Mayday

VHF 16 came alive: “Anybody copy?”

It sounded to us like the typical gringo boater, unfamiliar with radio protocols, was trying to check if his radio were functioning by calling for whichever other boater might happen to be in range, to tell him how well his signal was being received, and from how far away. This occurs fairly often in Canada, the US and in Mexico, but casual “radio-checks” using VHF 16 (frowned upon by the authorities) seem to us to be exclusively done by Americans. It is slightly annoying but so common that one simply rolls one‘s eyes. Having anchored just a couple of hours previously in the bay at Timbabichi on the inside of the Baja peninsula, we weren’t inclined to play such radio games. So, we ignored the first hail.

Minutes later: “Anybody copy?”

This time I responded: “Loud and clear in Timbabichi.”

Silence.

About an hour later, the same voice came on VHF 16 again: “Mayday.”

Moments later: “Mayday.”

At anchor, we saw four other boats motor past a few miles offshore; yet none of them responded to either of the first two hails, or to either of the two maydays. I cannot imagine that all four vessels had their radios turned off; why else would none of them respond to a mayday? Whatever. Anyway, we responded:

“Vessel calling ‘Mayday,’ this is the sailing vessel Gallant Fox at anchor in Timbabichi. What is the name of your vessel and the nature of your emergency? Also, what is your location? Over.”

We learned that two sportfishers, father and son, were in a 23-foot skiff that was new to them and had run out of fuel. They were adrift and slowly being set on the northern shore of an island in the Sea of Cortez about 6-½ miles from Timbabichi. They were over 40 miles away from their home port, with a short-range VHF, a GPS, and little else in the way of equipment or supplies. They needed to be towed to safety, and no one but us was responding to their distress calls.

A sailboat is the slowest thing on the water, so is not the first choice for a rescue. We could have hailed the Mexican Navy, which has a prowler in the area, but I do not believe they are in the business of towing vessels, only in rescuing people who are willing to abandon ship. Not the best option for a fishing skiff out of fuel. It was already past 3:00 p.m. on February 1. The February sun sets in these parts at about 6:00 p.m. We were running out of time and options. We waved a couple of Timbabichi pangas over to The Fox and explained the situation to them, thinking that with their fast, light boats they could easily reach the skiff and tow the men back to the anchorage. Difficulty: pangueros don’t have gasoline to spare, they carry no towing ropes, they have no GPS to home-in on another vessel’s coordinates, and they did not personally know these men who were adrift. If these fellows were going to be towed to safety before nightfall, it would be up to us to do the job.

As we raised anchor, a sailing ketch arrived at Timbabichi. We explained the situation and asked them to leave their anchor light on, as we’d be returning – likely after dark – with a boat in tow.* They agreed, and off we went.

* You’d think that a boat at anchor would naturally keep an anchor light on in the dark. Not so: many boats down here in the Sea like to save battery power by staying unlit, even when it is unsafe to do so.

Pedal to the metal. We had The Fox’s trusty Yanmar 4JH3 engine running at 3000rpm. Thankfully we had calm air and seas, but with a less-than-clean hull The Fox managed no more than 6.5 kt. speed over ground. As we motored, GB pulled our 100-foot mooring line out of the lazarette and rigged a towing bridle on our stern pulpit. We kept in radio contact with the skiff, and eventually spotted it about two miles closer to the island than its last reported position. We slowed as we approached the skiff, faced it head-on, turned to port and slowly crossed their bow as GB threw the two men our towing line. They made it fast to their boat’s bow cleat as we drifted past, and in but one pass we were able to slowly accelerate and stretch the towing line as we turned back toward Timbabichi. We all made rigging a tow line underway look easy.

We made for the anchorage at Timbabichi as fast as we dared – about 6kt. speed over ground. Lucky for us the sportfishing skiff was small and light, but the sun was setting fast and the open bay at Timbabichi is difficult to make out in the dark. We approached the anchorage after 7:00 p.m., aiming for the anchor light that the ketch had indeed left on for us. As the last of the light faded and we pulled the skiff slowly into the 20-foot depth, two pangas appeared to take the skiff from us and tow it even closer to shore, in 10-foot depths The Fox is reluctant to enter. The skiff released our tow line, we retrieved it, and we anchored again near our original spot. GB and I high-fived each other, and toasted our Sailing Sensei, Brian Guptil, without whom none of this would have been possible.* GB made us a spot of supper, and so to bed.

* 10 years ago we were buddy-boating in the San Juan Islands with our pal and mentor, Brian Guptil. He had a sudden engine malfunction – naturally, as our two sailboats were going through a narrow, rocky pass off of Lopez Island. With utmost calm, as he drifted he instructed us two newbies how to properly rig a towing line, toss it to him, and resume speed, allowing him to fix his engine problem. Ever since then we have always carried one long line to use as a tow rope. As it happens, we seem to use it once a decade. Thank you, Brian!

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