The Costa Rica Incident - Part Two

October 23rd, 2014 -a Thursday I will never forget -and its now January 23th 2015 - 3 months since I ended up beached on Playa Avellanas.
I still shudder with the memory of it all, wondering how I could be so lucky to come away from that with an intact boat and the chance to go on. But there were times during the recovery of Whakaari that I just wanted to walk away. Sometimes the hopelessness and frustration were almost too much.

(Apologies before you start reading for the length of this post - its a quick thing to run aground, but a long protracted exercise to refloat a 10 ton keelboat)

Looking back its easy to see how it happened - I was too relaxed, and I didn't understand the local conditions. My autopilot failed to hold course in the light winds just as a local morning wind came up behind me and drove Whakaari toward the coast and with the incoming tide carried me onto Avellana beach onto a soft white sandy beach.
If I had been half a degree to port or starboard my boat would be wrecked on reefs, a total loss. Whakaari chose the sweetest spot, between two surf breaks, on one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever been too, and happily only 500m from Lola's a world famous beach bar.
And there she would stay for another eighteen days!
I heard much later that the rumor was I had several local chica babes aboard, partying long and hard, and thats why I had slept through the whole thing - if only!

The reality of running aground is pretty brutal -for one thing you look like a proper idiot with your boat parked high and dry on a beach and no plausible excuse - but when the incoming tide is pounding away at your most prized possession ( in my case, only possession) its agony every wave. I stayed aboard for 48 hours after running aground, only leaving the boat for an hour to notify friends and my insurers (and in that time the toolbox from the lazarette was stolen). They were the worst 48 hours! Pitching from beam to beam as the wave strength increased, the noises and impacts felt from inside were like knife thrusts. Tucked into a lee cloth, I would count every minute and only start to relax once the high tide time was reached. And when the tide was out the boat would come to rest on a 36 degree heel, so moving about was like being on a jungle gym. There was no rest, no sleep, and only grim labour to be faced every day. But to my rescue and into my life came some wonderful, resourceful and patient people

Otto and Marcos- fishermen turned security guards

The next day, Day 2 - have to move fast as the tides have peaked and get lower from now on.
Otto and Marcos have a lot faith in their small fishing panga and try to pull Whakaari when the tide is high but she is far too big and heavy, and too far up the beach. Whakaari needs to be moved down the beach if she is to float again, and she needs to be pointed into the waves to take the strain off the hull, rig and rudder during incoming tides.

Day 3 - Local contractors with back hoes (small tractor mounted excavators) say they've done this before with a similar sized boat, we agree on a price, with a success fee, and it's all action from first light. But there doesn't seem to be much of a plan. Luckily Don (owner of Lolas,  with good Spanish and knowing the locals) can be the go between as we, and many others with well-intentioned ideas, massage a plan that changes by the minute. A channel to float the boat and pull her seaward is dug, anchors and chain constantly being repositioned, a deadman ( log off the beach) is buried at low tide with a large block to give double purchase for the backhoes to drag Whakaari, But when the strain goes on, after Don and I had spent an hour or so kedging with the windlass and my large plough anchor to turn every inch of lift any wave gave us into movement, the deadman bursts up out of the water in front of us like a broaching whale. Time to call it a day and retreat, down but not out, to Lolas beach bar and some Flor de Cana rum and a debrief.

From left, Gabe, Donatus, Christie, and me

Lightening the load - we moved everything weighty and portable to Don's bodega

Day 4- 0700 hrs and the team is back on the beach, Don has arranged the backhoe boys to pick up two huge reinforced concrete footings and these will be our real deadmen. There is a clear plan now and we're well ready for the rising tide, feeling confident of success.
As Whakaari starts to lift to the waves, the power goes on, and we're making small but steady gains. And then, a sharp sound and the pulling cable snaps. Don and I are determined and keep kedging at the windlass, thinking Whakaari is almost floating. But we're fighting a losing battle- the windlass gypsy is rapidly wearing out with this tough treatment, the batteries are long flat, and we're using just our hands and a snubber hook to take in what slack occurs between waves. Dangerous work on a pitching bow as the anchor chain takes all the boat weight and the force of each surge. And, a sand ridge has built up between Whakaari and freedom, just to raise the bar as it were. Eventually we return to Lolas to lick our wounds.

By this time my dear Colorado friend Jackie (who took this photo) had come to lend support. She came to my rescue with off-boat digs, regular meals, a rental car to run errands and collect essential gear, ready cash, and a comforting smile, someone to hear my rants and frustrations.

Time and tide are against me, it's now beyond hope that Whakaari will float in the ebbing tides and soon the available daylight when it's time to go for it will not be enough.

A much more serious Refloating plan is called for, and now that immediate attempts have failed, it's time to put the recovery in the hands of my Insurance company.
Waiting til the next full moon, more than two full weeks away, is not an easy decision to make. Every incoming tide is more impact on the boat, and already there is some delamination and cracking of the fiberglass at the rudder post and keel.
24 hour security, now Otto and Marcos' role, is a high overhead, as is the daily accommodation, food, and rental car, not to mention the rum!

Crunching the numbers 

A full-proof plan is hatched, bringing in insurance reps (Captain Dan, Mike McCook, and Scott Carter),  Tom, a commercial salvage and rigging specialist,  local mariners, and machine operators. Costings of preferred options had to be compiled for the insurance company, these ranged from the low of US$6,500 (Sportfishing towboat) to $20,000 (crane and cradle)
And all the while Lolas owners and staff were keeping us fed and watered, and ready to help in any way. Lucky for me it was their low season or they would've had no time to give. Donatus and Christie, their delightful daughters, Eden and Nikki, and Christie's dad Gabe were my lifeline to sanity.
 Lizzie, my NZ friend and sometimes crew mate calls in on her way back home from the States, to lend her support, give me hugs from family, and take back news on the goings-on. That was nice timing!


Although I don't remember everyone's names, the endless support and friendship offered by the local people (surfers, Ticos and ex-pats, holiday makers, tourists, and business owners) was overwhelming. I truly was the luckiest unlucky guy on Playa Avellana.
Check out this blog to get an idea of the local reactions:
http://secondhandsurfer.com/?s=whakaari

The next highest tide/full moon would come on the 8th November. Time to source and gather flotation gear, find a suitable towboat, and settle Whakaari in for the wait as best I could.

"There are worse places to be stuck", a phrase heard and repeated many times over the coming days.

From right - Donatus , Jackie, Gabe, Lizzie, Christie and me at Pangas in Tamarindo for dinner
Jeff a local yacht with great advice is taking the photo

The Costa Rica Incident - Part One

It's difficult to know where to start on this story, it's been an age since I’ve posted on my blog, and this is not a story I ever dreamed would be part of my Sailing The Ring of Fire project. I think my pride has been getting in the way of telling a good story.
Plus there are so many elements to it that a blog is far too restrictive - a deserving rendition of events will make a very long chapter in the book I will no doubt write one day.

Having said that, here's part one of what I'm now calling The Costa Rica Incident:


Was it the mosquito-borne virus “chikungunya” I contracted in Panama, or was it the stomach bug I carried back from Nicaragua? What dropped me to the saloon floor as I sailed single-handed towards Costa Rica’s northern tip, and set Whakaari on a beach between two reefs? Was it really a case of “be careful what you wish for” (I'd been wanting to stop on a beach along this stretch of coast) or did Whakaari just want to come home to the place she was created? Was it my karma that led me to be “the luckiest unlucky guy on Playa Avellana” as I became known.

 
Ironically, the sailing leading up to "the incident" had been the most enjoyable since leaving the Caribbean, and I felt stronger and more rested than I had in a long time. Close encounters with turtles and dolphins, sometimes becalmed and drifting, sometimes ghosting along at 2 knots, occasionally 5-6 knots on smooth seas, determined to sail and not motor, filming on the bow at dawn, looking for anchorages so I could go ashore to experience the current mass Olive Ridley and Leatherback nesting phenomenon, enjoying the “god light” of sunrise pushing through massive bad-boy thunderheads patrolling across the eastern Pacific seaboard. All seemed right with the world, at last, until...

WTF!?!! Whakaari hits something and shudders. I wake in a fog, pushing myself up off the saloon floor, stumbling naked to the companionway. Waves crash into the cockpit, and there's a sudden crunch as the keel hits the sand underneath it and sends me flying. I scream in disbelief - NO! Oh my god, NO! I'm running aground, the wind and waves seem huge, what to do, what can I do??

I release all the sheets to ease the sails, fire up the engine, slam it into reverse and pour on the revs. No help at all. People are shouting for ropes, “Throw us lines so we can hold you off the beach!” There are at least 20 guys in the water; one of them pulls himself aboard and tries to calm me as I try and try to tie a bowline - thousands of bowlines tied without thinking, why can’t I do one now?! Somewhere in there I put on swimmers (back to front and inside out someone pointed out later). Another guy starts yelling, “Abandon Ship!” and slashes away at my sheets with his knife. And all through this Whakaari is being pounded, her cries of agony with each hit killing me, knowing that I did this.

It's no good. Many strong surfers struggle for an hour or more trying in vain to stop the high tide waves forcing the boat up onto the beach. Suddenly the Coast Guard appears in a reasonable sized boat with three 120hp outboards. My best towline is made fast and they start pulling. But salvation is not to come so soon. First their towing bridle breaks, then their engines die. They leave the scene, and so ends the first of many unsuccessful attempts to refloat Whakaari.

To be continued...