Now, to straighten up below deck. I go below and turn on the navigation lights, and then I strip the bedding, bringing some of it up on deck to fold so I can continue keeping a proper watch. I clamber onto the starboard stern quarterdeck and fold the pillowcases and top sheet. Again I slide below and pick up the bottom sheet, quickly reassuming the position on the starboard quarter.
In order to secure my footing on the aft deck, I take a stance facing sternward. With my legs astride, I place my left foot on the deck and my right foot slightly raised by the starboard jib winch. I let the sheet flap in the wind. I chuckle at the billowing sight while I brace my left knee against the starboard lifeline. Lines secured to keep sailors on board.
Suddenly, without warning, the lifeline comes loose and flies aft. At first I don’t know what has happened. The sudden loss of my bracing line causes my knees to buckle, and as I struggle to keep my balance, my mind races while I try to comprehend the cause . . . did the line break? Has the pelican clasp failed?
Slowly, as I fight gravity, I begin to lean to the left out toward the water. It is a slow, agonizing several seconds as I feel my body twisting left. I let go of the sheet and reach with my right hand to grab hold of something, anything, to regain my balance. The inertia is too great. I continue this sickening, contorting twist and slowly, ever so slowly, I rotate backwards and fall into the frigid waters of the Strait of Georgia.
A pang of terrifying anxiety surges through my body as I anticipate the fall. It is instantly replaced by the grip of the icy reality into which I have plunged. Down I descend into a cold, green, ethereal world of bubbling terror. Ice cold water instantly soaks through my warm, comfortable clothes. I rush to the surface screaming at the top of my lungs, “NNNOOOOOOO!” Instantly I kick off my rubber yachting boots and tear off my polar fleece jacket, both of which are causing me to sink like a stone.
In a mad sense of desperation, I start to swim toward EspŽrance. Recognizing quickly the futility of chasing a boat travelling over six knots, I watch as EspŽrance, the boat that had given me so much pleasure, my personal sanctuary, motors unknowingly away toward the horizon.
I am dumbfounded. This isn’t real . . . It can’t be! Again I scream “NOOOOOOO!” I stare at the stern of EspŽrance, her name lit up with the navigation lights I had just turned on. EspŽrance . . . French for “hope.” I watch my hope motor off into the night.
“Forget the boat,” I yell. And with my mind racing, I instantly begin to take stock of my situation. In a sense of gross disappointment and some anger, I look toward Point Roberts. She’s at least seven miles away. I think, No way. I will never be able to swim there. I spin around in the water and face Mayne Island . . . approximately five miles away, and my heart freezes. What I see, I don’t want to register in my mind. No way. I will never be able to swim there either . . . LORD!
I don’t know why I think of it or how I recall the fact that my cell phone is in my pocket, but in a one-in-a-million chance that the telephone is still working I yank it out of my pocket only to see a blank screen. Dead . . . just like I am going to be in a few hours.