Below is a short story written by Magnus Spencer Johnson, a few days after the shipwreck. It is a first draft, written to calm the jangled nerves and to keep a historic record of the event before the memories became distorted with time. I hope you enjoy the trip.
Venus set sail from Bermuda during late afternoon of Saturday, November 25th from the harbor of Saint Georges. My wife, Konswan and myself were embarking on a long overdue adventure, as well as personal challenge. This was the first experience I had as both Captain and Navigator, typically filling the role of crew in my previous ocean crossings. Konswan had never sailed and put her trust in me and faith in God as the land disappeared over the horizon. Strong north westerly winds carried us easterly with little effort. I setup the self-steering gear and breathed a sigh of contentment as the culmination of hard work, planning and a sense of adventure resulted in a picturesque panorama with the two of us in the center.
Built in 1968, our wooden home was a veteran ocean cruiser, knowing the Atlantic far better than either of us. During the previous three months in Bermuda we took time to inspect and repair Venus, taking her to sea on several occasions to ensure that her age had not withered her ability to tackle an ocean crossing. She was in superb condition, although not leaving the protected coastal waters of Bermuda for over twenty years. She was a piece of Bermuda history, recognized by many for her legendary feats, and mysterious reputation. We accepted the accolade of serious seamen with a shrug, not wanting to reveal a woman’s mystique through invasive questioning.
My father was sailing within visual range aboard his 42 foot ketch Cherub. Using the VHF for communication allowed us to stay in contact while under sail. Navigation lights were left on during the nights to allow the two boats to remain a safe distance of one another. Looking through our rigging, we could watch as Cherub sliced effortlessly through the waves. Dad manipulated her urge to surge ahead of us as a jockey gently pulling on a thoroughbreds bit. I’d be a liar to deny that I was envious of both his skill and craft.
As the moon rose on the first night a thunderstorm brought heavy winds that forced our small vessels starboard gunnels beneath the waves. Venus handled the wind well, but we had been advised to take this first trip very easy on the 40 year old wooden boat. My desire for speed was tempered by the reality of taking on water and causing long-term damage to the boat. As the waves lapped against our portholes and washed across our cockpit I decided we had best drop our topsail. That night as I battled the thrashing sail and accompanying yard I joined the centuries old fraternity that had recruited me, I was a sailor.
During our first 48 hours Konnie had been sea sick, but gained sea legs soon after. Luckily I did not suffer those first days; however the dousing of the rainstorm had resulted in a slight chill and shakes. A wave caught me off balance while trimming the mainsail, resulting in a large gouge of my inner leg. Not detrimental, but demoralizing when combined with stress and lack of sleep. That night I got some much needed sleep, as Konnie took over watch duty.
The third morning dawned with several challenges. Our VHF was receiving messages from Cherub, but was only intermittently transmitting. They had lost sight of us in the night and could not locate us. We knew she was within 10 miles of us, but after several failed attempts and rendezvousing we gave up on contact for the remainder of the trip. Konswan attempted to make lunch for us, but our brand new can-opener sheared in two; luckily we had bought a second backup for just such an emergency. However, the gears on this opener failed within minutes. What are the odds? We also noticed the bilge had a few inches of water collected. This was expected as the boat eased into the ocean crossing and drank gallons of sea water over her bow and deck in the Atlantic swells.
During the afternoon I felt feverish and began vomiting regularly, but luckily this coincided with Konnie feeling much better. I went below to rest while she took over the ships duties. While Konnie took watch duty on deck I slept below and recuperated…until the bilge water washed over my bunk. We were on the 60 degree longitude just ready to head southerly towards our destination of St Martin. Checking our chart showed that we were 900 nautical miles (1000 statute miles) from the nearest land in any direction, we had no choice but to remain on course. The winds and ocean swells prevented a return to Bermuda. Taking turns manning the bilge pump, allowed us to drop the water level to ankle depth over the course of several hours. I proceeded to pull up the floor boards and seek the source of the sea water. I suppose the pressure of the floor boards was keeping the water in check to some degree, or perhaps it was coincidental that upon removal the water level began rising at an increased tempo.
The lack of food and sleep made every task monumental. Migraine headaches setup camp in my brain at this point and made themselves at home there. Light sensitivity and motion sickness made my vision blurred and hands shake while trying to work on the bilge. I managed to remove segments of the lead ballast, determined to find the root of the water flow. During this time the bilge pump could not remove water as quickly as it came in. I had to decide whether to allow the water to rise while I searched for the hole, or to stop repairs and help bail with a 5 gallon bucket. I knew if we took on too much water the boat would become unstable, and also that the movement of 200 gallons of water inside the boat made the likelihood of finding the leak very low.
We spent the following day bailing the boat to ankle level until we were physically exhausted and had to rest our bodies and eyes. When we woke up the water was at knee level again and splashing over the bunks. Every 25 gallons of water we removed allowed us a 15 minute break, if we pushed ourselves harder we could empty 100 gallons and have a real nap. Then the water would wake us up when it reached the bunk level again and we began all over. Maintaining this pace allowed us to continue sailing for another two days, slowly making progress towards land. Through experimenting with the tiller and wind direction, I found that the water flow slowed the less we were heeled over. With this information we decided to head as downwind as possible, putting us on course for Puerto Rico. The result was that the water level didn’t rise as fast, but continued to rise; it also meant that Venus would no longer self steer, so I had to maintain a constant position at the tiller.
Delirium became a friendly companion, creating amusing monologues from the waves lapping against the hull. On several occasions, the VHF crackled with a distorted voice, but upon closer inspection we realized the radio was turned off and the voices were not of this reality. Both of us heard whispers from the creaking planks and continually responded to heard questions from one another, although neither of us had spoken. Our wooden palace transformed into a coffin of wood and nails. Recurring images of an Amazonian tribe placing a missionary into a wooden coffin and setting him adrift on a river destined for a waterfall played in my mind. Venus enveloped me, both as womb and coffin, striding onwards over the swells propelled by the trade winds. She was a runaway horse, galloping onwards, unable to stop for fear of death.
Konnie was able to man the bilge pump on her own and keep the water at knee level while I remained at the helm. The interior of the boat began to come apart as the sea water swelled the wood, allowing the fastenings to come apart. Canned foods and clothing whirled about with the books and flares in the cabin of our home. Murphy’s Law must have been in overdrive when the bottle of pickled red peppers entered the mix. A film of vinegar and chilies coated everything, including us. Next, the bilge pump failed from overuse, we switched to the backup which somehow jammed solid within minutes. The water reached the engine and began to submerge it. I had to alternate between the tiller and bailing for the next day to keep the engine above the waterline.
When we reached a point 300 miles from the coast, I decided to drop the sails and motor with only the jib. This would further reduce our motion and allow us to rest slightly in preparation for landfall. I failed to realize that a side effect would be the vaporization of bilge water and the chilies, resulting in a cloud of gas that mimicked the horrors of a World War battle field. Another day passed of motor-sailing and bailing, still without food or sleep for either of us. If I drank more than a half cup of water, I would vomit. Both of us had cuts and bruises covering our bodies, nearly having gone unconscious when the boom caught me while sheeting in the jib.
The safe haven of Puerto Rico came within radio contact after sundown. We hailed the Coast Guard and asked for assistance in navigating into the protected waters of Cabo San Juan. The wind was about 26 knots from the northeast with 20 foot swells. The next eight hours of fighting towards the coastline allowed us to see the lights of San Juan in the distance and finally the lighthouse of Cabo San Juan. The height of the swells made it impossible to count the flashes of the navigation lights, as we carefully negotiated the reefs and rocks to our east.
We motored southeast through the passage between Las Cucarachas and Cabo San Juan. As the moon crept out from behind a rain cloud, I could see the water surrounding us was full of reflective white sand swirling about in the breaking waves. The realization that we were in very shallow water crashed inside my brain, defying reason. At approximately 0300 hours the boat came to a standstill, while the surrounding swells continued to move forward. We were aground in 20 meters of water! Impossible, even with a huge swell and yet here we were. The reality was that the light on Las Cucarachas had burnt out three days prior and we were on the wrong side of the point in only 2 meters of water.
The second swell lifted Venus and dropped her with a crack that sounded of thunder. Horror! Terror! Adrenaline! Swells began breaking all around us as our bow went below the water and our stern slid to starboard. With our hull exposed to the full force of the ocean, Venus rolled onto her side and the masts went below the water. We knew the boat was lost as water began filling the cabin through the main hatch. A following swell caused the deck to split lengthwise from mast to mast. I dashed below to grab our passports, as I reached the main mast the entire hull began collapsing around me. As the timbers blocked my path, I could see moonlight through the cracks in the deck as water continued to rise all about me. Climbing through the wreckage, I managed to get free of the debris; but our passports were left behind.
Once on deck, I tried to free our lifeboat and dinghy, but they were hopelessly tangled in the rigging and pinned by the mast. We had no choice except to swim for shore, or risk being trapped in the wreckage and pulled under the water. A large swell broke the hull into three large pieces and catapulted us off our perch and into the breakers. We managed to tie fenders, lifejackets and cushions into a raft…and then the watertight box with our passports and computer floated by. We added this to our makeshift raft and continued towards the shoreline over a mile away. As we swam we could see the wreckage slip below the waves within minutes, leaving no trace of her ever being there.
