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SOS! HELP! I've been knocked down and dismasted in middle of Atlantic!
| Tenterhooks | 01/22/26 |
| Grant Amato did nothing wrong | 01/22/26 |
| Tenterhooks | 01/22/26 |
| Tenterhooks | 01/23/26 |
Poast new message in this thread
Date: January 22nd, 2026 1:44 PM Author: Tenterhooks The Coast Guard isn't answering.
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Date: January 22nd, 2026 1:44 PM Author: Grant Amato did nothing wrong can you describe your surroundings? (http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5825061&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310751#49609013) |
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Date: January 22nd, 2026 1:54 PM Author: Tenterhooks Water as far as I can see. Whoa! A flying fish just knocked my phone out of my hands!
All my rigging is askew and I've been able to gather my mast and place it on deck. I may take a sawzall to the remaining mast post and re-attach the mast and tighten her down as best I'm able. I'm sailing solo, so this might be more work than I'm capable.
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Date: January 23rd, 2026 4:07 PM Author: Tenterhooks The Atlantic stretched empty in every direction, a heaving gray plain under a low, bruised sky. Aboard Fake and Gay, a sturdy 42-foot cutter-rigged monohull, Tenterhooks had been alone for twenty-three days since leaving the Canaries bound for Antigua. He was tired but content—trade winds steady on the beam, self-steering vane doing most of the work, the boat slicing along at six knots under a single-reefed main and poled-out genoa. It happened just after midnight. A rogue squall had built unseen in the dark, wind spiking from 18 to 45 knots in seconds. Tenterhooks was clipped in the cockpit, hand on the preventer line, when the first real gust slammed the boat onto her ear. The mainsheet block exploded; the boom gybed violently. He heard the crack—a sharp, dry snap like a tree limb giving way—then the sickening groan of aluminum buckling. The mast folded at the lower spreaders. Fifty feet of spar, shrouds, stays, halyards, and sails came crashing down in a tangle of white Dacron and stainless steel. The genoa flogged wildly; the boom speared into the sea and dragged like an anchor. The boat rounded up hard, beam-on to the waves, rolling gunwale-under in the confused swell. Tenterhooks ducked as the spreaders whipped past his head. A shroud whipped across his forearm, slicing deep. Blood mixed with saltwater. He tasted copper and fear.
First rule: do nothing stupid with the engine.
He killed the autopilot, scrambled forward on hands and knees, clipped to the jacklines. The fallen rig hammered the hull with every roll—boom against the toerail, masthead pounding the deck like a battering ram. Each impact rang through the fiberglass like a gong. If it punched through, the boat would fill in minutes. He grabbed the bolt croppers from the cockpit locker—twenty-four-inch industrial jaws he'd carried for exactly this nightmare. The wind howled; waves broke over the cockpit coaming. He crawled to the starboard chainplates first. The rod rigging was 10 mm Dyform—tough, but the croppers bit. One, two, three cuts. The wire parted with a twang that vibrated up his arms. Port side next. Then the forestay—thicker, slower. His hands shook; blood made the handles slick. He wedged his boot against the toerail for leverage and leaned in with everything he had. The last stay gave way. The wreckage slid off the leeward side in a roar of foam and torn sailcloth. The boat lurched upright, relieved of the weight, but now rolled even more violently without the damping effect of the rig. Tenterhooks staggered below. The cabin sole was awash with books, charts, and broken glass from the portlights. He found the EPIRB mounted beside the companionway, armed it, and pressed the button. A red strobe began flashing. He sent the mayday on VHF channel 16, voice calm despite the hammering heart: “Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is sailing vessel Fake and Gay. Dismasted, position 22°14'N 048°37'W. One person aboard. Taking on no water at present. Injuries minor. EPIRB activated. "No immediate answer. Middle of nowhere. He went back on deck. The boat was still beam-to the seas, rolling her rails under. He deployed the drogue—a Jordan Series—paid out sixty meters of warp from the stern. The cones bit, and Fake and Gay swung slowly bow-on to the wind and waves. The motion eased from violent to merely punishing. Dawn came gray and slow. Tenterhooks assessed. Hull intact. No serious leaks. Engine room dry. He had power—solar and wind generator still spinning. Watermaker running. Food for weeks. The boom was still attached by the gooseneck, bent but salvageable. He lashed it across the cockpit as a makeshift rail. The mainsail, shredded, he cut away in pieces and bagged. He nigger-rigged a receiving antenna from a length of coax and the backstay remnant, hoping to hear someone. Mid-morning, a faint voice crackled through: a Liberian-flagged tanker, Pacific Dawn, 38 miles northeast, diverting. ETA twelve hours. Tenterhooks spent the day pumping bilges by hand (the electric failed when a wire shorted), eating cold stew from a can, and talking himself through the shock. His arm throbbed; he cleaned and bandaged it with the first-aid kit. He kept the drogue streamed, kept the boat hove-to under bare poles as best he could. Night fell again. The tanker’s lights appeared on the horizon like a floating city. They spoke on VHF. The freighter launched their fast rescue boat in twenty-foot seas. Marcus watched the tiny orange RIB climb and slam down waves. Two men in survival suits boarded Fake and Gay, clipped him in, and helped him across. He left the boat floating, drogue still out, EPIRB beaconing. On the tanker's bridge he drank hot tea that tasted like heaven. The captain shook his hand. “You did everything right,” the man said. “Most people panic and lose the boat.” Tenterhooks looked out the window at the dark ocean. Somewhere out there, Fake and Gay drifted on, a wounded but living thing. He didn't know if he'd ever sail again. But he knew one thing for certain: when the mast came down, he hadn't gone with it.
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