Adrift: A True Story of Love, Loss and Survival at Sea. Susea McGearhart

already been there, so I turned aft. Stumbling past the galley, throwing floating debris over my shoulders, I plowed into the aft cabin door that was hanging cockeyed off its hinges. I pushed and shoved and kicked, trying to get it out of my way, screaming, “RICHARD, RICHARD, I’M COMING I’LL HELP YOU. JUST WAIT, JUST WAIT. . . .”

      The goddamn door wouldn’t budge. I beat on it and rammed my body into it over and over and over. Finally things started falling away and the door fell backwards, creating its own tidal wave. I scrambled over it desperately searching—praying for Richard. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t in there. I looked in the aft head. I raised the toppled cushions. I even lifted the fallen door and ran my hand under the water to see if he was there.

      “Oh why, why, why, didn’t you come below?” In total despair I sank to my knees and became submerged in water up to my waist. I gasped and thought, My God, the boat’s sinking, I’ve got to get out of here.

      Struggling to lift my drenched, injured body, I staggered to the companionway and boosted myself up. Frantically I struggled to move the heavy life raft from the back of the cockpit to the middle of the boat, where I secured it to the cabin-top handrail. Instinctively I grabbed the rigging knife I kept on my belt, slid the sharp blade under a strap that held the raft shut, and started cutting upward. It was too tough—I was too weak. I resorted to hacking away at the straps.

      As the last strap split, the life raft inflated and flung itself open. Inside I found fishing gear, hand flares, a miniature medical kit, a half dozen cans of water, and a sponge. Something was wrong, something was missing. I tried to think . . . fishing gear, flares, medical kit, sponge, food and water. Food? There’s no food. There’s cans of water but no opener for the cans. How can a life raft have no food and no way to open the water?

      Going back over the boom, I banged the deep gash on my left shin. It started bleeding again. I ignored it. It was nothing compared to . . .

      I went below to get food. Wading through the river, kicking everything in my way aside, I picked up a duffel bag. Grabbing biscuits, cans of beans, tuna and peaches, I threw them into the bag. I took hold of the portable world band radio receiver and a can opener, and threw them in too. I pushed a blanket and a pillow up the companionway into the cockpit.

      Water. I must have more water.

      I looked around and saw the solar shower bag dangling from a shelf. It could hold two and a half gallons of water. “Richard will be thirsty when I find him,” I said out loud. Grabbing the bag, I took it to the galley and began to fill it using the pressurized freshwater system. As the bag was filling, the stream of water started slowing down. It became a sputter, then a spit. “My God, I don’t have any water!” Wait—the water filter’s canister, there’s bound to be at least a half gallon of water in it.