by Ron and Jane Landmann
Last Fall I made the decision to retire and to sail our boat PAINKILLER from San Francisco to Annapolis, Maryland. Some friends said, "what an adventure!" My response was I had adventures during my career and I didn't want an adventure on this trip. I simply wanted a nice time sailing from coast to coast. Well, my crew I had an adventure and I'm going to share a little bit of it with you.
I started preparing the boat in October 1999, for a January 1, 2000, departure from the Bay Area. I had gotten my ham license, but after studying the communications question in more detail, I decided I didn't want to talk on a radio. My experience has been the first ten minutes of a high seas radiotelephone call is, "How's the weather? How's everybody feeling? Is the food okay? Are you drinking enough water? Have you seen the Southern Cross yet? When your goal is really, "Honey, we'll be Acapulco on the 18th, could you please send me a whatchamacallit for the thingy that hangs down by the nav station that turns dollar bills into water." Anyway, I searched high a low and decided Inmarsat C was for me for a couple of reasons: 1) you transmit data via satellite to a land station where it enters the internet as e-mail; 2) as long as the antenna is facing the sky you can communicate, atmospherics be damned! 3) You automatically get weather reports four times a day for free! You have to know how to interpret the weather data, but that is not too difficult. Besides the price of Inmarsat C has been dropping rapidly and it is easily installed by the boat owner using common hand tools. There are two additional features on the Inmarsat C that make a lot of sense. First, it has it's own internal GPS. Your friends and family can subscribe to a service and for 12 cents per query; they can get position reports consisting of latitude, longitude, course and speed, without bothering you. Several of my friends were receiving updates once a day, and my wife was receiving them twice a day. She also believes that this device should be mandatory for all husbands! Second, there are two distress buttons on the Inmarsat C. Press them simultaneously for five seconds until you get a continuous audible tone and a message automatically goes out that your boat is in some type of distress. If you have time, a drop down menu is displayed on your computer and you can choose the type of distress that you are in such as sinking, medical emergency, pirates, fire, collision etc.
Next I went to Alameda Prop and Machine where Chuck built a beautiful radar arch with davits, outboard motor hoist and stowage bracket, two halogen lights, propane BBQ bracket, and four antenna posts. A friend said I'd cornered the stainless steel market in Alameda, but I believe having the arch allowed me to keep the decks and pulpits clear of equipment. Mounted on the arch we had a radar (hence the term "radar arch"), an emergency VHF antenna, Inmarsat C antenna, Garmin GPS antenna, and one spare. Jane and I mounted all the antennas, pulled the cables through the arch and into the boat, and I eventually mounted all the readouts inside the boat.
Next on our agenda was personal safety gear. For a retirement gift I received a gift certificate for West Marine and I bought the Coastal Cruising Pack First Aid kit. It's pretty cool as it has a book with numbered conditions. As long as you come up with an ailment that is numbered, I could treat it. No number, no immediate treatment, sorry. We also had two other first aid kits on board, enough Pepto Bismol to paint the boat pink, bottles and bottles of aspirin, Tylenol, Advil, sunblock, and whatever else you can think of. One of our purchases that everyone liked was See Clear towelettes for cleaning sun and eyeglasses and binoculars. They really do the job.
We also bought four inflatable life jackets, which I had to swear to my wife that I'd wear mine. She also bought off the crew to dime me out if I didn't. I bought the inflatable jackets even though we had four of the Type I offshore jackets and a bag of the orange Type I horse collars. I bought several re-arming kits just in case on of the crew decided to test out one of the inflatables.
I had two flare kits. One was a 12-gauge flare pistol with a total of 15 shells, a signal mirror and a whistle. The other flare gun kit was in an orange water proof case which contained sky rockets, large orange plastic signal placard, a signal mirror, several smoke cans, and a couple of whistles. The type I offshore jackets were stowed in a bag on deck near the transom and cleverly marked "Safety Gear". We also had an Icom IC-M1 hand held VHF transceiver; a hand held Garmin 12XL GPS, a half dozen flashlights, several "Leatherman" type tools and a rigging knife near the companionway ladder. In Addition we had a filet knife attached to the radar arch. Whistles were attached to all of the Type 1 jackets.
I also bought a 406 EPIRB from Maritime Electronics in Sausalito. We had the 406 EPIRB tied to the companionway ladder with a bungee cord. So between the Inmarsat C distress system and the 406 EPIRB I thought we were pretty well covered.
I also made the conscious decision to use our 10'2" Zodiac RIB as our life raft versus buying a separate life raft. I discussed the decision with potential crewmembers to ensure there was no misunderstanding on what equipment was or was not on the boat. Jane and I tried to flip the Zodiac up in the Delta and couldn't do it. Also, I considered the fact that most of our legs would be coastal cruising. The leg where we would be farthest from land would be the Cartagena to Jamaica leg where the point of no return was approximately 200 miles.
On December 31, 1999, Jane and I were living aboard our Morgan 45 PAINKILLER at the St. Francis Yacht Club. New Years Eve was a special day in many ways for us. First, there was a lot of discussion about the "millennium" and what terrible things might happen around the world when the clock struck midnight. Second, it was my last day on the job and the next day I would be retired and unemployed for the first time since I was 13 years old. Third, New Years Day we were planning on taking off for Marina del Rey, the first leg of my trip from San Francisco, California, to Annapolis, Maryland, some 6,500 nautical miles away.
On February 8, 2000, after spending over a month in San Diego having a watermaker and genset installed (it was supposed to be a two week project. It was truly our introduction to mananaland), Mark Greenfeldt from Alameda/Santa Cruz, Bobby Ogorchock from Kaneohe, Hawaii, and I finally departed and headed towards Mexico. Within an hour of leaving the San Diego harbor entrance we saw our first whale, and an a half hour after that we saw a rainbow over the Mexico/US border.
Since we were three guys instead of two or three couples, this turned out to be more of a delivery trip than a cruise. We made good time down the coast and stopped only to overnight in Turtle Bay before continuing on to Cabo San Lucas. We spent a lot of money eating and drinking in Cabo, which we likened more to being Southern San Diego than part of Mexico. We spent three days on the hook there before dashing off to Mazatlan. Two hours after departing Cabo we were bashing into steep four-foot waves that were very close together, and I told the crew, "hey, I'm retired, I don't need to put up with this shit." Having said that, two hours later we were back on the hook at Cabo.
The next morning we had a delightful departure with almost two knots of favorable current pushing us half way across the sea. 28 hours after departing Cabo we were in Mazatlan. And so our trip went: Paradise Village Marina, in Puerto Vallarta where we added Gary Peterson from Elk Horn, Wisconsin, to the crew. From PV we went to Punta Ipala; Bahia Chamela; Bahia Tenacatita; Barra Navidad; Las Hadas where Gary and Bobby flew home. Mark and I took the boat to Isla Grande; Marina Ixtapa; and Acapulco where Bobby rejoined the boat after doing his taxes, and where Jane and Mark's girlfriend Teri joined us for a couple of days.
From Acapulco the three of us took off for Marina Flamingo, Costa Rica. The first five days of the transit were wonderful, but we paid our dues the last 30 hours when we were bashed about by strong winds and rough seas. From Marina Flamingo we went to Playa del Coco; Golfito; Balboa, Republic of Panama. In Panama Jane joined us along with Laura Murphy of West Springfield, Virginia. After waiting a week, we transited the canal on April 18 with Bobby, Mark, Jane, Laura, me, and Steve Morehead, a good friend of mine who is stationed in Panama City. We had a great trip through the canal and our Canal Advisor knew how to make it fun for first timers. "Relax, don't worry, be happy" and "beautiful!" were part of his normal speech pattern.
After the canal, Bobby, Laura and I took off for Portobelo; Porvenir, San Blas Islands; then Tigre Island in the San Blas chain. From Tigre we jumped off for Cartagena, Colombia, a 187 nautical mile, 30-hour trip away.
We arrived in Cartagena on Easter Sunday afternoon, April 23, 2000. We med-moored at Club Nautico, which has been the subject of numerous letters and notes in Latitude 38. Laura left us on Wednesday and Buzz Mantle from Sonoma, California, joined us on Thursday for the trip to Montego Bay, Jamaica where we were going to drink rum drinks with little umbrellas and listen to Reggae at the source. I presented Club Nautico with my St. Francis Yacht Club burgee, which I adorned with PAINKILLER along the luff. It's now hanging over the bar.
We departed Cartagena on Saturday, April 29, 2000 at 0820 hours and headed north. Due North 000 degrees. This course would take us East of Pedro Cay shoals after which we would be able to bear away and head West running with the wind and the 2 knot current that runs past Jamaica. We motor sailed with the main up and the engine running at 2,300rpm, which is a fuel-efficient speed for the boat. The wind was light for the first couple of hours and then it started building.
Just before sunset the jerry jugs on the starboard side came loose and I smelled diesel. By this time the wind had built to 22 - 25 knots and the seas were 6' - 8' with some 10'ers in for good measure. The boat was moving nicely and I estimated we'd be out of rough weather in 30 hours. Bobby and I tied the jugs down with some dock lines, but the fuel had spilled and the smell made me queasy. I just can't handle the diesel smell.
I was on watch from 2000 to 2130 (we did 90 minute watches with 3 hours off), after which I went below and slept on the port settee in the salon. Buzz and Bobby stayed on deck and let me sleep until 0200 when Bobby asked me to look at the radar at a ship. I determined the ship was crossing our bow by about 2 miles, after which I went on deck. Because of the wind speed and spray, it was on the cool side, so I was wearing my black St. Francis yacht club jacket and a swimsuit. It was now Sunday, April 30, 2000.
Bobby was sitting on the beanbag chair on the cockpit sole and I was sitting on the helmsman's bench behind the wheel holding on to all four parts of the traveler to remain upright. The wind was now up to 29 - 32 knots and had clocked back to about 040 to 055 degrees relative. Earlier we'd reefed the main down by 60%. With the wind clocking back, I eased the main out and PAINKILLER simply accelerated to between 6 - 7 knots, which was as fast as I wanted to go in those conditions. The waves were now 8' - 10' with some 12'ers in there just to keep things interesting. Every once in a while we'd fall off the back of a large wave which made holding on to something imperative. Below in the salon, things were shifting around finding the lowest point for the rest of the trip.
About 0400 we fell off the back of a particularly large wave and I felt the boat shudder and felt the bow hit something, then almost simultaneously hit on the starboard side abeam of the cockpit. I told Bobby we'd hit something and then I went below to do a walk through but saw nothing. I returned on deck, as it was too bouncy below for me to remain there any length of time.
At about 0500 hours Buzz got up (he was sleeping on the port settee in the salon) and yelled that he heard a "hissing" sound. To me "hissing" on a boat means steam so I went below and looked in the engine room and saw 6+ inches of water in the engine room bilge. I went to the bilge pump and found it wasn't functioning, but it felt warm. I went to the switch panel and turned it on manually, but nothing seemed to happen. Things were starting to look grim. By the way, the hissing sound was one of four inflatable life jackets I'd purchased. When water sloshed through the hatch covers on the salon floor, water soaked one of the jackets and it inflated. If it hadn't inflated Buzz might have slept another ½ or 1 hour and we would have lost all that preparation time. Again, an amazing thing happened as I thought I'd purchased the manual model where you have to pull a ripcord for the vest to inflate!
I asked Bobby to remain on deck and ensure the boat was heading dead downwind (DDW) while Buzz and I went to the aft cabin where I searched below the bed while Buzz held up the mattress. All the through hulls appeared to be in good shape. I then went forward and opened the cabin sole hatch and water gushed out. I found the deck wash down pump was loose and one of the hoses was disconnected. Worse, there was a column of water jetting out from under the deck forward of the hatch. By this time Buzz had inserted the manual pump handle into the bilge pump and was making about 30 stroked per minute. Forward where I was, at least 20 times that amount of water was flowing in. I threw up into the hatch. I realized we were losing the boat.
I'd moved on to the boat in October, and except for business suits, dress shirts and a tuxedo that were in Virginia, all of my possessions were on the boat. The boat was my home. My home was in distress. That meant I was in distress. I wasn't having a good Sunday morning. We were approximately 120 nautical miles due North of Cartagena and the last position that I recall looking at was N12.10, W75.34.
I looked back in the engine room and the water was rising up near the top of the batteries. Both the genset and the engine were on. By this time we had furled the main and headed dead down wind, as this would give us the least rocking and rolling while we worked on the boat. In the engine room I observed water surging from around the engine on the starboard side of the boat, which lead me to believe the hull, might have been fractured below the aft head or near the refrigerator/freezer.
At this point I asked Buzz to come on deck so we could discuss our situation. We had trained for this. Every time we had a crew change I went through a safety briefing so that everyone would know where all the safety gear was and in what order we would do things. The briefing always included a discussion about the things we might like to have with us in the raft should the vessel sink. When Jane and Laura joined the boat in Panama City, Panama, they received the same briefing. Jane asked me to formalize the abandon ship list by writing it out. Bobby, Laura and I put together the list, which I printed out in large type and posted behind the companionway ladder. The list included: 406EPIRB, hand held GPS, hand held VHF radio, both flare kits, flashlights, wind up radio, wind up flashlight, binoculars, water, beef jerky, crackers, dried fruit, 1st aid kit, large hats, long sleeve shirts, sun block, passports, cash, jewelry, rigging knives. We even discussed bringing the golf-size umbrella, though we never added it to the list.
The three of us were all retired from the Federal Government. We had received a lot of training in dealing with all kinds of stressful situations, and now we were making the most out of our training. What we were doing on board came quite naturally. We'd all spent a lot of time in our careers writing operations plans, executing operations and supervising operations, so being thorough and methodical was just the way we do business. Our business had changed somewhat from being sun-soaking; rum drinking retirees, to being survivors, but the business principles remained the same.
On deck I gave Bobby and Buzz my assessment of the situation. The hull was probably pierced in at least two places, possible more, but I had not been able to find the exact location of the source of the water. I did not want the crew exhausting themselves on what I now believed to be the inevitable - the sinking of the boat. I reminded them that once the water rose 1 or 2 more inches, the hatch covers would start floating which would make the cabin sole a veritable mine field. I told them to pack their personal belongings now and prepare the abandon ship list items. Remember, it was blowing about 25 knots and the seas were 8' - 10' with some larger waves.
I went to the aft cabin and got out my yellow West Marine seabag. After throwing up, I packed one pair of shorts and put on my big canvas hat (we had already put on our Type I Offshore jackets). I forgot to pack a shirt, a long sleeve shirt, underwear, shoes, but I did get my wallet, Jane's jewelry, my passport and the boat cash. I also grabbed both boat logs, which I had vacuumed-sealed in Cartagena as the second log was filled up and I had just opened up a 3rd boat log. I also grabbed our Panama Canal Transit book, the "boat book" which contained the official document and a bunch of other boat papers, and my plastic "expando" file, which I used when clearing in and out of port. With the paperwork all piled in my seabag I then grabbed the flare gun kit, the hand held VHF radio, the hand held GPS, a flash light, a rigging knife, two Leatherman tools and a mini mag light. With all that stuff stowed in my bag I passed the bag into the cockpit. I then got out a 1-gallon jug of orange juice and a 1-gallon jug of lemon aid from the refrigerator and passed them on deck. Buzz later dumped out the orange juice and refilled the jug with water. Smart move.
By now the water was several inches above the salon floor and walking below was hazardous. Let me describe this in a little more detail. There was a large body of water inside the boat. Floating on this body of water were all the hatch covers, which are made of some type of wood composite, but each hatch is 1.5 inches thick and at least 8 inches wide and some are upwards of 4 feet long. The boat was rolling from side to side. If you were able to stand on the salon floor, you would have an excellent change of getting knocked over by the floating debris as it sloshed from side to side. Imagine a ten-pound board ramming into your knee as it was propelled by hundreds of gallons of water. Now let's analyze this: Say you were to walk below to retrieve a souvenir and you stepped into one of the hatches and broke an ankle or leg. Your chances of surviving would be greatly reduced, perceivably reduced to zero. We had all discussed these possibilities and I had directed that our number one priority was remaining uninjured to increase our chances of being rescued in one piece (as opposed to someone recovering our remains). Even my insurance man had listed the safe evacuation of the crew above attempting to save the vessel. I now realize why. It's a lot easier to write a check for a boat and contents than it is to settle the suits that would probably come along if one or all of us were to perish.
Let me give you a couple of reference points we had. First, while we were in Tenacatita a woman on a boat broke her leg, which created a medical emergency. We didn't know the boat or the woman because we were just passing through, but the incident did give us pause. Second, last year I was working on the boat in Alameda, California and I removed several of the salon sole hatch covers. Forgetting about one, I suddenly found myself at eye level with the salon table, which I had broken with my elbows during the fall. I had stepped into the bilge and I was lucky that I didn't sprain or break my ankle, or break my leg. I filed the fall into the bilge incident away in my, "let's not do that again" file.
At some point I depressed the two "distress" buttons on the Inmarsat C. The Inmarsat C is registered to Jane and I, and when the distress signal is received the following data is known: the vessel PAINKILLER is in some type of distress; the vessel is at a given latitude and longitude; and on a particular course and speed. This gives the Rescue Coordination Center a starting point along with a telephone number to call to check and see if the signal could be a mistake. After holding the buttons for 5 seconds I got the continuous audible tone and knew that we were sending out a signal. I then handed Buzz the 406 EPIRB and asked him to activate it and to tie it to the raft.
While we were organizing our gear on deck, Buzz went below and retrieved the tea pot which we always left on the gimbled stove. He filled it with water while the pressure water system was still working and he brought it up on deck along with a 16 ounce tumbler. We each drank at least one full tumbler of water, I know I drank two as I had been seasick earlier and I was worried about dehydration.
While Bobby continued to man the helm, Buzz and I continued to scan the horizon for ships and we also observed the wind increasing and the waves height rising. Though it was a beautiful sunny day, with broken clouds, for me it was rather grim.
Jane interjects: At 0645 hours the phone rang and I was awakened by a strong male voice asking to speak with Ron Landmann. As I began to come out of my sleepy morning grogginess, I replied as I have always in these situations, "he is not here", no explanation, just the facts. I really do no recall what words were exchanged in the next moments - but I remember one thing loud and clear -"This is the United States Coast Guard, Atlantic Search and Rescue. We have received a distress signal from the vessel PAINKILLER." My heart sank. But now was not the time to fall apart. Ron has talked about our training in law enforcement and how it has prepared us for dealing with and working through emergencies. My basic training kicked in and I forced myself to deal with the situation. The Coast Guard officer asked me if I could get in touch with the boat, I said I would try. I had been communicating with the boat via satellite since it left San Diego. A reliable form of communications, but not instantaneous. I said it would take about ten minutes. I lit up the computer in record time and fired off a short message - "Are you in distress?" This message was never answered.
After sending the initial message, I checked to see if I had any new messages from Ron. None. I did however, have the morning position report. I printed this immediately, signed off the computer, and called the Coast Guard. I gave the officer who had previously called me the report I had received. Then I received the next blow: The officer advised that the EPIRB, a second distress-signaling device, had been activated. To me this meant with near certainty that the crew was abandoning the boat. I told the officer that Ron would not activate the EPIRB unless something was seriously wrong with the boat. I asked for the EPIRB position reading - reply: Latitude 12.13.0N, Longitude, 75. 53.94W. The next questions from the officer: Who was on board? (Ron Landmann, Buzz Mantle, Bobby Ogorchock). What does the boat look like? (I provided a detailed description). Do they have signaling devices? (Yes). Do they have a hand held radio? (Yes). Is the VHF radio call sign WCZ5584? (Yes). The officer said he had a lot of calls to make and he would call me back.
It was 0800 hours Virginia time when I called Mark Greenfeldt at home in California. Mark had sailed with Ron from San Diego through the Panama Canal, and was very familiar with the boat and the emergency plans. It was 0500 hours Pacific Daylight Savings Time, and a very groggy voice answered the phone. I could hardly speak. Initially some type of primal cry emerged, and finally I was able to tell Mark that the Inmarsat C distress signal and the EPIRB had been activated. I asked him to confirm that the activation of the EPIRB meant that they were abandoning the boat. He confirmed that was the plan. Mark was excited, yet he was calm, he said, "Jane, everything will be all right. Ron has everything planned." He said some other reassuring things I do not remember; I only know that he gave me strength and hope. For this I will be forever grateful.
At about 0815 hours, I contacted the Coast Guard and provided told them that the activation of the EPIRB meant that they most likely had or were abandoning ship, and that in addition to searching for a 45-foot sailboat, they should be looking for a rigid hull inflatable. By this time Atlantic Search and Rescue had passed the emergency off to the Key West Florida Unit. A female, I believe her name was Serene said, "We are now working on this.
I had invited Laura Murphy and her daughter Kristin over for Sunday breakfast at 10:00 am. As you will recall, Laura was on the boat through the Panama Canal, and sailed with Ron and Bobby from Colon to Cartagena. I called Laura at 9 am and again found I could not utter a sound. It was almost as if I did not voice out loud what was going on, then it wasn't really happening. Laura asked, "What's wrong?" When I told her she said, "we'll be right over." Laura and Kristin were with me all day. We lived the reality of this day together. Fear, hope, despair, anguish, and finally, joy.
I called Ron's daughter Heather and told her of the situation. Being the daughter of a law enforcement officer, she is used to being concerned for her father's safety, but no one is ever prepared for this. I remained calm through this call, but we both knew what was really on the line. Heather and I talked about this after the rescue - we both knew nothing would drive her Dad off the boat except the direst circumstances.
I also contacted Ron's sisters and asked them to pray for the safety of the PAINKILLER crew. Both Rita and Ruth cast their personal prayer networks into immediate action - Never underestimate the power of prayer! Laura and I also contacted Bobby's son, and house-sitter/friend Dave, and made many attempts to contact Buzz's son and girlfriend. We would have liked to call more family and friends but we needed to keep the phone line open as much as possible, and I was still hoping to receive an e-mail from the boat.
About 0945 hours the Coast Guard advised that they had diverted a C-130 aircraft to the EPIRB's reported position, and were sending a commercial vessel to this location. We had initially hoped that the C-130 would arrive quickly, but we were advised that the diverted aircraft had to go back to get fuel, and a second C-130 was being sent. Despair, I knew time was of the essence, minutes mattered. At this point I was calling the Coast Guard at 30-minute intervals. I wanted to call more often, but I didn't want to interfere and take them away from the mission by calling every 5 minutes. This was tough, but the right thing to do. Laura and I initially estimated that the commercial vessel would arrive at about 1130 hours Eastern Daylight Savings Time. I called back at 1130 hours and was advised that they were still waiting for the vessel and aircraft to get back to them. At 1230 hours I was advised that the aircraft would be on the scene in about 10 minutes and that a second vessel, that was closer, would be there shortly. I stopped keeping time on my log, but the next report we heard was that the C-130 had spotted 3 men in a dinghy - it was the most joyous moment of my life!
Ron continues: One of the last trips I made below was to retrieve Bobby's glasses from the forward cabin. I walked on the settees, and stood on bed in the forward cabin. I retrieved four pairs of glasses he had hanging on a reading light above the V-berth. Not wanting to go back out through the floating debris, I climbed out the forward hatch.
By 0545 hours, we were through going below to retrieve items. The salon and other cabins were awash with debris and it was just too dangerous to venture below.
It was about that same time that the electronics and engines started dying. Up until that time, we were still using the Autohelm 7000 autopilot to keep us dead downwind with the engine running at 1000 rpms. Looking at the instrument pod above the wheel, one of the first instruments to stop was the depth sounder. Then the windpoint/windspeed; then the autopilot at which time Bobby started steering. The knot meter and the Garmin GPS died. The Genset and the main engine quietly shut down a few minutes later. Suddenly with the boat silent, we were alone with the sound of the wind in the rigging and the whoosh of whitecaps collapsing around us.
At 0620 hours we saw a Northeast bound ship a half mile to the North of us. I attempted contacting it on the VHF radio and by firing a couple of skyrockets. No response. About 0700 hours Bobby and I unfurled the Genoa. My goal here was to increase our visibility and to help keep the bow facing downwind. The boat was starting to steer like a beast and Bobby was going from full left rudder to full right rudder just to keep us headed downwind. Going abeam to the waves would increase the amount of water splashing on board and our goal was to prolong the amount of time PAINKILLER would stay afloat. Suddenly the 8,000 pounds of lead in the keel became the enemy instead of our up righting friend. Bobby drove the boat until 0800 when it sank. He was the last helmsman on board.
Buzz and I spent a lot of time preparing the raft to ensure there were no mistakes, no tangled lines, in preparation for our eventual departure. I grabbed the filet knife we had attached to the radar arch and carefully cut away the seat from the raft, then cut away the gas can for the outboard motor as there was no way we were going to use the outboard motor. Handling a knife near an inflatable boat that was going to be my home made me a bit nervous. We still fully believed we had an opportunity to be rescued before the boat sank as we were near the shipping lanes for the Panama Canal, but....
I thought about going below to retrieve the umbrella, but when I looked at the quagmire, I quickly gave up on that idea. Too dangerous. By now everything that could float below was doing just that: cushions, a bag of Kona coffee, a thermos bottle, sponges, bottles, papers, chart books, hatches, anything that was sealed and had a little air in it.
About 0745 hours Buzz and I launched the raft and I hand-tended the painter. Buzz helped me attach my 9'8" yellow Velzy surfboard leash to the painter. Mark and I had talked about putting the surfboards in the water with us if we had to abandon ship, so I thought it was the smart thing to do. After about 3 minutes a wave flipped the surfboard over and it started bumping into the raft fin first. The idea that the raft could be popped by my own surfboard made me nervous, so a few minutes later Buzz helped me untie the surfboard leash from the painter and we let it float away. I have a mental picture of my yellow board washing up on a beach in the San Blas chain where some Kuna Indian picks it up, takes it to his hut and the board becomes a ceremonial dinner table. Something akin to "the gods must be crazy".
A few minutes before 8 am I told Buzz to get in the raft, as I believed we had about 3 minutes left on board PAINKILLER. Seconds later Bobby said, "the water is in the cockpit, it's time to go", and he rushed back from the cockpit towards the transom. His foot got tangled in the painter. Simultaneous to his statement, the bow-down angle of the boat increased from about 30 degrees to about 60 degrees and it was still increasing rapidly. Also, the sound of ports popping and air escaping from the transom increased as the water in the aft cabin started compressing. I tried to get the loop of line off of Bobby's ankle as the boat was approaching a 90-degree angle and started diving underwater. I started yelling, "jump!, jump!, jump!" as I couldn't leave the boat until he did, and I was highly motivated to leave before it went under. I'd seen the movie "Titanic" and knew what kind of bad things were about to happen. In actuality, I was concerned about getting my life jacket caught on the radar arch as the boat went down and getting dragged under with it. Anyway, just before the transom went under, Bobby and I jumped clear of the boat. When we surfaced, neither of us had our big floppy hats. The hats were a big loss. When I looked around and swam towards the raft, a bottle floated by. I grabbed it and looked at the label, inflatable boat cleaner! Couldn't have been something useful could it.
Buzz helped Bobby first, then me, into the raft. We worked our way to the bottom of the raft and piled our possessions on top of us. Our chances of surviving had been reduced by 35' - from a 45' boat to a 10' raft! About 20 minutes into our new home a wave flipped us over. We couldn't right the raft until Buzz swam around to the opposite side and pushed up while Bobby and I pulled it over. We lost a few of our possessions such as the binoculars and a few food items. We retained the two water jugs, the EPIRB and our bags. We knew that we wouldn't be able to handle going over more than a couple of more times before we'd be too tired to get back into the raft. Buzz sacrificed his backpack by tying it onto the painter in an effort to weathercock the raft into the waves. It worked well for 30 minutes until the line went slack when the knot failed.
At 1020 Buzz yelled that there was a ship heading right towards us. The dark green-hulled tanker was northeast bound and was approaching us from the Southwest. It passed about 1/4 mile South of us. I fired a total of five flares; attempted to reach them on the VHF radio; we waved a large orange distress signal placard; used two signal mirrors to attempt to get someone's attention on the bridge; and, I blew a whistle. All to no avail. The ship passed us quickly. I couldn't make out the full name of the ship but it started with an "L". I thought the ship was our best chance of getting rescued before things got worse.
Just when you think things can't get much worse... The waves and wind were building. 15' waves were common. Waves were breaking all around us and mathematically it was just a matter of time before we took another direct hit. Buzz got out the oars and got up on his knees to row while Bobby told him which direction to pull. "Pull left, more left, left, left, left. That's good, now pull right once. Okay." I knew Buzz couldn't keep it up too long, as it was a lot of work. I took out the hand held GPS and read that our course was 255 degrees and our speed over the ground varied between 1 and 1.2 knots. Estimating we were 200 miles from Panama, I guesstimated it would take us 180 hours (7 days) to drift that far. We had sufficient water for about 2 days, but we knew that we probably wouldn't be able to make it through the night unless the weather abated. The reason I didn't think we'd be able to make it through the night was, in daylight we were fighting to keep the raft into the wind to present the best angle to on coming waves, at night we simply wouldn't be able to see the frothing white water coming.
I noted training before. Let me mention this: At no time from 0500 hours till we stepped on the steel deck of the ship did anyone act or say anything negative about our ability to survive. We may have thought it individually, but we never articulated our thoughts. We just went about the business of increasing our chances of surviving by doing whatever we were able to do. One of the things we had to do was bail. Bobby and Buzz drank 8-ounce boxes of fruit juice to get something to bail with. We eventually found the large sponge, which was in the raft, and I used that to bail with. We were sitting in 3 or 4 inches of water most of the time, so the process remained constant. Since bodies operate at about 98 degrees, and the water temp was 83 degrees and we were both soaked and sitting in water, we were slowly losing body heat. I looked at Bobby a couple of times and saw him shivering. And this was during the middle of the day. What would the night bring?
Since we lost our hats, Buzz gave Bobby a towel from his backpack and Bobby wrapped it around his head. I held my life jacket over my head as much as I could. We paid for not having hats on later. We were only in the water for five hours. One full day would have been brutal; 2 days would have been pretty ugly.
About 1140 I thought I heard aircraft noise and Buzz suggested that I just start signaling in the direction of the noise with the mirror. After about a minute the noise faded. About 1150 I again heard aircraft noise and this time I looked to the North to see a white aircraft turning towards the South on a course that would have them pass about 1/8 of a mile West of us. I said, "it's the fucking United States Coast Guard." Used this way, the "F" word is a term of endearment. As they passed us I retrieved the hand held VHF radio from my seabag and called to them on channel 16. They responded, "PAINKILLER, this is the United States Coast Guard." I hadn't used the name PAINKILLER, so I knew they were looking for us. I told them that they had passed us and to turn around. They asked which direction and I responded left. I told them to keep turning until they were lined up on us and then I fired a signal flare. They came back and said they had us in sight. They flew over and launched a smoke flare that landed about 20 yards away. I was overwhelmed by emotion. It was the most beautiful sight I'd seen. They identified themselves as Coast Guard 1717, which was the aircraft number painted on the side. I later learned the person I was speaking with was the co-pilot Jim Duval. The voice was calm, smooth and reassuring. On May 18, 2000, I went to Clearwater, Florida and met with the crewmembers from 1717 and a number of other flight crews as well. I'll describe that experience a little later.
They asked how many crewmembers we had and if we were all right medically. They then asked if we wanted them to drop a larger raft and I responded by asking how long they thought it would be before we were picked up. They said they'd get back to us then called the LIEPAYA on channel 16. We could hear both sides of the conversation so I knew the ETA of LIEPAYA was about 45 minutes. As a crew we discussed whether we wanted them to drop a raft or not, and we all felt we were better off where we were which was a know entity. If they dropped a raft we might have to swim 50 or 100 yards and in those conditions, we don't know if we would have been able to make it that far. I told 1717 that we would stay in our raft as long as they were going to stay in the area. 1717 said they would remain in the area until we were on a hard steel deck. Bless you 1717! 1717 then asked our hailing port and destination. I told them San Francisco originally bound for Washington, D.C., but now destined for Brunswick, Georgia. Within a few seconds 1717 responded, "there are commercial aircraft that fly from coast to coast." When he hit us with the humor I knew we were going to be okay. 1717 then asked us if they could make phone calls for us whenever they landed. I passed Jane's name and number and then we passed Buzz's girlfriend's name and number and then Bobby's girlfriend's name and number in Hawaii. Jane later told me that Jim Duval called her from Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. What a class act!
Jane interjects: About an hour after I spoke to Ron on a ship to shore phone, LT. Duval called me from Guantanamo to tell me that my husband and the PAINKILLER crew had been rescued. I thanked him profusely for saving my husband and friends. Lt. Duval said, "We were just doing our job." I replied, "thank you for doing your job!" Lt. Duval said, "your husband had everything he needed to be rescued; Inmarsat C, EPIRB, and a raft that worked." Every time I have thanked the individuals that worked the rescue that day, they have all replied, "we were just doing our job." One of the land based Coast Guard Officers, I believe he was from Key West, "We are so glad to be calling you with good news." We both knew that the outcome could have been quite different.
To the men and women of the US Coast Guard, Thank You from the bottom of my heart for doing your job so well. To my husband, thank you for all the careful preparation and hard work that went into setting up the boat so that you could be rescued. To Bobby, Buzz and Ron, thank you for the courage you displayed and your will to survive.
Ron continues: Meanwhile, back on the water, Buzz kept rowing, Bobby kept giving directions and I kept bailing. We still had to keep afloat and upright until rescued. As the ship approached, the Captain of LIEPAYA asked the Coast Guard if we had the capability of propelling ourselves towards their ship as the Captain thought it might be too rough to launch his motor lifeboat! We responded that we couldn't propel ourselves as we were having a tough time just remaining in place. The Captain of LIEPAYA turned his ship abeam of the waves and drifted within 75 yards of us. The lee of his ship reduced the wave size down to a manageable 5' - 8'. The LIEPAYA is a beautiful 800-foot ship painted dark green and carrying a cargo of gasoline. They launched the motor lifeboat, which is one of those enclosed orange "all weather" vessels you see on most ships nowadays. The operator has a little house on one end of the boat that gives him pretty good visibility. We heard the crew yelling back and forth in what we assumed correctly to be Russian. They got the lifeboat within 10 feet of us, tossed a line with a monkey's fist and missed us! Next they bumped into us and I grabbed on using about 15,000 pounds of pressure to hold on. Wherever the orange lifeboat was going, so was my left hand!
We walked the raft aft back along the motor lifeboat to get to one of the open hatches while the six or eight Russians on board continued to yell at each other. Bobby and Buzz got in the lifeboat, then I passed up our bags, then I got in to the boat and was shown were to sit down. We were each given a liter of sparkling water, which was a much-appreciated gift. It took about twenty minutes of maneuvering to get us alongside the LIEPAYA. A Jacob's ladder appeared and I was directed to climb up. I was greeted on deck by three or four more Russians one of whom spoke English and said "Welcome, welcome aboard." We later learned he was the Second Officer, Yuri Spodarenko. Yuri became the guy we'd go to when we had a question. Buzz was next up the ladder, followed by Bobby. Once the three of us were on deck they motioned us towards the house. As we were walking back towards the house, 1717 flew by and in a few seconds they were out of sight. We were told the ship was bound for Puerto Rico and would arrive Tuesday afternoon about 1700 hours. I've never had a better Sunday afternoon!
We were taken up to the fifth deck where they said they had two cabins for us. One two-person and one one-person. I needed a little solitude and headed towards the one-man room. I asked about our bags and was told not to worry, that once they recovered the motor lifeboat, the bags would be delivered to our cabins. I was a bit concerned because my bag contained $2,500 in cash, Jane's jewelry, my passport and my wardrobe, which consisted of my shorts. I showered using the bar soap that was in the head and rinsed out my jacket and swimsuit and life jacket. Wrapped in a towel, I visited Bobby and Buzz who were likewise getting the first layers of salt off. The Captain came into the room, introduced himself and asked me to prepare a crew list for transmission to the Coast Guard in Miami, Florida. About the same time we were invited to have lunch (it was 1500 hours and they correctly thought that we might not have eaten). Buzz wasn't feeling too well with an attack of Tourista, so Bobby and I ventured to the Officer's Wardroom alone for a bowl of soup, potato bread and cool aid followed by a main course of cheese/chicken dish, vegetables and potatoes. The food was very hearty on the ship. One morning breakfast consisted of green beans and sausages, potato bread and coffee. Add that to your breakfast menu!
Just as I started eating the soup an officer informed me that Coast Guard Miami wanted to speak with me. I went up to the bridge and they handed me a satellite telephone. I spoke with a charming young lady from some type of rescue coordination center (I'm sorry, but I don't remember the name). Her name and temperament were Serene. She asked me questions about what happened and informed me she would patch me through to Jane when she was finished with the questions. The oddest question was, "do you intend on going back and getting the boat?" I explained that no, I had no intention of going back there, and besides I believed the water was very deep there. (I remember from the chart that the water in our neighborhood was about 2,500 meters deep. Later, Yuri informed me that in fact it was about 3,500 meters deep. While transiting down the Mexican coast I'd tell the crew where we were and how deep the water was. Mark Greenfeldt pointed out that you could drown in a cup of water and that became our benchmark for caring about water depth. Anything over a cupful could be hazardous to our health). Anyway, after Serene was finished with a short list of questions she patched me through to Jane. Jane asked if Laura could get on the phone, which was quite all right with me. Jane and Laura asked some questions, which was the first time I had to articulate some of the details like Bobby and I having to jump off the transom to get clear of the boat, and I almost lost it. It was one thing to live it, it was quite another to have to explain it. Anyway, Jane explained what they'd been doing all day and how many people had offered their prayers. I told her all the prayers had worked. I then told her to chill a bottle of champagne and for the two of them to drink it. They did. I had a photograph of the sailboat "Exporter" in my office, which was adorned with the inscription, "Drink champagne in times of defeat as well as victory. It tastes the same and you need it more."
There was nothing to read in English on the ship so we had a lot of time to do nothing but reflect on what had happened. But the LIEPAYA crew was terrific and provided us with walking shorts, blue jeans and souvenir tee shirts from San Francisco! They also provided toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo and soap. On Tuesday they provided us a razor to share. We passed the time by talking about the incident and how lucky we were and by how well prepared we were to handle the situation. I asked Bobby and Buzz to write out statements for the Coast Guard and my insurance company. We used the backs of copies of our passport photo page and crew list from the canal crossing as paper was also somewhat scarce on the ship. We then located a computer in the ships' conference room with Windows 98. I asked permission to use the computer to type up our statements. Permission was granted and they even gave me a floppy disc to store the data on.
During the transit to Ponce, Puerto Rico, Buzz, Bobby and I spent a lot of time on the bridge of LIEPAYA. Looking down 80 feet at the water and looking at the horizon some 16 miles distant, it isn't too difficult to miss something small on the water. We also observed that usually, there was only one officer on the bridge at a time, and he would sometimes have to answer a phone, make log entries, or plot a position, so in actuality, there was no one looking outside most of the time. One other thing, the bridge wing doors were closed most of the time as the bridge is an air-conditioned space so there's no way they were going to hear my whistle. Also, Yuri told me that they had seen a number of logs in the area where they started searching for us. To me this confirmed my belief that we hit a tree versus a container or something else.
Bobby and I were sunburned on our faces and heads even though we had pretty good tans from sailing in the tropics for 3 months. We started peeling 4 days after being rescued.
It was probably good that we had a few days to decompress. We talked a lot about what happened, about deferred gratification (dg is no longer on our list of ways to live), and about what we are going to do next. First on my list was doing something for the LIEPAYA crew. The Captain didn't want us to do anything for them, but I insisted and he relented by allowing me to do a little something. They had been at sea for over 30 days and were out of beer and wine. The company's alcohol program allows them to drink beer, but not beer with very high alcohol content, and "dry wine" which to them means wine with an alcohol content not more than 14%. Jane brought 10 cases of Budweiser and two cases of wine and several bags of toiletries to replenish their ships store. We also gave the Captain and certain officer's gifts of Leatherman tools and whatever else we had. Yuri gave me a Russian Naval Officer's belt and belt buckle as a gift. All the officers on board are reservists in the Russian Navy.
Jane took off for Puerto Rico on Monday so our point of contact was Laura. I called Laura several times on Monday and she gave me Jane's number in San Juan so I could call her direct. Things got a little weird when it came to getting us off the boat, but Buzz, Bobby and I have a new perspective on things and we didn't let anything bother us. On Tuesday evening LIEPAYA dropped the hook about 2 miles off of Ponce, Puerto Rico. Buzz, Bobby and I were standing on the bridge wing of the ship looking at the lights as dusk fell and we started discussing various ways of getting ashore. We could swim - probably not as the "man in the gray suit" was probably nearby. We could ask the Captain to launch the Zodiac and row in, but Buzz said no way (with a little more color added). Then we decided we could simply stay on board for another 18 hours, as we really didn't have anything to do but prepare for the rest of our lives.
On Wednesday morning the Captain informed me we would leave for the port and pick up the pilot about 1030 hours and be along pierside about 1300 hours. I called Jane at the hotel and she said she'd learned the same thing from the ships agent. I then gave her my shopping list, which I mentioned before (beer, wine, toiletries), and she said she'd see us as close to 1300 hours as possible.
Bobby, Buzz and I stayed on the bridge wing and watched most of the maneuvering to get into the port and put the vessel alongside the pier. It was fascinating to watch. As we were coming alongside I saw the Immigration and Customs Inspectors arrive. It took quite a while for the ship to get tied up and the prow to be lashed in place, but eventually all the personnel we were waiting for came on board.
The inspectors were taken to the conference room and Buzz went down there to see if they wanted to see us. He came back and said they weren't ready for us, but we would be called when they were ready. About 20 minutes later one of the ships officers told us they were ready for us. The Immigration inspector took our passports and chopped us into the country. Welcome back to the United States! After that I went up to the bridge and saw Jane walking towards the prow. I got her attention and Bobby went down to the main deck to escort her up. Once up on the bridge we showed her our cabins, introduced her to the Captain and some of the other officer's and made preparations for our departure. The crew of LIEPAYA were great hosts and they occupy a special place in our hearts.
If you caught it, I never had the heart to tell the Captain how close he'd been to us.
We whooped it up pretty well that night in San Juan. We had a great dinner at Ruth's Chris steak house with a glass or two too many of California's finest. The next morning Buzz flew out early and then later about 0730 I took Bobby to the airport. Jane and I flew out about noon and got to Reagan National Airport about 8 PM where Kristin and Laura were waiting for us. A box of Popeye's fried chicken and two bottles of Schramsberg Champagne later and I had Laura filled in on most of the story.
So as you can see, there's no need to write a book about our little adventure. Our planning and preparation paid off at the time we needed it, and because of the skill and dedication of the United States Coast Guard, and in particular the crew of C-130 1717, and of course, the good ship LIEPAYA.
On Monday, May 1, 2000, the Second Officer told me, "Yesterday was your second birthday." That hit me like I'd been run over by a truck. Later the same day the Captain informed me that Sunday, April 30, 2000 was the Russian Orthodox Easter. The Russian Orthodox Easter is now on my list of holidays to celebrate.
A few weeks later, on Thursday, May 18, 2000, I had the opportunity to meet with the Coast Guard crew that located my crew and me on Sunday, April 30, 2000, 120 nautical miles North of Cartagena, Colombia.
After being rescued and arriving in Puerto Rico aboard the LIEPAYA, I called United States Coast Guard Captain Ben Thomason, the Commanding Officer of the Air Station in Clearwater, Florida. After explaining who I was, Captain Thomason invited me to come to Clearwater, Florida and meet with the C-130 aircrew. I explained the purpose of my call was to find out if I could come by and meet with them, so his invitation pre-empted the reason for my call.
Once I reached "home" in Alexandria, Virginia, I started e-mailing Captain Thomason and we worked out the date of May 18th. I put home in quotations because the boat was really my home for the past 8 months; Virginia was simply where some of my stuff was located. I had lost my home and most of my personal property and I was starting to feel the effects of the loss. Perhaps meeting the gentlemen who orchestrated my rescue would help me start putting this episode in the past. But for right now, I still had some unfinished business to deal with.
In Clearwater, the guard at the gate took my driver's license, logged me in and said Captain Thomason was expecting me. I waited for Captain Thomason in his office, and took in all the pictures, plaques and models he had on display. When he walked in to his office he introduced himself and explained he had all of the available C-130 aircrews assembled in a room adjacent to the aircraft hanger. I explained I had a few things in my sea bag for the crew of "1717", the aircraft that located us, and he responded that they had something for me. Captain Thomason had a golf cart take us over to the hanger.
When we entered the room the Captain received his due salute and returned it. He introduced me and said I had the floor. Dressed in a business suit, I introduced myself again and explained that I had worked for the United States Customs Service for over twenty years and during that time; I had the opportunity to work closely with the Coast Guard. I further explained that for the four years prior to my retirement I was the U.S. Customs Service's liaison to the Joint Interagency Task Force West in Alameda, California. I added that I had had the pleasure of working for Rear Admiral David S. Belz for the eighteen months prior to my retirement.
At that point I looked at Captain Thomason and said, "I don't think the crew from 1717 recognizes me dressed this way, but I can remedy that." With that said, I took off my suit coat, my tie, started unbuttoning my shirt, and untied my shoes, and started loosening my belt and unbuttoning my pants. The catcalls started from the audience. Within a minute I was standing there in nothing but a red swimsuit. I opened my sea bag and put on my black St. Francis Yacht Club jacket, a signal mirror on a necklace, two whistles on necklaces and an orange Type 1 offshore horse collar. As I added each item, the cheers and clapping increased. Standing there in front of the C-130 crews I asked, "now do I look a little more familiar?" then as an afterthought, I reached in my sea bag and pulled out a liter bottle of water and poured some over my head. Then I sat on the concrete floor, but my sea bag on my lap, held up the hand held VHF radio, looked up and waved at the ceiling. I asked, "do you recognize me now?" and the crowd responded with more laughter, clapping and catcalls. I now appeared almost exactly as I had on the morning of April 30th. With that done, I stood and started telling them the story of Painkiller's departure from San Francisco and the trip right through the end.
Several parts were difficult for me to articulate: I explained that while sitting in the raft, I thought about my daughter who would be getting married in 54 weeks, and how I wasn't going to miss walking her down the isle. I told them how my wife and I had just celebrated our 20th anniversary in Panama City and how I thought I was good for at least another twenty years.
I told them about seeing the Coast Guard aircraft turn towards us and how they responded to my radio call with, "PAINKILLER, this is the United States Coast Guard" and how elated the three of us were in the raft when we heard that. I explained how the aircraft passed us and how I directed them to keep turning back to the left until they were lined up with us and I fired a flare and they said, "PAINKILLER, we have you in sight" and how powerful that phrase was to us sitting in the raft. The worst one for me was telling them how we in the raft felt when they told us they wouldn't leave us until we were on a hard steel deck. I almost couldn't get that one out of my throat.
I had a stack of PAINKILLER T-shirts piled on a table. I asked that each of the crewmembers from 1717 take one and wear it sometime in their off-duty hours. I explained my hope was somebody would ask them about the T-shirt and they could explain how on April 30, 2000, they were responsible for the rescue of the crew of PAINKILLER from certain death.
Next I presented Captain Thomason with a plaque and asked him to read it. I also expressed our desire to have the plaque mounted on the aircraft, if regulations permitted. Captain Thomason said he would find an appropriate place to mount the plaque and then he read the inscription:
"To the men and women of the United States Coast Guard who make their living going into harms way.
"Specifically, we wish to recognize the crew of Coast Guard C-130 1717 who, on Sunday, April 30, 2000, located the crew of the S/ V "PANIKILLER" which sank at approximately N12*10, W75*34.
"The crew of 1717 consisted of: Lt Skip Deacon, Aircraft Commander; Lt Jim Duval, Co-pilot; AMT2 Dann Maggs, Flight Engineer; AVT1 Mike Davis, Navigator; AVTC Mike Callahan, Radio Operator; AVT1 J.J. Thomas, Loadmaster; AMT2 Coby Cox, Dropmaster; AVT3 Mike Brewer, Aircrew.
"The three souls they saved were: Ron Landmann, owner/captain, San Francisco, California; Buzz Mantle, Sonoma, California; Bobby Ogorchock, Kaneohe, Hawaii.
"Presented by Ron Landmann May 18, 2000"
Next, I presented Captain Thomason with a cashier's check for $1,000 made out to "MWR". MWR stands for Morale, Welfare and Recreation fund, a fund designed to be used to do special things for the men and women of the command without using government funding. I asked that they use the money to throw a party and to drink a toast to themselves. Captain Thomason said they would do exactly that - have a big party.
Captain Thomason then presented me with an air station ball cap and a certificate stating I am an "official survivor". The certificate included a photo of a C-130 in the upper left hand corner and a photo of the Bobby, Buzz and me in the raft taken from the aircraft.
With that the assembly was dismissed and I had the opportunity to meet all of the members of the flight crew. I thanked them profusely for their efforts. To a man they all replied that we had made it easy for them to rescue us, as we were well prepared. Lt Deacon said, "You were a textbook rescue for us. You had all the right equipment and you knew how to use it." Lt Duval said, "We were amazed at how calm you were. A couple of times you said 'stand by, we've got some waves we have to deal with' like you were telling someone you have a call on another line you have to check on." I explained I wasn't calm, I just sounded that way.
Lt Duval and Lt Deacon then explained after they sighted us and dropped the smoke grenade and flew off to circle back, they sometimes couldn't reacquire us. They said that by talking to us on the radio they were able to reacquire us. I thanked them for not letting us know that they couldn't find us on each pass.
Afterwards I was given a tour of a C-130 and was shown the gear they used to zero in on our signal. I was amazed to see how small the screen is on the direction finding device. I was hoping to see something large, brightly colored and extremely high tech. It wasn't. The tour was followed by lunch with Captain Thomason and most of the crew, and then it was time to go. I left the base feeling both tired and elated.
We will start looking for a new boat in the near future. Ron Landmann