A Salty Sailor Story - Clive Murray
As part of the Sunsail ownership program, my wife Christine and I
arranged a halfway rendezvous with our daughter Hannah and her husband
Joe, who live in New Zealand, for two weeks of sailing in Thailand. It
was a fantastic time, and it provided the backdrop for a memorable boat
rescue story that we will never forget.
About midway through our holiday, we aimed to moor off Railay Beach,
located on the west side of a south-protruding peninsula near Krabi,
known for its tourist activities. However, upon our arrival, the wind
was blowing strongly from the west, making our intended anchorage
untenable. Instead, we decided to sail around the southern end of the
headland and drop anchor on the east side, where we found a sheltered
spot with good holding and consistent depths of about five meters
stretching eastward for several miles. As we entered the bay, we spotted
a yacht anchored about half a mile out. While Christine wondered why it
was so far from the landing area, I assumed it was a young couple
seeking privacy and a connection with nature. I didn’t think much more
about it. This eastern side of the bay was bustling with Thai long-tail
boats zipping back and forth, their V8 engines roaring as they expertly
navigated the waters. Larger boats carrying tourists or delivering
supplies to various resorts also contributed to the lively atmosphere.
With all 50 meters of our anchor chain deployed and around five meters
showing on the depth gauge, our vessel remained steady against the
thirty knots of wind howling over the headland, which sheltered us from
any significant swell. We hoisted the black ball on the rigging to
indicate that we were at anchor. Around 5 PM, we all climbed into the
dinghy to head to the beach for a stroll and dinner at one of the many
traditional restaurants. It was still light when we left the boat, but
anticipating our return after dark, I turned on the anchor light and
hung another light over the cockpit. This was an old habit of mine,
helping us identify our boat among others and serving as a slight
deterrent for anyone thinking of climbing aboard, knowing they could be
seen. The wind was still strong from the shore as we approached the
beach at low tide. (Thailand has only one tide a day, which is unusual
for someone like me to understand having grown up sailing along the UK
North Sea coast.) We had to climb out and paddle through the mud for the
last few meters before dragging the dinghy up the beach above the
high-water mark and tying it off securely. Nearby was another dinghy
similar to ours, and we joked about the possibility of mistakenly
entering the wrong one after a few drinks. It was close to 9:30 PM when
we returned, and while the other dinghy had gone, ours was still safe.
With the rise in the tide, it was easy to launch and motor away from the
beach. We had left a flashlight n the dinghy, along with some spare
fuel, oars, and a small anchor. The flashlight wasn’t just for finding
our way back in the dark, as our boat could easily be identified, but it
was helpful for spotting any floating hazards and making us visible to
other vessels. Upon reaching our boat, we noticed that the dinghy we
recognized from the beach was now full of a family looking confused,
asking, “Have you seen our boat?” After some discussion, it became
clear that the vessel we had seen anchored far out was actually theirs.
Christine asked if they had left any lights on the boat, to which the
skipper’s wife replied, “It was three o’clock in the afternoon and
broad daylight when we left.” Christine held back her retort that it
“sure ain’t daylight now, is it?” Instead, she registered their
lack of competence without comment. We all climbed aboard our boat, and
while Christine and Hannah prepared drinks and made the rest of the
family comfortable, their father went to find a long-tail boat to head
out in search of their missing vessel. Joe and I spread a paper chart of
the area on the saloon table. Based on the approximate last sighting of
their boat and the consistent wind direction since our arrival, we
calculated where their boat might have drifted. The chart indicated that
there were consistent five-meter depths for many miles. Once we agreed
on a compass heading, the three of us boarded the long-tail boat when it
arrived. Using a handheld compass, we communicated our desired direction
to the non-English-speaking boat handler. We motored out at a good
speed, each of us equipped with a flashlight and wearing flotation
jackets. The long-tail boat had a powerful spotlight on top, but as we
ventured farther out, we saw nothing, constantly scanning 360 degrees
for any sign of their missing vessel. The wind continued to howl, and
the lights of the bay from which we had set off grew smaller. We began
to worry that we might be looking for something that had already drifted
far away and out of reach.
After some considerable time and distance, I decided it was best to turn
back and communicated this as best as I could to the long-tail skipper.
He nodded and began the turn, bringing us broadside to the swell that
had built up. I was confident he knew what the boat was capable of, but
it was alarming, so I motioned to Joe to lay low, hold on, and be
prepared for any eventuality as we tilted dramatically and rocked before
completing a 180-degree turn. A few minutes after turning back, a single
white light caught our attention, and we headed toward it, which turned
out to be two elderly local gentlemen fishing. After exchanging a few
words with the long-tail skipper, the fishermen simultaneously pointed
to our left, which the compass indicated was directly south. Once again,
the long-tail was turned across the swell, though now we all felt a
little more confident that the ballast could handle it. Minutes later,
as the spotlight scanned ahead, we caught the faintest flicker of white,
which was soon identified as the reflective tape on a boat's life ring
mounted on the guard rail. A shout went out, and we headed straight
over; we had found the boat. We clambered aboard in an ungracious manner
as both the long-tail and the sailboat rose and fell in an
unsynchronized manner. After thanking and paying the long-tail skipper,
I suggested we start the engine and brew some coffee. We were far from
the bay we had set off from, and we’d spent a long time searching. Joe
went to lift the anchor, and the windlass could be heard turning for a
very brief time. He returned once the anchor was secure on board and
quietly informed me that less than ten meters of chain had been let out.
We motored back to the bay for almost an hour. Upon our arrival, we
collected our dinghy and positioned the boat a safe distance away from
us. Joe let out all 50 meters of chain. The bottom was soft mud with
excellent holding; the boat jerked as the chain held firm. After
ferrying the family to their boat from ours, we went to our beds,
feeling jubilant that we had succeeded in saving the day.
The following morning, we discovered that the boat we had rescued had
lifted its anchor and left.
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