Spring 1971
Near Manson’s Landing, Cortez Island, British Columbia
I had just turned away to get a better grip on the rain soaked rail, so I didn’t see it happen. But over the wind and the waves I heard the splash.
“Man overboard!”
“Hang on Captain!”
How do you describe what goes through the mind of a tired, hungry, cold and wet 16 year old deck hand when he turns into the wind, squints, and sees the Captain, his father, bobbing and floating away from his ship?
I could feel all my systems slow down, breathing slowly, moving slowly, everything around me was clear and easy to track. I tried to focus on the man in the water. I avoided eye contact, fearful that to look my dad in the eye would make the whole thing more real. But I watched silently and intently from my spot beside the hoist where I had been unloading sacks of oysters from the barge below.
“Seed oysters, bound for the southern shores of France,” the company owner told us. “Their oyster stock has been all but wiped out following World War 2, the oil on the beach from all the naval battles raised hell with the wildlife. Some of it, like the oysters, didn’t do so well, so we’re going to seed the beaches with these fat beauties.”
A crew from Match Magazine had been on board a few days prior to do a piece on the reseeding of France’s oyster beds. I had been too shy to try my grade 10 French on them, and when I jokingly told the cook that he should have asked them if they wanted coffee (“Voulez-vous du café?) he lambasted me for being quiet, something I had rarely been accused of before.
The man in the water was holding on to the rope tied to the life ring. Water splashed into his face as wave after wave tried to push him away from us, from me.
Shouts of encouragement, First Mate offered to jump in beside him, “No!” was the stern response. It made sense, the ship couldn’t have the Captain and the First Mate in jeopardy. Besides, Captain Barney was making progress.
“nnnn-Psooo…..nnn-Psoooo” his breathing was louder than the wind and he worked his way hand over hand towards the boat, looping the trail around and under his armpits while other deckhands firmly pulled him closer and closer.
In my mind he scaled the last part boots on hull, Batman style, and threw himself over the gunwale.
In reality he was pulled up by the crew, water whooshing off of him.
I held my breath until he made it safely on deck.
“What are you all standing around for? Get back to work,” he said. Everyone laughed.
I still made no eye contact, I continued to hold my breath.
“Skip, let’s get you into some dry gear,” said the cook. “I want to get some hot soup into you, too. It’s cold as hell in there.”
“It sure is,” said the Captain.
I continued to off load the sacks of oysters with the rest of the crew.
A while later gentle hand patted my back.
“Always have your life jacket on,” said dad.
We never spoke of the day again.
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