up.

“Oh my, we were just sick listening to you! We’ve talked of nothing else.”

“Did you make the Mayday?”

“What happened?”

“So, you heard me?” I ask. My face flushes.

“Yes,” a half-dozen answer in unison. “Of course we did.” The chatter begins again with the enthusiasm of a soldier’s homecoming.

“But you couldn’t help because it was too dangerous?” I interrupt.

“Of course not!”

“It was horrible out there—”

“That’s right. What a night that was, eh?”

“Is that our captain?” someone asks Dave. He looks as overwhelmed as I am. “How did you make it back to the ship?”

“Hey, you made it after all! Boy, are we glad you’re here!”

“Yeah,” says Dave laughing. “I’m glad to be here, too.”

“Tay went out looking,” says a Bahamian voice. It is the marina worker responsible for the mooring ball.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Tay sent a boat into the night, looking. But there was just a bit of location. Tay didn’t know where to look.”

“But I gave our latitude and longitude, many times.”

“Tay no hear it all. Tay go out here to look.” He gestures toward the Northwest Providence Channel nearby.

“You searched for Dave twenty miles away from where we were?” The floor drops from my stomach.

“Not me,” the man clarifies. “But Tay look. Tay try.”

My shoulders collapse; my hands cover my face, hiding regret. I am responsible for sending people into that night. I steel myself for more. “My friend, how was the call heard—on the VHF?”

“No, de Coast Guard say, ‘go.’ ”

“The US Coast Guard heard me?”

“Yes.” The man is distracted. “You come to de office later ’n pay for de ball.” He pushes his dinghy off, waves goodbye, and zips toward the piers.” The crowd offers well-wishes and disperses.

I sit at the salon table with a sandwich, soda, and chips, and open my email for the first time in days. The inbox is loaded. Subject headings read: “Are you alive,” “Call home,” “We’re trying not to worry,” “Contact your US Coast Guard,” and “WTF: WHERE ARE YOU?”

Everyone knows: children, parents, brothers and sisters, strangers, and friends. But what they don’t know yet is we’re safe. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of all these people worrying about us.

I grab the phone and tell Dave we’ve got calls to make. Our conversations reveal the potency of my SSB radio calls. Switching frequencies, my voice bounced like a tennis ball to greater and greater distances. For unknown reasons, I wasn’t heard in the Bahamas, the East Coast, or on most of the continental United States. Only Petty Officer Adam Harris, manning a US Coast Guard communication station in Kodiak, Alaska, intercepted and recorded my transmission. He picked it up on frequency 4.1250. Static garbled the position. He mapped Wild Hair’s location as best he could and mobilized the Coast Guard District Office in Florida. Florida briefed the Royal Bahamas Defense Force and a local BASRA volunteer rescuer—a fellow just like Charles—set off with a friend. Twenty-one miles off course, their effort was futile.

There’s more. When the Coast Guard heard my Mayday, they opened a Search and Rescue (SAR) case. Once a case opens, it stays open until the Coast Guard either finds what they are looking for or confirms services aren’t needed.

Officer Harris handed our case to a talented detective also stationed in Kodiak: Joshua Bouknight, a petty officer OS2. Bouknight reviewed the national database and discovered twelve vessels registered with the name Wild Hair. Then he turned his attention to the recording, put it through cleaning software, and removed the majority of atmospheric noise. He listened to the call several dozen times. Hearing, “One person blown out to sea and one person on board,” the officer figured two people were onboard, so he ruled out large, commercial fishing vessels.

Turning to the Internet, Bouknight found my sailing blog. Places I wrote about in our travels matched the vicinity of the Mayday. I also described Wild Hair’s length and brand, so Bouknight cross-referenced boat details with the vessel-registration database and deduced our names and contact information.

Bouknight telephoned our old home number, but it was disconnected.

An Internet spider found pages related to my husband and his preretirement job, so Bouknight called Dave’s former secretary in Wisconsin. She confirmed we were sailing and gave him our cellphone numbers. We had a travel-hold on our service, so this was another dead end. Dave’s secretary knew our children were close friends with my husband’s partner’s kids, so she put Bouknight in touch with Dave’s partner John. John called his daughter, got Maggie’s phone number, and gave the contact information to the officer. Bouknight called Maggie. Our daughter must have been terrified.

“Hi, Maggie. It’s your mom and dad.” Our girl is on speaker phone. “Hi, Noodle,” says Dave.

“Well, there you are.” Her voice is steady but her tone is uncertain. “What’s going on, guys?” We tell her our story and learn hers. She relaxes as we speak. Words begin to flow.

She was in the college library studying for a test with her boyfriend when Bouknight called. “He said he was in Alaska and that he heard a Mayday call that was probably from you, and I thought that couldn’t be because you’re nowhere near Alaska. That’s not how space works. He kept talking and I was trying to listen and be helpful, but I was confused. I didn’t know what to do with the information he was giving me.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I say.

“It was scary and I was irritated that the closest person to give a shit about you was in Alaska.”

“They mobilized people here too, Noodle,” Dave says. “Lots of people tried to help.”

“He didn’t tell me that. I felt pretty helpless, you know? There was nothing I could do in the middle of Wisconsin. So I told them to talk to grandma because she at least had all your emails.”

“You did great, Maggie. That was the perfect thing to do.” I imagine her wrestling with fear for more than a day. “Were your friends helpful?”

“No. They were nice and all, kind of supportive, but they really didn’t understand. They couldn’t relate and say, ‘Well, when my parents were out at sea and called a Mayday…’ I told them what happened and they said, ‘that’s really strange…so anyway….’ It was surreal.”

“You were at sea with us,” Dave says.

“Yeah.” Maggie pauses. “You know, I just never thought about you guys dying before. I mean, I knew you guys were probably going to kill yourselves somehow in your adventures. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.” We laugh.

“Thanks, Maggie,” says Dave.

“But I decided if you died doing something you loved that that would be better than being too afraid to do it at all, you know? I’d be much more upset with you guys if you never went sailing and became lame, old, retired people. I thought, ‘At least they died together!’ ”

“We’re not dead yet, ya know. We’re going to stick around and make you miserable a little while longer.”

“Yeah. Now that I know the big, scary thing happened and you survived, I guess I’m going to worry less. You’re not going to let just anything take you.”

“Well, that’s backwards logic, but I like it!”

Next we call my folks.

“I told the officer, ‘This is a mother’s nightmare,’ ” my mom says. “The world stopped; we’ve just been existing, waiting to hear everything is good. Your call is so welcome.”

“Oh, mom. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“I gave the officer your position and confirmed the Wild Hair he was looking for was most likely my daughter. I kept thinking it wasn’t you because you wouldn’t have frivolously done a Mayday. But it had to be you.”

“It was. We were in a hard place,” I admit.

“I tried to call Eland, but his cellphone mailbox is full again. He doesn’t know.”

“Well, there’s one person not worried,” says Dave.

“Are you going to stop sailing now?”

The question makes me smile—the thought of stopping hadn’t crossed my mind.

“No, we’ll keep on. What happened is just part of sailing. Bad things can happen anywhere.”

“Well, you’re adults and we have faith in you.”

“And you learned something,” my dad adds. “You’re smarter, right?”

“Right,” Dave and I agree in unison.

My inbox contains at least one email from every person touched by Bouknight’s investigation. I draft an email announcing our safety and broadcast our good news with the push of a button and the efficiency of a White House Press Secretary. I also email Officer Bouknight, and we correspond throughout the day.

I tell him I feel shame-faced for wasting three days of his time, and who knows how many other Coast Guard resources. “I didn’t realize anyone heard me,” I write. “Plus, sailing books talk not about terminating a Mayday but sending them. How does a person stop a SAR case once it gets rolling?”

“The Agency is structured like a wedding cake,” Bouknight writes. “It’s a series of narrowing tiers. Messages find their way swiftly to the right person so you can notify anyone in the system.” He adds, “Mariners should telephone after shooting a flare, sending a voice distress, or firing an EPIRB.” I get it. Follow up calls keep rescuers out of harm’s way and avoid stretching finite resources so more individuals can receive assistance.

In every exchange, the tone of Bouknight’s writing is kind and modest. When I thank him for his perseverance in finding us, he writes: “I was trained to search for every boat like I had my own family aboard. Many people were involved in the SAR, and every one of us is trained that way. Everything was made possible by a chain of individuals who operated with consistency and professionalism.”

I share my uncertainty about the wisdom of my decision to issue the Mayday in the first place because the call was based on what turned out to be an optical illusion; Dave wasn’t in peril. Bouknight insists my actions were appropriate in the moment.

“All Coast Guardsmen feel only relief when they find a vessel in distress is safe. Too often, our best is not enough, no matter what we do. Too much works against us, be it the ticking clock or the wrath of nature.”

He goes on to compliment my carefully articulated message and calm manner during the call (funny, that’s not how I remember feeling) and expresses only gladness that we are safe and sound. No one—he says—should hesitate to call for help. I reread his words several times and try to imagine the struggles he’s seen, the suffering rescuers carry. His compassion and honesty stun me.

It’s then that I notice the Latin phrase included automatically with his signature: “Dum spiro, spero.” I do a quick search and find the phrase translates as, “While I breathe, I hope.” My body jolts in attention. Who—I wonder—is breathing and hoping: him, me, or both of us?

REFLECTIONS ON POWER

I’ve had months to reflect now on events surrounding the Mayday, and Joanna Macy keeps popping into my consciousness. She is a fellow spiritual ecologist, Buddhist scholar, and environmental activist who has been around the block about 10,000 times. Macy distinguishes in her writing and teaching between Passive and Active Hope.²⁹ We are caught in the talons of Passive Hope, she says, when we wish for things to be different but do absolutely nothing to change our circumstance. Alternatively, we engage in Active Hope when we deeply examine our situation, get clear about what we’d prefer to happen in and around us, and take simple concrete steps to bring about a new reality (regardless of our likelihood of success). None of us have power enough to control the forces that be, but each of us has a sovereign power to control what we personally do.

Officer Bouknight didn’t sit back and long for things difficult and far away to somehow work out. He and the entire military branch embodied the three fundamental steps Macy advocates. Personnel monitored radio frequencies for disasters and heard my call for help. They were clear about the reality they preferred: not danger but safety at sea. They took immediate and decisive action to rescue Dave. On top of that, they didn’t waste time weighing the likelihood of success before they mobilized. Optimism wasn’t a factor. They simply followed the recipe for Active Hope—paid close attention, knew what they wanted, and acted as best as they could—even though circumstances looked bleak.

I am so impressed and so very grateful.

In a way, I guess I practiced Active Hope at White Cay too, when I took in the situation as it unfolded, aimed to free Dave from danger, and radioed for help. Of course, I was swamped in a river of emotion, but that didn’t matter: I did what needed to be done.

In some ways, I was powerless when the inflatable dinghy blew between the islands with Dave onboard. There was no controlling the storm, the slipped anchor, or the faulty outboard motor. It was impossible for me to reach my man to save him and, at that point, I had no influence over the circumstances leading to the crisis. In other ways, however, I wasn’t powerless: I still had dominion over my own actions. My radio call set into motion a rescue mission that didn’t stop until I brought the response to an end days later. In the great stream of cause and effect, I had the capacity to mobilize tremendous resources in support of my preferred outcome. Evolution, it seems, has given me and others in my species the rare and wonderful gifts of awareness, volition (or clear aspiration), and choice, and although these qualities don’t give us power over Nature, others, and circumstance, they do give us the spiritual power to act. Humans can cultivate healing and well-being anytime and anywhere. Almost magically, the powers of awareness, volition, and choice originate from within and don’t require anything in particular from outside conditions. Awareness, volition and choice are superpowers.

In the midst of my Mayday call, I aspired for something inherently good, a goal that others—like the US Coast Guard—wanted, too. By tapping into the synergy of collective aspiration, my influence to make a difference sprouted faster than kelp. The power of my choice also got a boost from a willingness to do something small—radio for help—even when the action appeared in the thick of things to be fruitless. This leads me to believe that even the tiniest deed, set into motion, can spark a revolution.

This back and forth analysis of whether I am powerful or powerless is well worn territory for me. The inquiry was built into my responsibilities as an environmental justice advocate and I know it to be a common preoccupation among most change agents. We strategize endlessly about ways to leverage power over people and situations, because it’s our responsibility to stop others from causing social and ecological harm. But in my experience, there is never enough power over a situation to overhaul the system perpetuating social and ecological damage, once and for all. And even though advocates lose sleep and our hair researching the nature of our challenge to the nth degree, even though we know beyond a shadow of a doubt our aspirations are altruistic, every power play we make is undermined by an equally forceful maneuver by opponents. Caught in a vast array of power struggles, we wear out our relationships and exhaust ourselves.

It’s silly to think we can avoid power skirmishes altogether. Advocates must organize swift and strategic holding actions effective enough to keep things from getting worse. We are the players in society working to exercise control over bad actors by helping, among other things, to make laws that put certain behaviors off limits. But laws are temporary and holding actions ought never to be confused with transformation (this is another lesson from Joanna Macy). Somehow, more of us should find a way to direct our personal power toward actions that don’t merely constrain harmful actors and actions, but actually transform society’s collective consciousness so fewer holding actions are necessary. That is a tall and noble order.

This time, the lesson from the Great Atlantic Teacher seems to be that every action I take has the potential to set into motion a ripple of causes and effects. That’s pretty significant. It makes me think through a litany of personal actions I could take, and their possible consequences. Should I buy an expensive suit, or make a donation to fight hunger? Should I eat a hamburger or enjoy a plant-based meal? Should I drive an SUV, a small hybrid, or ride my bike? Should I talk about climate change, or keep silent? How endless are the opportunities to exercise personal power?

There’s really nothing too complicated about doing the most helpful thing we can that is within our reach. But simple as it may be, it is very important. I suspect Earth—humanity’s witness—takes notice. After all, humankind, armed with modern technology, is the only species powerful enough to shape the planet’s fate. It is on us—during this climate emergency—to act as responsibly as we can for as long as necessary until danger subsides. Our optimism or pessimism is immaterial. We can let the stories we tell ourselves go, and exercise our superpowers of awareness, volition and action. We can act with the commitment and clarity of purpose the US Coast Guard brings to saving just one life.

I offer this meditation as a spiritual technology I have found useful in my practice. It helps me cultivate Active Hope and wake up to my innate superpowers.

Breathing in, I lift into my awareness a condition

of suffering in the world I cannot abide.

Breathing out, I look deeply into the root cause of the suffering.

In, aware of suffering.

Out, looking at root cause of suffering.

(Ten breaths)

Breathing in, I become curious about the circumstances

feeding the suffering, causing it to persist.

Breathing out, I see the root cause’s food.

In, curious about circumstances.

Out, see suffering’s nutriments.

(Ten breaths)

Breathing in, I aspire for a new reality to come

into being in the suffering’s place.

Breathing out, I see my volition as something

that is inherently good.

In, a preferred reality.

Out, a clear volition.

(Ten breaths)

Breathing in, I see a small action I can take in

support of an alternative reality.

Breathing out, I accept I have no control over

the consequences of my actions.

In, see small action.

Out, release attachments to specific outcomes.

(Ten breaths)

Breathing in, I pledge to exercise my superpower

of choice and take the action before me.

Breathing out, I let go of controlling the outcomes of my actions.

In, exercise superpower of choice.

Out, Let go of outcomes.

(Ten breaths)