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Coast Guard tender ties up to Thompson.
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Rescue at Sea
by Peter Tyson
July 2, 1998
Captain Drewry took the call at about 10 a.m. this morning. It
was from the Coast Guard. A Canadian fishing boat about 40
miles south-southeast of the Thompson was in distress, with
two crew aboard. The 56-foot boat was taking on water fast and
had sent out a may-day. The Thompson and the John P. Tully,
which had arrived at the Juan de Fuca research site last
night, were the closest vessels in the area and immediately
began steaming toward the fishing boat, whose position the
Coast Guard had relayed to them. At 14 knots, it would take
the Thompson about two and a half hours to cover the 40 miles,
the captain told me. Then he kindly asked me to leave the
bridge, since he was launching emergency procedures, including
putting the ship's six-bed hospital at the ready.
The winds had been gusting to 30 knots for 12 hours. The seas
had come up to such a degree that by 9:30 last night, the
ROPOS dive to cut the black smoker called "Phang" had to be
terminated.
Keith Shepherd
and his ROPOS crew did not need to be reminded of the sudden
storm that came up two years ago in this very spot on the Juan
de Fuca Ridge. Within hours, 20-knot winds were gusting to 80
knots, and the waves were breaking over the A-frame on the
fantail. In the midst of trying to get ROPOS back on board,
the tether snapped and ROPOS vanished, never to be seen again.
Debbie Kelley
told me she was astonished that the only injury was a broken
finger.
Vern Miller (in white hat) makes his way to the
bow.
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When I spoke with the captain on the bridge this morning, wave
heights were about 10 feet, but by the time we reached the
fishing boat a little after noon, their foaming crests were
peaking at 15 feet. Fifteen-foot waves are nothing to a
270-foot ship like the Thompson—the captain told me he
has ushered her through 50-foot seas—but nevertheless it
got muscled around by the ocean. The 240-foot Tully, a
bow-heavy icebreaker originally designed to work in the
Beaufort Sea, pitched even more. Imagine then the fishing
boat, at 56 feet looking terribly small in the vastness of the
ocean. It pitched and rolled wildly through the swells.
The Coast Guard had scrambled a spotter plane from Sacramento,
California and a helicopter from Astoria, Oregon, and both
were on-site as we drew near. Minus a few tens of feet on the
wave sizes, the scene seemed straight out of the book The
Perfect Storm, which I read not long before coming out here.
The spotter plane was doing wide circles, with the stricken
craft at its center. The orange-and-white helicopter swung low
over the vessel, discussing the situation with the boat's
captain over the radio. The fisherman reported that water was
now beginning to flood the engine room. The helicopter then
hovered low over the vessel, threw open its bay door, and
dropped two gas-powered pumps onto the boat's stern deck.
Our entire scientific party assembled on the Thompson's bow
deck, along with the ship's six deckhands, who stood at the
ready in case they were needed. Scoping the boat through
binoculars while trying to keep my balance in the bow, I could
see the small boat had taken a beating. Wave action had
damaged the bow, probably causing the leak, and the main mast
was bent well over to one side. But the boat still had power
and was heading into the waves—a good sign.
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Miller prepares to grab ladder, with deckhands at
the ready.
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Once the two ships were on the scene, the helicopter,
approaching the half-full point on its fuel gauge, turned for
home, as did the spotter plane. The rescue was now in the
hands of the Tully. A Canadian Coast Guard vessel, she was
fully equipped to handle the situation. With the pumps
apparently doing the trick—the fishing boat appeared to
be riding higher in the water than when we first
arrived—it was decided that the Tully would escort the
boat back into Canadian waters, where another Coast Guard
vessel would take it the rest of the way in. In the meantime,
the boat would dump its load of fish, mostly albacore tuna. To
ensure that the Tully would have no trouble locating the boat
if it came to grief in the middle of the night, the Tully's
captain dispatched the ship's tender to deliver an emergency
radio beacon to the fishermen.
En route, the tender swung by the Thompson to drop off Vern
Miller, an engineer with the University of Washington's
Applied Physics Laboratory, whose expertise was needed on the
Thompson to continue the research operations. I climbed up to
02 level and stood along the starboard rail, looking down on
the tender as it cautiously approached the Thompson. Only then
did I get a clear idea just how rough the seas were. The
26-foot tender bounced around like a toy boat in a bathtub.
While Coast Guardsmen tightly gripped bow and stern lines,
Miller carefully made his way to the bow and steadied himself,
preparing to step onto the rope ladder the Thompson crew had
dropped over the side. Deckhands leaned over the rail, ready
to grab him when he started up.
I looked up to see Captain Drewry standing at the bridge rail
two levels above me. In the long minute before Miller finally
went for the ladder, I glanced up at the captain two or three
times. At the first glance he seemed to be standing casually,
arms crossed, calmly assessing the situation; by the third, he
appeared noticeably worried, leaning his weight on the rail,
hand to his chin. Would he call off the attempt?
The Thompson's zodiac is readied for launch, if
necessary.
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Before I could finish the thought, Miller lunged for the
ladder. Two or three deckhands yanked him up by the collar,
and he was on deck. The tender pushed off and beat through the
seas toward the fishing vessel.
It was not over yet, however. The fishing boat suddenly
appeared to lose power and began lolling broadside to the
waves—a dangerous position. The Tully drew closer, and I
watched as the tender pulled alongside the fishing boat two or
three times. I wondered if the situation was becoming perilous
enough that the fishermen would have to consider abandoning
ship.
I don't know the outcome, for just as I was pondering this a
deckhand strode onto the bow where I'd been standing to tell
me to withdraw: Captain Drewry had ordered full throttle to
take us the 40 miles back to our research site, and the seas
very well might start breaking over the bow. The Tully and the
fishing boat were now on their own.
Later in the empty mess hall I talked to the captain as he
wolfed down the lunch he hadn't had time to eat earlier. He
told me the fishermen were "profusely thankful" for our coming
to their aid. They had been about to begin manual pumping when
they saw our two ships on the horizon. "I'm just grateful
nobody was injured," the captain said, then headed off without
a word to the bridge.
Peter Tyson is Online Producer of NOVA.
The Tug of the Thompson (June 23)
The ROPOS Guys (June 25)
In the Juan de Fuca Strait (June 27)
Special Report: A Visit To Atlantis (June 29)
Dive 440 (July 1)
Rescue at Sea (July 2)
What's Your Position? (July 4)
Phang! (July 5)
20,000 Pounds of Tension (July 8)
Four for Four (July 11)
Thrown Overboard (July 13)
Was Grandma a Hyperthermophile? (July 15)
Swing of the Yo-Yo (July 18)
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