Roger Boshier

Gulftow Salvage and Marine Safety Ltd
and
University of B.C. Vancouver

Paper Presented at
(Annual Conference of the Canadian National Search and Rescue Secretariat)
Laval, Quebec, October 13, 2000.
Thanks to Bob Lord, Tim Stern, Lloyd Webb, Tom Paterson and others who've experienced the trauma of be-ing overboard, Captain John Palliser, Carol Fitzsimmons and SAR Controllers at the Victoria Rescue Coordination Centre, Captain John McGrath, O-I-C at the Sea Island hovercraft base, First Officer Sue Pickrell, Transportation Safety Board personnel and numerous others that field our enquiries. Feedback welcomed [Roger.Boshier@ubc.ca]. Tel (604) 822-5822

Names of Selected B.C. Commercial Fishing Vessels Involved in
Fatal Man Overboard Inc-dents, 1981-1990

_______________________________________________________________________

AN OLD STORY

The Sailor's Handbook (1983) notes "man overboard" has been written about so often "it is in danger of falling into the category of 'I know that bit so I'll move to the next chap-ter.'" Pike (1993) said that "at first glance, having one of your crew fall overboard seems a straightforward matter to deal with. You simply turn around, head back, pick him up and away you go." (1993, p. 141). However, what first appears to be straightforward eas-ily turns into tragedy. A head in the water is the size of a football and hard to spot. Add waves, wind and searchers on vessels only a few feet above sea level and there can be se-rious problems (see Transportation Safety Board, 1995 Hili-Kum).

As well as exuding simplicity, writing about this matter also manifests a narrowness that characterizes much literature on marine safety and prevention. There is no shortage of debate on procedures to deploy in the event of a man overboard. There is, for example, the Williamson turn for powerboats and need to get a danbuoy or datum marker pole into the water. In some cases mariners are urged to throw everything in - pages out of a magazine, flotation cushions, anything that floats - to make a "trail" back to the MOB. In the case of sailing vessels there is no shortage of debate about whether to gybe, do a fig-ure 8, lower sails, motor or what. Another controversial matter concerns the wisdom of putting another man in the water. As Mike Jackson demonstrated in the Bering Sea, a res-cuer going in can save a life. But, if it's difficult to retrieve one MOB, two people in the water compounds the problem. There are probably thousands of articles on what to do with a MOB but agreement on only two points:

Although MOB procedures and equipment are vitally important, there is an extensive lit-erature about them. Search the World Wide Web and, apart from Eric Clapton and Blon-die songs entitled "man overboard", most sites concern procedures and equipment. There are promising technological developments - like man overboard alarms - spawned by high-performance offshore yacht racing (such as the Around Alone and Volvo round-the-world races) that led to miracle rescues in the mayhem of southern oceans. There are also the Canadian-made air deployable GPS equipped datum-marker buoys that promise to narrow search zones. And new and comfortable Personal Flotation Devices. All are im-portant. But, in this paper the focus is not on equipment. It is not the purpose of this pa-per to restage or engage in another "equipment" or "procedure" debate. That stage is al-ready crowded and, besides, Bowditch and authorities like Pike (1993) know what they're talking about. In this paper, the focus is the person in the water.

GIRLS AND BOYS

The need for inclusive language creates unease about the notion of "man" overboard. Besides, in B.C., there is justifiable concern about wives and girlfriends that "fall" from fishing boats or go overboard from dive charter vessels (Victoria RCC Incident P99-1971). Moreover, some of the most dramatic rescues have been performed by women members of the Canadian Coast Guard or, during the 54th Sydney-Hobart yacht race (when six people perished), by female members of the Australian rescue services. In B.C. there is a case where a recently-fired female crew member jumped off a cruise ship. Her body was found by another woman - Sue Pickrell (nee Neale), one of the searchers aboard the Coast Guard hovercraft (Victoria RCC Incident, P98-1609)

During the 54th Sydney-Hobart yacht race, 55 sailors were snatched from certain death by rescue helicopters that flew up to 200 miles offshore before lowering rescue specialists into waters raked by huge seas (2 Sailors Die and 10 Missing in Australian Yacht Race, National Post, 28 December, 1998, p. A1; The Tale of 'Hell on Highwater", National Post, December 31, 1998, p. A3). When Kristy McAllister and Michelle Blewitt tumbled out of the Heli-med rescue helicopter, drenched but exhilarated after outstanding work at the end of cables above the disabled yacht Stand Aside, helpers rushed forward with blan-kets and warm clothing.

"No, not for us," the women exclaimed "give that stuff to the guys we just rescued."

Four weeks after the race, nine male survivors got together for a reunion and discussed the fact the Heli-med helicopter had women rescuers aboard. Sailor Neil Dickson was asked whether he had "one of those nice pretty young girls" come down on a wire to res-cue him (Mundle, 1999).

"No," Dickson replied, "But a six-foot-four, 15 stone policeman looked bloody good to me."

Women are competent rescue specialists but, almost without exception, it is men that need to be rescued. Many difficulties that arise from man overboard situations occur be-cause of men. The fact they are men (and thus won't wear flotation or learn from experi-ence) is vitally important. It is the same in farm-related accidents (Harrell, 1986). Hence, while appreciating the need for inclusive language, the phenomenon under discussion here is "man overboard." The Canadian Coast Guard agrees. In their annual presentation of statistics on marine incidents, there is a category labelled "man overboard" (56 MOB incidents in 1997). The Transportation Safety Board uses the same terminology.

Prevention authorities and men on boats should embrace a gendered perspective. All in-terests would be better served if they did so. This particularly applies to recreational boat-ers because on the typical two-person vessel there is a man and a woman. When time to go on the foredeck to lower sails in a gale it is the man that goes overboard. The extent to which the woman left aboard can respond to an MOB emergency depends on the politics of her relationship with the man in the water. If he's a jerk - and never bothered to teach her how to run the boat - there's now a good chance he'll die. If she knows how to run the radio and boat, and MOB procedures have been rehearsed, he might live to tell the tale. With the exception of worrying incidents involving the mysterious loss of wives overboard from fishing vessels, in all the years of doing commercial salvage in the Geor-gia Strait (1985 to the present), the author has never heard of a woman in the water and man left aboard. But, from the Hard Awyck onwards, there have been plenty of cases of men in the water and a woman on board struggling to effect a rescue.

The gender of the person in the water is at the centre of any attempt to understand this phenomenon. Our concern is with men overboard such as fishermen. "Fishers" is a term that comforts graduate students and the Department of Gender Studies. But it hides more than it illuminates. Most seriously, it disguises the gendered nature of nautical life where, almost without exception, it is men that screw up. They often have problems because they are men.

SURVIVOR TESTIMONY

Shortly before midnight on 8 March, 1994 the small tug, Red Fir No. 15, was towing a loaded chip barge down the North Arm of the Fraser river. When abeam the Marine Drive golf course the operator heard a scream, looked back and saw his deckhand in the water. The barge couldn't be stopped and rode over the deckhand. Despite an extensive search no body was found. Despite informed guesswork, nobody knows how or why the deck-hand went in the water. All we know is he fell. But, once there, life was extinguished in a brutal and horrible manner. In contrast, in the 1993 incident at Entrance Island, Glen Ringdal fell in the water while securing a kicker and taking a pee and followed by a nephew who unwisely jumped in to save his faltering uncle. In that case, one man fell and the other jumped. In Pacific Charmer five men entered the water after their vessel cap-sized. Four jumped in without lights or flotation and two would have died almost imme-diately. One wisely stayed on the sinking vessel until the last seconds and, when there were no more options, gingerly entered the water to keep his head dry. The Charmer would be more properly classified as a "capsize" or "foundering" but, in this context, the effect was the same as man overboard incidents - men were in the water and, in this case, two of the five would die.¹

Survivors have a unique perspective. Having endured the life-transforming experience of encountering death, their perspective is of great interest. Yet, as with other marine inci-dents, their experience is reduced to statistics. After an MOB survivor has been wrapped in blankets, closeted with heatpacks and encouraged back to life, he usually disappears from public consciousness. If dead, the body is strung across the foredeck of the hover-craft or cradled outside the transom of a police boat. Occasionally the incident is caught by television - such as the dramatic MOB off Hard Awyck in 1985 - and survivors share their experience with boating clubs or television viewers. Or else, the situation gets in-corporated into popular culture - like the Perfect Storm. Alternatively, a survivor - like Victoria's Bob Lord (overboard from a B.C. ferry and in the water for eight hours) turn their experience into a "motivational talk." But, by and large, MOB survivors are embar-rassed and want to get home and hide.

Many survivors resolve to never step foot on a boat again. Others - like Max Skinner of the Charmer - go straight back in the hope of overcoming fears. After a period of time most recall their incident with horror and astonishment. Some recollections concern the material facts of their predicament and rescue. For example, nearly all claim they yelled and screamed as rescue vessels passed nearby (but didn't stop). Other recollections con-cern impending dearth, worries about wives and children and, amazingly, unpaid bills. Some people - such Glenn Baron or Bob Lord - try to swim for shore, don't make it and complicate the search. Same with George Johnston, a 62 year old New Zealander dumped from his boat after rescuing two men at the mouth of the Rangitaiki River. He was carried two miles offshore, was crippled by hypothermia but, after a four hour struggle, crawled up the beach (Good keen samaritan's sea epic, New Zealand Herald, 8 Feb., 2000, p. A4). In the same way, Paterson at Nootka and Max Skinner at Valdes Island made it to the beach. Others are so far offshore, swimming is not an option. They lay in the water and worry. Almost none assume the so-called H.E.L.P. position because, without flotation, it's impossible.

Nested in survivor stories are commonalties that pertain to prevention and rescue. Hence, the purpose of this paper is to:

UNDER-ESTIMATING SERIOUSNESS

Almost without exception, professional mariners, commercial fishermen, recreational boaters and even people close to the water (like kayakers) under-estimate the seriousness of going overboard. They also under-estimate the difficulty of effecting a rescue and don't appreciate that even professional rescuers - aboard a hovercraft, on a Coast Guard cutter or peering through the window of a searching aircraft - have enormous difficulty spotting an object (a human head) the size of a football. Being overboard is, without doubt, one of the most serious things that can happen around boats.

Is God a Rescue Specialist

During the summer of 1993 there were two remarkable MOB incidents in Georgia Strait. The first involved a Christian who felt god helped him survive more than four hours in 18-degree water. The second involved Bob Lord who survived eight hours in much the same water as the Christian. Why Lord survived is still something of a mystery but he considers it a "miracle."

On June 5, 1993 Glen Ringdal, publicist for the Vancouver Canucks hockey team and his Alberta nephew Glenn Baron were crossing Georgia Strait in a 21' Maxum powerboat. It was a fine though blustery day on the strait. Whitecaps and winds were good for yachts-man sailing to Nanaimo in the Royal Navy Sailing Association single-hander race. But not good for searching for a man overboard. When 49 year old Ringdal fell over the back, both men laughed. It was a bit of a lark. Ringdal had half expected to go in the water and removed his wallet just in case. "Glenn was laughing - sure enough, I'd fallen off the thing as predicted," Ringdal (1997) later reported. At the time, this author was at his Gulf Islands dock and, hearing the report of an empty power boat, got underway and was second on scene (after the hovercraft). The conditions were not funny and, as various search patterns were exhausted and others tried, and more than four hours passed since Ringdal and Baron hit the water, it began to look more like a search for bodies. Motor noise masked any sound of yelling, white caps and waves meant the wind shield was fre-quently obscured and visibility impaired. The hovercraft had mechanical problems and had to take a sheltered route through False Narrows behind Gabriola Island.

After more than four hours in the water, neither Ringdal or Baron were amused by what initially had seemed a lark. Instead of attempting to drive the boat over to his uncle, Baron had dived in with a lifejacket. The boat blew away in the strong nor'wester. The 49 year old Ringdal later claimed "I'm a Christian" so "I didn't change anything." " I didn't feel any fear about falling overboard and just wasn't smart enough to realize the wind was blowing and what it could do to the boat" (1997, p. 141). With regard to Baron leaping into the water, Ringdal claimed "By the time he started the boat and got it pulled around I probably would have drowned." A dubious claim indeed. After the incident Ringdal gave interviews to the author (Boshier, 1993) and others. He'd never driven a boat across Georgia Strait and, from certain perspectives, was poorly prepared to do so. Yet, in other ways, the initial amusement and reasoning nested in their "analyses" of the incident was typical of the tendency to under-estimate the seriousness of going overboard.

Dag Pike noted it all looks "straightforward" at first. But behind the simple need to get the MOB back on board "lies a whole host of difficulties, amongst which are: locating the person in the water; controlling your boat and bringing it back to the person in the water, something not always easy to achieve particularly under sail; and, most difficult of all, getting the person back on board." Hence, "an apparently straightforward situation can turn into a nightmare and can quickly get out of hand where lives are at risk" (1993, p. 141).

Denial and Trivialization

Fishermen and other boaters do not appear to appreciate the seriousness of going over-board. Compelling evidence for this is derived from Poggie and Pollnac (1997). As part of a sustained program of research on the way fishermen deny or trivialize risk, they asked fishermen who had or had not completed a safety course to rate (on a scale of 1 to 10) the danger involved in fifteen kinds of incidents. The context (weather, distance off-shore etc) was held constant. They factor analyzed the severity-ratings and produced three "worry" factors. Man overboard was part of worry factor Number 2 and had variance in common with "explosion in the engine room," and "struck amidships by another boat." Next, they calculated scale scores - for each respondent - on the three factors. The higher the scale score the more severe the "worry factor" was deemed to be. Worry factor 2 (with loadings on "man overboard," "explosion in the engine room" "struck amidships by another boat") was deemed the most severe. Yet the experimental group - those who'd taken the safety course - were significantly more worried about Factor 3 than control re-spondents who had not taken a course. But, for Worry Factor 2 (man overboard) there was no difference. Safety training had heightened the fishermen's awareness of less wor-rying incidents but did nothing to draw attention to the severity of being overboard. This doesn't mean training isn't worthwhile but it needs to be done differently.

In another study, Pollnac, Poggie and Van Dusen (1995) examined the congruence be-tween U.S. Coast Guard data and fishermen's perceptions of the relative severity of out-comes associated with various kinds of incidents. Fishermen were asked to rank-order (from most to least serious) eight kinds of accident (such as grounding, collision, steering failure). Each accident type was written onto a card The authors had fishermen sort the cards in order of "seriousness". Place the most serious incident over here, the least serious over there. An objective measure of seriousness was determined by examining the extent to which each accident type resulted in total loss (e.g. 47 per cent of explosions result in total loss in contrast to 42 per cent of capsizes). A composite measure of the distance between each fisherman's ranking and the ranks derived from Coast Guard data was cal-culated by summing the absolute differences in the rankings.

Unfortunately, man overboard was not canvassed in this study. But what matters is that fishermen tended to deny the seriousness of the different accident types. Hence the authors concluded that "the overall pattern of our findings support the theory fishermen use denial as one of the coping mechanisms which minimize their subjective of the dan-gers of their occupation. The dilemma posed by the decision to work in this dangerous occupation can be solved by denying or trivializing the risk .. It is an adaptive part of the subculture .. but results in a low level of realistic knowledge of danger for many fisher-men. Thus, when asked to indicate what are realistic antecedents of accidents, many fish-ermen are poorly informed and cannot identify the … patterns of danger" (1995, p. xx).

For a man overboard the perceived seriousness of the situation increases as a function of time immersed and water temperature. When water temperature is plotted against time, men like Lloyd Webb and Eddy Jackson (from the Pacific Charmer) would typically ex-pire after 1.5 hours in 5-degree celsius water. But when Jackson was nearly run over by a Coast Guard hovercraft he had the energy to berate rescuers with "what the fuck are you doing?" Just a few hundred yards away Webb was clinically dead, had no response for the rescue specialist and now doesn't remember being hauled aboard the hovercraft. Over on Valdez Island, Max Skinner had made it ashore using an upturned bucket as flotation.

The United Kingdom Marine Safety Agency (1991) estimated 61 percent of fatalities in-volving fishing vessels arise from man overboard incidents. Some of these derive from slipping on wet decks, being hauled over by nets, lines or other equipment or taking a pee over the back while underway and after drinking alcohol. On a large Alaska crab boat slipping off icy decks or being dragged over by flaying lines or buoys can lead to uni-maginable horror in icy and storm-swept waters (e,g. Jackson, 1995). In other cases, such as on the Laura Louise, a single operator falls off a gillnetter and the boat carries on (Transportation Safety Board, 1993). If the body is not found, animals devour it. For ex-ample, birds attack human eyes (Keller, 1997, p. 191).

When rescuers have found doing search patterns unproductive they'll often go along tide lines. "Tide lines are good for bodies," they're apt today. Tide lines are like floating junk yards and, in the west coast of America, choked with plastic bottles, logging debris, styro-foam in various shapes and sizes, clothing, garbage hurled from fishboats, tennis balls from cruise ships, cups from ferries. A tide line is a place for unwanted material. As Ra-ban (1999) noted on his Passage to Juneau, the tide line is where "the local orphans col-lect … jostling together in a buoyant democracy of abuse and neglect." They can also yield treasure - the occasional Japanese net float, complete sets of thongs or sneakers and hats. Gulls pick through tide lines and, when full, are apt to rest on logs or other flotsam while keeping an eye out for additional pickings.

In Vancouver harbour or the Georgia Strait there is always a chance of coming across a body because, thanks to Michel Foucault, Ivan Illich and other critics of institutionaliza-tion, hospital patients and inmates of various kinds have been placed on city streets. When off their medication they think they can fly and, there are too many bridge jumpers. Among the reasons the author got interested in this was the body of 20 year old Shawn Crooks which floated past our dock and washed up on neighbouring (Tugboat) Island (February 11, 1990). He'd gone into the water after the catastrophic loss of buoyancy in the fishing vessel Canadian National No. 5. He was wearing underwear and tangled in a yellow polypropylene rope. Nobody knows for sure what happened to Canadian National Number 5 but, whatever it was, five men went in the water and all died (Transportation Safety Board, 1990, Report # 552).

Once in the water there are meagre chances of survival. Even during a fire aboard, a grounding, a capsize or collision there is chance to stay with the boat, get into a liferaft or, god help us, make it ashore. But, once in the water, the situation is serious - very serious - and, in Canada, the chances of a big helicopter hoisting the person back to home and hearth are not good. If the incident occurs at night, in rough seas or far offshore, the situation is even worse.

CASTING A BROADER NET

We've been out on searches for people allegedly lost from B.C. Ferries knowing we're using valuable fuel for what will turn into a false alarm because Joe Blow of Nanaimo - with or without Alzheimers or intoxication - drove his car onto the ferry at Horseshoe Bay but walked off in Nanaimo and took a taxi home. Shortly after getting home he finds an impatient policeman at his door. In the meantime, government and private vessels are searching the ferry route. This makes the private searcher think twice about going out again and can cause hesitation at RCC. Yet, on the evening of August 30, 2000 a car that had been loaded onto a ferry in Tsawwassen was left unclaimed in Duke Point, Nanaimo. It was assumed the woman driver had gone overboard and an all night search was trig-gered. The search was suspended at 1245 hours August 31 with no results. In this case there was a body - washed up days later in the Gulf Islands.

As well, the Canadian navy² triggers MOB searches because of their tendency to conduct exercises without notifying others of their intentions. This was demonstrated in an inci-dent off Sisters Island (Ganges Harbour, July 21, 2000). There is also the problem of people who go overboard for the purposes of suicide. In 1998 a woman successfully did this by jumping into Georgia Strait from a cruise ship (and, as a result, triggered a search).

A man overboard incident is an emotional event. We have the B.C.T.V. videotape of the Hard Awyck incident off Sandheads (B.C.) in 1985. An experienced sailor in his 60's had recently married. He had told his new wife "If I ever go overboard, don't attempt a rescue … just get on Channel 16 and call mayday." A news helicopter was overhead the day this gentleman was hurled off his sailboat by a large wave that arrived in the midst of a strong nor' wester. In the water his floater coat bunched under his arm pits and, as wave after wave broke over his head, he sunk lower. He was in a desperate situation. People in the helicopter signalled rescue is four minutes away, now three, now two. Camera crews staked out the hospital ward and viewers shared the emotion of reunion with his wife. When shown at yacht clubs or to university students, these scenes always evoke stunned silence. There is no doubting the power and educative potential nested in survivor stories.

In the lower Georgia Strait of B.C. air cover is always slow to arrive so boats and hover-craft have special responsibilities³ . If evidence points to the fact someone is in the water there is race to find them. A successful outcome provides pleasure for rescued and rescu-ers. But "knowing they're around here somewhere," but not being able to locate the missing party, can also be an immense source of frustration. For example, as minutes and hours ticked away during the Ringdal/Baron search (and vessels arrived on scene - with not a clue about doing search patterns) rescuers were wondering. The boat drifted that way, the missing parties must be up this way? So where are they? Now we know Baron thought he could swim the eight miles to Gabriola Island. He got frustrated when he saw search craft doing patterns north of his location. Computer software at RCC could repro-duce drift patterns but had no way of knowing Baron was a tough guy (an ice hockey player) from Alberta and would attempt an impossible swim. It was the same when Bob Lord fell from the ferry. After methodically swimming sets of "300 strokes" and drifting in tide, he moved 30 kms. from the place where he went in the water.

METHODOLOGY OF THIS STUDY

Data for this study consists of testimonies secured from survivors of man overboard inci-dents. We've deliberately adopted a broad definition of man overboard to included im-mersion and near drownings. Hence we're as interested in the solo fishermen that died after falling off Laura Louise as we are in Skinner, Jackson and Webb who got into 5-degree water after Pacific Charmer capsized. We're also as interested in silent and still suffering informants as we are in Bob Lord who uses his experience as the basis for moti-vational talks.

Dead people cannot be interviewed although, as Junger (1997) showed in The Perfect Storm, reasoned conjecture contributes to understanding and thus prevention of marine incidents. Our methodology here was qualitative. We are not concerned with whether there are more or fewer man overboard incidents than before. Nor are we concerned with which coast has the biggest problem. Rather, our purpose was to listen to survivors tell their story. In survivor stories are implications for prevention and rescue.

Procedures

For the purpose of this study we did the following:

Data Sources

Although primarily interested in Canadian incidents those that occur in other waters are relevant. Because of the large number of man overboard situations and miraculous res-cues in the South Pacific Ocean and Tasman sea (such as in the disastrous 54th running of the Sydney-Hobart yacht race) and availability of survivor stories, we cast part of our net in that direction. Just as the pressure-cooker atmosphere of America's Cup yacht racing has been a crucible for high technology, the Sydney-Hobart race has produced more than its share of men overboard and a formidable test of rescue technologies. In the disastrous 54th running of the race - where 55 men were winched into rescue helicopters and twenty vessels towed in - the water temperature outside Sydney harbour was about 18-degrees celsius (the same as for Ringdal, Baron and Lord) and may have been up to 24 degrees further south (Whitmont, 1999). Another reason for reaching into the South Pacific stems from the careful documentation of the 54th Sydney-Hobart race by Mundle (1999) and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (Whitmont, 1999).

CONCEPTUALISING MAN OVERBOARD

There are many reasons why men fall, jump or otherwise end up in the water. In most cases the man goes in without warning. In others, he is aboard a sinking boat and some-times has time to prepare for entry into the water. Those forced to get in the water some-times have time to prepare and can be better off than those for whom going overboard is a more random or sudden event.

Physical protection is significant. Entering the water without flotation and, at night, some kind of light, greatly lessens the probability of survival. Commercial fishermen have elaborate rituals and engage in denial about the need to wear flotation. They claim flotation is "too bulky," likely to get caught in gear or "you can't work in it." None of these claims is true in an objective sense. Manufacturers solved these problems years ago. Yet fishermen continue to believe flotation means old D.O.T. (Department of Transport) kapok stuffed "lifejackets." This is a problem of culture and class. It does not stem from a lack of education or "awareness." Nor does it help when, in his televised Memoirs, the late Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau is seen canoeing without a P.F.D. or blockbuster movies like Titanic and mutual fund advertisers reinforce the notion "lifejackets" are big, bulky and bloody ugly. As well, almost no fishermen wear lights. More physical protection is better than less.

Educational preparation is also important. Even a minimal amount of survival training or education can enhance the probability of survival. Knowing how to assume the Heat Escape Lessening Positioning (H.E.L.P.) position, extract maximum benefit from cloth-ing, knowing about heat loss through the head or when to attempt a swim to shore, along with other relevant matters, can be learned in advance. More preparation is better than less.

It is beyond the scope of this paper to further discuss why people go overboard, flotation equipment or survival training. Instead, the focus is now on the psychological impact of going overboard and, as a result, the probability of surviving.

TYPOLOGY OF MOB INCIDENTS

Table 2 shows the names of men involved in MOB incidents and their position on five variables.

A. Predicament Noticed (No/Yes). When the person fell or otherwise got in the water, did anyone notice? Knowing that crewmates or others saw the incident suggests a rescue will be attempted. This helps the man in the water "hang on." Hence, when John Quinn went overboard in the 1993 Sydney-Hobart race, or the skipper flew across the safety lines on Hard Awyck (off Sandheads, B.C.) in 1985, both knew they'd been noticed and rescue would be attempted. This is in contrast to Glen Ringdal and Glenn Baron, both in the water without anybody else knowing.

B. Loneliness (Alone/Together). When Bob Lord plunged from a B.C. Ferry and swam around in the southern Georgia Strait for eight hours his situation was fundamentally dif-ferent from the task faced by Sydney-Hobart crews who entered the water together. The presence of others in the same predicament makes mutual support possible. Although dif-ficult to assume a HUDDLE position, the presence of others in the same predicament can reinforce the will to survive. Being in the water alone is different than being there with others.

C. Separation (Maximal, Minimal). When a man falls off a vessel steered by auto pilot, it is distressing to surface and see the boat chugging into the distance. When a man goes overboard it is desirable to stay close to the home vessel. But, as experience in the 54th Sydney-Hobart race showed, even when well-trained and superbly equipped men enter the water as a group, it is hard to stay together. In the same way, Glen Ringdal and Glenn Baron entered the water together but were quickly separated by wind and weather.

None of these variables operates in isolation. Hence, Mike Jackson, overboard from an Alaskan crabber in atrocious weather, knew his predicament was noticed (Variable A), was in the water alone (Variable B) and experienced only a minimal separation between himself and the boat. This is in contrast to John Quinn, overboard for five hours during the 1993 Sydney-Hobart yacht race. Quinn's predicament was noticed (and thus a mayday transmitted) he was in the water alone but, unlike Jackson, Quinn drifted far away from his boat (maximal separation). Ringdal and Baron went in the water together but soon developed a "maximal" separation (from each other and their boat - being blown away in a stiff nor'westerly wind). There had been no mayday or any other indication they were in trouble. Hence, their predicament was not noticed.

Associated with each name is a column that indicates the extent to which the MOB had any physical protection (flotation equipment or light) or the psychological protection of previous survival training. For example, of the five men in the water after the capsize of Pacific Charmer (Pylades Channel, B.C. Dec. 2, 1997) four went in with no physical protection (no lighting, no flotation) and, most likely, no survival training. Fisheries offi-cer Lloyd Webb was wearing his Stormy Seas jacket (which he inflated before gingerly lowering himself in the water) and also got hold of the strobe light on the EPIRB. In the same way Australian policeman Gary Schipper went in the water with a light.

TABLE 2

Factors that Shape the Seriousness of Being a Man Overboard

Name	A. Noticed	B. Loneliness	C. Separation	Physical Protection	Survival Training
	(No/Yes)	(Alone/Together)	(Min/Max)	(No/Yes)	(No/Yes)
Baron	No	Together	Maximal	No	No
Devine	Yes	Alone	Minimal	No	No
Gibson	Yes	Together	Maximal	Yes	Yes
Jackson, E	No*	Together	Maximal	No	No
Jackson, M	Yes	Alone	Minimal	No	Yes
Lord	No	Alone	Maximal	No	Yes
Morrison	No	Together	Maximal	Yes	?
Paterson	Yes	Alone	Minimal	Yes	No
Ringdal	No	Together	Maximal	No	No
Schipper	Yes	Alone	Minimal	Yes	Yes
Skinner	No*	Together	Maximal	No	No
Stanley	Yes	Together	Maximal	Yes	Yes
Stern	No	Alone	Maximal	No	No
Webb	No*	Together	Maximal	Yes	Yes
Quinn	Yes	Alone	Minimal	Yes	No

* Not immediately noticed but EPIRB transmitting


Different variable combinations from Table 2 constitute a hierarchy of psychological se-riousness. Survival also depends on factors not canvassed here - such as water tempera-ture, the distance to and availability of skilled rescue specialists - but, for the man in the water, some conditions feel better than others. It is most serious to be in the water alone, to experience maximal separation - from boat or friends and, worst of all, to be in a situation where nobody noticed the predicament.

CLASSIC INCIDENTS

In a classic man overboard situation a fishermen working on a slippery deck, taking a pee or filling a water bucket, loses his footing, plunges into icy waters, pops to the surface in time to see his stern light disappearing ahead and feels the first agony of cold water en-tering body openings. If the boat is steered by autopilot it could continue for hours. If he's fallen overboard in warm Caribbean waters or even in temperate zones (such as Australia or New Zealand) there's a chance of survival - particularly if wearing flotation equipment and in possession of signalling apparatus. But, in northern latitudes, the situation will quickly deteriorate. Not that death will be painful. Survivors who've almost died claim it's preceded by a dream-like state.

Sailboats

A legendary MOB incident occurred in the 1993 Sydney-Hobart yacht race when John Quinn was tossed from his yacht MEM in 50 knot winds. It was the middle of the night, MEM was in Bass Strait and seas were wild. Those left aboard transmitted a mayday but, most importantly, hit the MOB button. Other yachts in the race said they couldn't help because of conditions and some gave "estimated times of arrival" (ETA's) of up to three hours. The Australian Rescue Centre diverted a tanker. Four hours went by before search craft arrived and, by that time, it was assumed Quinn would be dead. But, miraculously, a crewmen on the tanker Ampol Sarel heard shouts and spotted reflecting tape on Quinn's personal flotation device (PFD). The tanker kept a light on him while the yacht Atara approached. Tom Braidwood from Atara put on a harness, jumped into the water and helped Quinn⁴ aboard their boat.

Crabbers

A more swift and fatal example of a man overboard occurred on a crab boat working the Bering Sea. Two brothers, Jim and Clint, were baiting and setting crab pots off American Beauty. What happened next was observed by a fisheries writer.

"A wave no worse than many others washed over the rail. "Clint …" Jim called quietly. Clint looked up in time to see his brother disappear over the side in a blur of orange rain-gear. No one saw more of the cause than this. As the boat circled wildly back, with the men throwing life rings from the deck, they saw Jim's bearded face in the orange hood bob up twice among the waves. And that was it" (McCloskey, 1998, p. 5).

In the darkness of early morning, American Beauty pulled alongside the pier at Kodiak and the remaining brother stumbled ashore carrying duffel bags for two. Nobody spoke as he scrambled for a seat on an aircraft heading south - away from one of the most danger-ous commercial fisheries in the world. Local news media politely withheld names until the surviving boy got home to tell the parents.

American Beauty had more safety equipment than the law required. But, in crabbing, the pot becomes a wrecking ball. Weighing 650 to 800 pounds when empty they turn mon-strous when filled with "product." On a rolling or pitching deck the pot swings wildly. Men have been swept to their deaths when leaning inside to pick crab from the pot. Oth-ers have gone down with the pot. Just like bait. King crabs are ready for "harvest" during winter gales and ice. Fishermen battle icebergs and mountainous seas. Hence, the fol-lowing (Fishing Alert, 1994):

Another example of how northern seas wreak havoc is found in the remarkable story of Jackson (1995) who went overboard not once, but twice. On the first occasion he was part of a crew fishing king crab in 45 to 50 m.p.h. winds and 25' to 30' seas with snow squalls reducing visibility to a few metres. Heavy crab pots were being wrenched from the ocean floor by hydraulic winches until a bight of line caught a control valve and reversed the direction of drive in the block bringing pots aboard.

"Suddenly, lines and buoys were flying across the deck. Without warning, I was hurled into frigid dark water. Efforts to recover me were frantic and uncoordinated. Precious seconds were slipping by. In the confusion, nobody alerted the captain there was a man overboard. That gloved hand reaching as far as it dared was not within my grasp" (1995, p. 38).

Despite the seriousness of his predicament, Jackson rode a big swell back to the stern of the ship and made a futile attempt to claw his way up the steel hull. Numbing cold was overwhelming adrenaline that powered his system at the point of immersion. Clothing designed to protect him had become a "deadly weight." By his own account, "desperation was giving way to a chilling sense of calm."

The skipper turned to look, slammed the big crabber into reverse and Jackson slid along the side. Someone threw a line. Jackson had just enough strength to hang on and the crew hauled him aboard.

"I was spilled onto the deck like a half dead fish. The crew stripped off my clothes and tossed me in a hot shower. I quickly recovered from the cold, pushed back the rising fear and went on deck. The job still had to be done" (1995, p. 38).

The personal flotation device his wife had given him as a present "was under my bunk when I was hauled overboard." He was not wearing it for the "standard reason." "It's an accessory requiring extra time to put on, it's bulky and hot, it restricts movement."5

Remarkably, Jackson was back in the water two weeks later. While stacking crab pots on deck another crew member was pitched into freezing seas - not wearing flotation. Jackson leapt in and swam toward his struggling crewmate.

"We were together bobbing in 25' to 30' seas, able to glimpse the boat only when on the crest of a passing wave. … We saw the big crabber starting to make her turn … As sec-onds ticked by, I could feel the growing weakness in my arms and legs. Again, we were lifted to the chilling vista … the crabber charging headlong into the breaking seas at full speed … the awesome sight of the big crabber towering above us, balanced on the crest of a wave, made my heart stop. Spray glistened against the red bottom paint, giving her the appearance of a great frothing beast. The barnacles along her bottom were like hundreds of razor-sharp teeth poised and waiting" (1995, p. 39).

For a second time Jackson was retrieved - this time with a grappling hook thrown from the now stationary boat. Another tragedy had been averted because "talking about what to do in detail over the galley table had given us the edge we needed to survive" (1995, p. 39). Jackson also attributes the successful pick-up to the fact he was wearing a coloured flotation device that compensated for the relative invisibility of the other man.

"I was the only one who could be seen from the boat," he said.

An MOB incident involving a B.C. crabber unfolded at the mouth of the Fraser River on July 1, 1999. The Vietnamese-Canadian crabber Silver Star was off Sandheads when a 46 year old man wearing a green jacket but no P.F.D. fell overboard just after 2000 hours. Appeals for help were made in broken English and unleashed a large search involving Hovercraft Siyay, several auxiliary units, rail ferries Carrier Princess and Seaspan Doris, the tugs Seaspan Greg, Evco Crest, Protector, Jessie Hodder, Evco Crest, Evco Bucca-neer, Pacific Forest, Pacific Force, the Canadian Coast Guard ship Manyberries, a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter (Helo 6520) and a Canadian military Buffalo aircraft (Rescue 456) that dropped flares to illuminate the search area.

After completing the tow of a broken down vessel the hovercraft arrived alongside Silver Star to discover that, when the 46 year old fell off the fishboat, his son had jumped in to save him. The father had sunk from sight. The water temperature was 10-degrees celsius. Those left on Silver Star had spent 40 minutes waiting for the father to reappear. Despite extensive searching, there were no further developments. With rubber boots and no flota-tion, the 46 year old likely went to the bottom. The Asian family left aboard Silver Star were very distraught and, at 2204 hours, the son who had attempted the rescue had to be brought into the hovercraft and tended by Rescue Specialists (RCC Victoria Incident No. P99-1224).

Dory

The west coast of Canada and storm-tossed waters of Alaska have long been a formidable challenge for fishermen - particularly recent immigrants from tropical countries like Vietnam. Yet, for experienced observers like McCloskey (1998) there is nothing like the legendary Grand Banks off Newfoundland. "On no other fishing grounds of the world do the ghosts of drowned fishermen speak more ancient and current languages" (1998, p.75).

It was here, on a breezy day in November, 1880, William T. Lee and Jack Devine were in their dory hauling in halibut. But, as their tiny craft drifted side on to the seas a wave flipped them over. Devine grabbed the gunnels and clambered back into the boat. Lee floundered a dozen feet away. Heavy clothing and sea-boots were taking him down. In the meantime, Devine fastened the fishing line to the bow so as to bring the head into the seas. As Lee sank from sight he felt the trawl line brush his hand. Grabbing the line, he hauled himself hand over hand. A hook passed through his finger. Impaled like a fish he used his other hand to reach up the line. Then, with a mighty yank he ripped the hook from the other hand. Just as his head popped above water another hook caught his trou-sers. After getting back in the boat he recovered enough to help Devine bring in the lines and return to the mother ship.

There is a similar story in Junger's (1997) analysis of The Perfect Storm.

"All these men have seen close calls at sea, but Murph's record is the worst. He's six-foot-two, 250 pounds, covered in tattoos and, apparently hard to kill. Once a mako shark clamped its jaws around his arm on deck and his friends had to beat it to death."

"Another time he was laying out the line when an errant hook went into his palm, out the other side and into a finger. No one saw it happen, and he was dragged off the back of the boat and down into the sea. All he could do was watch the hull of his boat get smaller and smaller above him and hope someone noticed he was gone. Luckily, another crew mem-ber turned around a few second later, understood what was happening, and hauled him in like a swordfish" (1997, p. 109).

Ferries

The southern Georgia strait is one of the busiest waterways in Canada. Quite apart from the volume of commercial traffic going in and out of Vancouver and desirability of cruising in the Gulf Islands, B.C. Ferries operates one of the largest ferry fleets in the world. Because of the way railings are constructed it takes effort to fall off a ferry. When an unclaimed car shows up on a ferry everyone is left to wonder if the driver was left be-hind in the wake. Searches that result from unclaimed cars are unsatisfactory and annoy-ing and there is a sense that searchers are "going through the motions."

On July 25, 1993 there was an incident in B.C. that challenged research authorities and orthodox knowledge about cold water survival. Bob Lord was 6'4'' tall, 42 years old and weighed 235 pounds when he drove his truck onto the ferry Queen of Vancouver at Swartz Bay for what was expected to be a routine 10 p.m. voyage to Tsawwassen. It was now dark but, during the day he'd stood around in hot sun at Elk Lake enjoying food, drink and conviviality at a BBQ. He felt sick and vomited into the truck cab. Rather than stinking out the truck he decided to finish the job over the side of the ferry. After clam-bering up to the empty car deck, Lord leaned out to let go. At the time it was around 11.15 p.m. and the ferry was in mid-strait - about half way between Active Pass and Tsawwassen. He was not the first person to go over the side of a ship while trying to save himself from the indignity of a "technicolour yawn." He rocketed down the steel wall of the ship expecting to be chewed through the ships propellors (RCC Incident Number W93-1168).

"I had the ship by one hand. The other was on my face. There was no stopping. I was gone," he said.

Hitting the water he went under but, popping to the surface, saw the Queen of Vancouver pulling away. When the truck was not claimed at the Tsawwassen ferry terminal Delta police were called. Eventually, Saanich police showed up at the Lord home looking for evidence of suicide. They'd found Lord's wallet in the glovebox. Males bent on suicide are known to remove their wallet to safety before doing the deed. Linda Lord insisted sui-cide was not in Bob's life plan. Later police returned again - this time wanting to search the house for a note. Vomit in the truck meant the driver was sick. Could he have vomited and then fallen over the side? Regrettably, in interactions between police, RCC and the Lord household, the first official response was to treat this as a "missing person" rather than a man overboard. As a result, initial rescue attempts were more hesitant than would be the case in similar circumstances today.

Falling from the Queen of Vancouver is like jumping from a bridge. Had he landed dif-ferently, life could have ended immediately. But, once in the water - with no bones broken - Lord could see lights on both sides of the strait but decided to swim for Galiano is-land. To ease the burden of swimming he'd make 300 strokes, rest, do another 300, rest, do another 300. And so on.

At first the cold shocked him. But later he considered it warmish - probably 18 degrees celsius. But, after tides changed, it got cold and he felt he wouldn't make it. Rescue Cen-tre believed there were pockets of warmish water in the strait - some of it disgorged from the mouth of the Fraser River.

At one point a large ship came right at him.

"It was huge and I tried to swim out of the way, but I really wasn't going anywhere … It ended up going right past me. It was just huge," he said (Vancouver Sun, July 28, 1993, p. 3). As dawn broke, other boats appeared but didn't hear his shouts or see him waving.

Lord was in the water more than eight hours and, although in bad shape when picked up, defied data nested in charts that show how survival times vary as a function of time, water temperature and body type. The previous month Ringdal and Baron also went into eight-een degree water and were in serious trouble after 4.25 hours. Lord was immersed eight hours and drifted 30 kilometres across the Canada/US boundary. He was retrieved by Mark Stokes, an off-duty American policeman - out fishing in Cop Out, a 21' Bayliner, near Orcas and Waldron Island.

Afterwards, Lord's wife Linda was glad husband Bob was alright but said "what a turkey - how did he fall in the water? (Man Survives Ordeal, Vancouver Province, July 27, 1993). Since this incident, Linda Lord's question has been adequately answered. What remains are questions about how he survived when others with the same build got into serious problems in the same water temperatures. What this incident suggests is that, while the objective science of hypothermia (Golden, Tipton and Scott, 1997) - and tables showing how survival varies as a function of body type and water temperature - are help-ful, there's more to it. Among the many things learned from the Lord incident is the need to consider human subjectivity.

Classic ketch

Lord survived his ordeal and, to this day, is happy to discuss what happened. This con-trasts to the usual situation where the person overboard wants to hide. For example, sev-eral of the fishermen interviewed by Brandlmayr (1999) had gone overboard - some tan-gled in nets - but, after recovering, "forgot" to tell their wives. Some of her interviews were emotional because they touched issues long concealed from wives and families.

An example of a jesting attempt to conceal MOB facts from the family occurred five nautical miles north of Pt. Roberts on June 11, 1998. It was a fine summer day and Tim Stern was celebrating his 70th birthday single-handling his classic ketch across Georgia Strait.

After about two hours on the water the boat was moving nicely on auto-pilot and the skipper was cleaning the deck and sprucing things up. He needed water. He undid the lower safety line on the stanchion and leaned on the upper wire while trailing the bucket over the side. As everyone who has performed this manouevre knows, a full bucket exerts a sudden and significant force.

As the skipper's weight came on the upper wire it let go, he was in the water and the auto-pilot ensured the boat sailed on. At 70 years of age he was now into the swim of his life. After about an hour fruitlessly swimming after the boat he gave up and decided to swim for a tug and tow he had spotted in the distance.

"Being professionals, they'll be looking out the window," he said to himself.

On the tug the Chief Engineer was sunning himself on the aft deck and enjoying a smoke when the nude 70 year old appeared from nowhere - splashing, yelling and swimming. The tuggies hauled him out and into a shower and called Coast Guard. It took 25-30 min-utes for the hovercraft to get on scene. When they reached the tug, rescue specialists "didn't have a clue who was hypothermic" (Pickrell, 2000). Everyone involved in this incident was surprised by the fitness of the 70-year old - deemed to be a "bit of a charac-ter." Yet, to be on the safe side, the hovercraft First Officer joined him on his boat for part of the trip back to Point Roberts. There was some concern that, despite the fact he looked fine, cardiac arrest was possible. On the way back to Point Roberts he pleaded with the hovercraft First Officer "not to tell his wife, nor the media … since his wife would not let me go sailing again!" (RCC Incident #W98-0840). Later, Stern relented and published his story in a Power Squadron newsletter.

Gillnetter

Water buckets are lethal and so are nets. When a fishermen gets tangled in a net and is hauled over, corks, weights and web can have ghastly results. In an interview designed to show how fishermen "attribute causality" (or explain) accidents, Brandlmayr (1998) un-earthed this MOB incident involving a gillnetter.

"I made a mistake when I hung the net. Instead of it coming off (the drum) smoothly it was dragging across the deck. My foot happened to be there and a piece of the lead line had a loop in it. I stepped in the loop and it pulled me over the side. The only thing I thought of was to grab the floats of the cork line. So I put my hands around the cork line and desperately tried to get it off my foot. It was trying to pull me under. The lead line was trying to pull me under in three or four fathoms of water. I would have drowned. I have no doubt about it. And it was tight. And tightening on my leg - a half hitch on the line itself … The boat kept going away from me until the net stuck on the drum. Then the boat starts to pull and the net tightens up … the boat was pulling extremely hard which tightened up the cork line. I could feel it tightening, it wasn't releasing from the drum, so I pulled myself along the cork line. The lead line fell off my feet and I was within the web. I worked my way along, not tangling in the net … When I got within ten feet of the boat I started to pull tight … It was strength … If I had got into real deep problems with going under and not having the strength to come back to the boat, then I would have drowned."

Kayaks

Leo Tarrant, skipper of Pacific Charmer, had 44 years experience as a fisherman. Prior to dying he was a well known, bombastic, knowledgeable, charming and irascible personal-ity amongst Newfoundlanders that dominate the B.C. dragger fleet. Unfortunately, Tar-rant also had the "experienced skipper syndrome" (Boshier, 2000a). He "knew it all." He'd "been around" the fishery, had owned or operated many vessels and continuously fussed with gadgets. But, when it really mattered, he didn't realise live herring had a dif-ferent density than hake. Having previously loaded 100 tonnes of hake into the Charmer it should cope with 80 or 90 tonne of herring - shouldn't it? But herring are not hake. Re-grettably, this interesting fisherman paid for the error. And so did Leo Barros - who also died in the five-degree water of Pylades Channel.

The "experienced skipper syndrome" also shows up in the recreational sector where citi-zens who "know everything" and have been boating "for years" (and "nothing like this has ever happened before") come to grief. The "experienced skipper syndrome" can have serious consequences when boaters try kayaking. Kayaking appeals to well-educated people looking for a low-tech way of experiencing the coast. But kayaks and canoes are significantly less stable than heavy displacement craft and it's easy to overboard.

In recent years there have been too many kayak incidents. One close call involved Debra Le Clair and Kevin Johnson - Americans who'd driven north and rented a kayak. All was well when they launched the kayak near Telegraph Cove in north Vancouver Island but, after wind got up and they were tipped from the craft, got into a desperate attempt to stay alive. Unlike the situation in the next case, they got back in the kayak but were being creamed by big waves and in serious trouble. They got off a flare and rescuers found Le Clair sitting in a submerged bow and Johnson in the last stages of hypothermia in the ele-vated stern. Jim Borrowman, one of the rescuers, told Keller (1997) that Johnson was "almost dead. He was basically unconscious. His eyes were almost closed and he was sort of like a rag doll in there, hanging on. Every wave was washing completely over the top of them" (1997, p. 80-81).

In August, 2000 there was another incident involving a rented kayak - this one in wild west coast waters near Friendly Cove (Nootka), Vancouver Island. This incident never came to the attention of authorities and is one of thousands that will never appear in Transportation Safety Board, Coast Guard or any other incidents database.

Captain James Cook had arrived in Nootka in 1778 - lured by the availability of 20,000 pounds for the first person to describe the Northwest Passage. Just over 222 years later - in year 2000 - 55 year old Tom Paterson - university graduate, college instructor and Olympic athlete, was there with two friends - one a professor of risk analysis at UBC, the other a college instructor. Paterson was reared in coastal B.C., had owned boats and other water craft for most of his life but had a reputation for assuming strength would always get him "off the hook" in tricky situations. He had hiked in coastal B.C. and the Yukon, clambered over mountains in Nepal, had close calls with ornery bears and excelled at several sports. His construction projects had featured in glossy magazines. He had once swum for a boat dragging an anchor and triggered a search involving flares dropped from a Buffalo aircraft. He'd also run out of gas. In another incident he and his partner had kayaked in calm weather to Hernando Island where they were marooned for a night (fit-fully sleeping out on the beach) when a S.E. wind came up.

Paterson and his two friends had pitched camped four miles west of Friendly Cove at Nootka and were anxious to kayak the coast to examine work on the new west coast trail. The two friends had their own kayaks. Paterson had rented his. When seas got rough in the open Pacific they anxiously looked for a place to get through surf and onto shore. They'd had problems the day before and, on one of the kayaks, the spray skirt was torn. Nevertheless they continued. Paterson didn't like the feel of his rented kayak or their "ir-rational decision-making." They got stuck between "what looked like a wall of water coming from Hawaii" (Boshier, 2000b) and surf crashing into cliffs on shore.

"This is shitty," yelled Paterson, who anticipated a capsize. When fully-loaded, the kayak felt stable enough. But now it was in light-ship condition. After a quick conference the three decided to shoot through a gap between two islets and seek shelter on a beach.

The risk analyst and college instructor made it through the gap but, in attempting to get lined up, Paterson shouted "it's no good," was smashed by a wave and tossed into water - unusually cold for August - probably 10-degrees. With the kayak bottom now facing the sky, and Paterson underwater in an inverted position, there was no time for "roll-over" procedures.

He struggled from the kayak and, on surfacing, gasped at the coldness of the water. From behind the rock the friends yelled "Let go of the kayak …"

Knowing Paterson's working-class origins, they yelled "we'll pay for it."

"Fuck you," yelled Paterson who could see he was about to be pounded into a cliff face and intended to use the upturned kayak to fend off rocks and barnacles.

Deep down he remembered a childhood admonition to "stay with the boat" and ignored the shouted advice to let go. Although wearing a kayak style PFD, he was not in a wet suit. Being used to the more balmy temperatures around Savary Island, he was shocked as cold penetrated body openings. After being tossed about in the surf he felt current was carrying him along the coast. The friend in the kayak with a torn spray skirt risked dou-bling the difficulties by attempting a rescue. Nobody had flares, VHF or other signalling devices.

In an interview with the author (Boshier, 2000b) Paterson attributed their problems to the following:

Dive Charter

Dive charter operations contain a considerable potential for SAR operations.

At around 1900 hours on August 16th, 1999, the dive charter vessel Nautilus VII reported having lost a person overboard and a 31' skiff near Sentry Shoal in the northern part of Georgia Strait. There were S.E. winds of 20 knots, 6-8' seas but good visibility for a night search. The 31 year old woman in the water weighed 150-160 pounds, was an expe-rienced diver and wearing a dry suit. Well into the search the Master of the Coast Guard cutter Pt. Race concluded she may have been lost overboard one or two hours before Nautilus VII alerted Rescue Centre. However, once alerted, RCC tasked the Coast Guard vessels Pt. Race, Pt. Race No. 1, Mallard and Buffalo aircraft Rescue 456. However, be-cause of possible delays in notifying RCC, there were doubts about the last known posi-tion. Fortunately, the situation would be resolved with a positive outcome.

At 2210 hours (PDT) an Ohio woman on the cruise ship Veendam was getting ready for bed when she heard faint cries for help.

"Help .. please help me … someone .. help me."

From her cabin on the upper deck she had a door that opened onto the verandah outside. As the ship steamed forward, cries grew fainter. She called 911 on her cell phone to alert the bridge. Another woman passenger had also heard cries and the bridge was halting the vessel and shining lights. Shortly thereafter, the Pt. Race No. 1 located the woman and transferred her to a Coast Guard cutter and then to Campbell River hospital. One of only a few people to go overboard in a drysuit, she was mildly hypothermic after more than three hours in the water. The 31' skiff was not located (RCC Victoria Incident No. P99-1971)

INCIDENT STAGES

This paper takes a subjectivist perspective, wants to foreground survivor testimonies and is thus in line with the current International Maritime Organisation preoccupation with "human factors". The "objective facts" of a man overboard are crucial. For example, few fishermen working on draggers off the B.C. west coast ever wear flotation, let alone a light that would expedite rescue. Even if a man goes into the water in full view of his comrades, the chances of keeping him in sight, hauling in gear and turning around for a pick-up are poor. Even if they kept him in sight and got back to his position there is the onerous difficulty of getting (an often obese and poorly conditioned) fishermen up the steep sides of a fishboat. If the weather is snotty, the air cold or visibility impaired by fog, rain or snow, the chances of retrieving the man in the water are poor. We say this to rein-force the fact that, in adopting a subjectivist posture for this paper, we are not discounting the importance of weather, location, or other objective factors that enhance or detract from survival.

From a subjectivist perspective, our reading of the data for this study suggest that, during a man overboard incident, the person in the water goes through these stages.

For men like Leo Tarrant and Leo Barros - in the water after the Pacific Charmer cap-sized - only a short time separated the first immersion from death. Barros, who could not swim, jumped into the water and submerged his head. He has not seen or heard from again. Tarrant, at one time a strong swimmer, had medical conditions that would have hastened his demise. Depending on the water temperature and other factors, many hours (more than eight in Lord's case) separated the earliest from the later stages of the inci-dent. In other cases, the process is swift and there isn't time for ruminations about the meaning of life (or death). In Canadian waters the first immersion is usually shocking. However, as the man in the water reaches the point where hypothermia is extracting the last energy and consciousness, losing it doesn't seem so bad.

Previous attempts to develop stage models - for example, concerning dying (Kubler-Ross, 1969), ego development (Erikson, 1959) or the so-called "passages" of life (Sheehy, 1976) founder when it turns out peoples lives depart from the order implied by the model. What we're proposing here is not a rigid template that explains what happens when men go in the water. For example, stages can overlap. Secondly, not everyone in the water experiences all stages. Some people (such as Leo Barros of the Charmer) experi-ence the first immersion and die. The "gasping reflex" induced by cold shock kills any chance of "settling in." As well, not all stages manifest themselves with equal force. Hence, in Bob Lord's case there was a long period of resignation/frustration before he started "losing it." For some, the process of losing it is rapid. Finally, this is not an at-tempt to model the physiology associated with man overboard incidents. Instead, the fo-cus here is on psychological issues associated with the early, mid and last stages of MOB incidents. Although there is some reference to physical factors associated with immersion in cold water, the focus is on survivor stories - what they thought and felt.

RECENT CASES

The task is to search for communalities in survivor testimonies about "first immersion," "settling in" and other stages of a MOB incident. Most data is derived from survivors. Except for the testimony of men like Lloyd Webb - plucked from the water within min-utes of expiring - there is no way to compare the experience of deceased people with sur-vivors. However, sometimes only a miraculous rescue separates the living from the dead and it is reasonable to assume that, with the exception of those who died from cold shock, cardiac arrest, drowning or other conditions triggered when first entering the water, those who died would likely testify along the same lines as survivors. Our task here is to search for clues that might inform prevention or influence rescue strategies. Although there is a danger of repetition, the task now is to dig deeper into the incidents already outlined above. Hence, when Webb, Paterson, Lord and the rest first hit the water, how did they react?

First Immersion

When a man makes an unforced (so-called "accidental") entry into the water it is usually because of a fall from a deck, railing or structure of some kind. The man overboard is not usually wearing flotation equipment and becomes fully immersed (and thus wet) before popping back to the surface. Where the person goes overboard from a forced entry it is sometimes possible to make preparations and, in calm water, get in without submerging the head.

Sydney-Hobart

During the disastrous running of the 54th Sydney-Hobart yacht race a huge wave snatched Glen "Cyril" Picasso off the distressed yacht Solo Globe Challenger. The situation was quickly resolved in an Aussie way. Still attached to the boat by a safety harness Picasso was being dragged under water. As his life flashed before his eyes he said to himself "For Christ's sake this harness better not break." Suddenly the harness went limp, he stopped, put up his hand and touched the stern of the boat. Seeing him there, crewmate and friend Mowbray yelled:

"Cyril, for Christ's sake, stop fucking around and get back on board."

Mowbray then turned to help others in distress.

Cyril said "right oh" and hoisted himself back aboard! (Mundle, 1999, p. 262).

The 54th Sydney-Hobart was run over water heated by summer sun. Temperatures were about 18 degrees outside Sydney harbour (the start) and up to 24 degrees where many men were being tossed into the water. For men off the racing yacht Loki the first immer-sion was almost surreal and, because of the clarity and warmth (relative to northern lati-tudes) the situation seemed serene.

"What followed (the capsize and being tossed in the water) was the most amazing experi-ence I've ever had at sea. There I was, underneath this upturned yacht in the most incredi-bly serene situation. I could have been swimming in a fishpond at home. In fact it was like swimming in the Caribbean - clear and warm. … I saw my glasses get washed off my face and had time to simply reach out and grab them. I remember all the coloured halyard tails and lines just wafting through the water like sea snakes. I was amazed that I felt no panic. I knew I had to release my safety harness at my chest to get out. There was no gasping for breath or panic, just deliberate movements to escape" (Mundle, 1999, p. 273).

The experience of Victorian (Australia) policeman Gary Schipper was a classic example of how to retrieve a man who's gone overboard at night. It's also a good example of how quickly a situation develops. Schipper had been on the foredeck of the racing yacht Challenge Again and unclipped his harness from the jackstay as he moved back to reat-tach himself in the cockpit.

"Wouldn't you know it, just as I unclipped we got hit by a rogue wave right at the stern, under the boat. It knocked the stern to leeward, caused the boat to go into a broach and laid her on the side .. I slid across the cabin top on my stomach - straight over the safety rail and into the piss. I didn't even touch the rail. I was flying. … What I didn't realise at the time is that I had a waterproof torch in my hand and took it with me … I was fully rigged in my full wet weather gear, thermal underwear and seaboots. The first thing I re-alised was that the water was warm. It was a small consolation. One of the crew thought quickly enough to grab another floating torch (flashlight), turn it on and hurl into the wa-ter towards where I was."

"My immediate thought as soon as I hit the drink was, don't panic. For an instant I re-member what John Quinn said after he'd spent five hours in the water in the 1993 race - he just tried not to panic."

"After about 10 or 15 seconds I realised I had the torch in my hand … it worked .. halle-lujah .. I wanted to get my harness and boots off so I could tread water more easily …. Every time I tried to do something with the harness or my boots I started going under … I was feeling very very lonely. I was already exhausted. I was breathing heavy, probably because of the adrenaline rush. I was tiring but I kept treading water" (Mundle, 1999, p. 93).

Paterson

Tom Paterson had been selected to represent Canada in the 1976 Olympic Games. Even now, at age 55, he is in superb physical condition and known to carry impossibly heavy rocks and logs off beaches and up to his many construction projects. Yet, when first going into the cold waters of Nootka Sound, he was in panic and preoccupied with body.

"I saw my own smashed body … I was scared of the barnacles on the rocks … I saw my-self smashed up there," he said.

Although having swum in B.C. waters all his life he was surprised by the cold.

"I knew this one was serious. I thought oh shit, this time I've bought it. I started having crazy thoughts. I had no pants on but realized I had my kayak booties in case the waves tossed me feet first into barnacles on the rocks," he said (Boshier, 2000b).

Lord

The 10 p.m. ferry sailing from Swartz Bay to Tsawwassen was not crowded so when Bob Lord felt the need to vomit over the side he easily found a quiet place with nobody there to watch. All vehicles were on the truck deck so he'd gone up to the empty car deck where there was privacy. He hooked his feet over a coaming used to keep cars back from the inside wall of the ferry, leaned out and let rip. And over he went. The flight down is difficult to recall. Once under water he struggled to find which was up but, popping to the surface, was confident someone would have seen him drop. They'd be there. The ferry already stopped and turning back.

Instead, the ferry was steaming ahead and Lord struggled in what he described as "in-credible turbulence" (Boshier, 2000c). He went into high panic, "completely out of con-trol," yelled, screamed and flailed his arms. He was wearing jeans, runners, a golf shirt and light windbreaker with a yoke collar.

"The fear, panic and despair was more than I could deal with," he said.

He was suffering sunstroke and immediately concerned by the cold. Cold water pene-trated body openings and, within seconds "I was shaking." Unlike the situation the previ-ous month when Ringdal and Baron had gone in the water, Lord was bobbing around in calm water. Unlike Baron who dropped his watch, Lord kept his $30 Casio strapped to his wrist.

Unlike those who fall off fishboats or dinghies, Lord had rocketed down a high steel wall. He went well under the water and, in the confusion of struggling for the surface, was ap-palled by the ferociousness of turbulence and proximity of propellors.

"Out of control … total fear," he said.

Stern

Tim Stern had turned 70 and was happily sailing his 37' ferrocement schooner Majuba across Georgia Strait on a fine day in June. The water temperature at Halibut Bank was 16-degrees celsius. Wanting to clean-up "winter grunge" he got out of his clothes, put a bucket over the side and was promptly pulled in.

"Oh shit, now I've done it," he thought.

The boat was on auto pilot with sails set in 10 knot winds. Reaching the surface he was only three or five feet from the boat. However, after several desperate strokes he realised there was no chance of catching it.

It was an El Nino summer and, although shocked by the sudden and unanticipated immer-sion, didn't panic. After only a few minutes in the water he decided to settle down and plan. Being stark naked in the midst of Georgia Strait with the only boat in sight happily sailing away on auto-pilot, there weren't many options.

Webb

As the Charmer rolled, Lloyd Webb reached into his Stormy Seas jacket, extracted and blew into the rubber hose. The weather was calm but water that awaited his entry was only 5-degrees. It was mid-winter - December 2, 1997 at 1.30 a.m.

"When I slipped into the water I was careful not get my head wet. Cause that's where you lose a lot of your body heat, through the top of your head. Everybody else was in the wa-ter. So they were in the water five minutes longer than me. If anyone has fallen into a stream or filled up their boots, that's what it's like. It's a real shock."

"You're in fish. There's fish all over the place. And you've got to worry about getting tangled in nets and gear. There's oil in the water, so if you wear glasses like I do, you get oil and stuff like that on your glasses. It's dark at night and hard to see anything, so you could be a hundred feet from the raft but not see it. So, my thought was to stay there, as long as I figured there was a chance the raft was coming up."

With regard to the first immersion, cases analysed appear to have the following in common:

Settling In (Stay or Swim)

If the MOB survives the first immersion and cannot get straight back on the boat, the next stage involves "settling in." Those wearing flotation and aware of the H.E.L.P. position try to assume it and get ready for a "long haul." Others wrongly think swimming will keep blood circulating. If the MOB is not wearing flotation, assuming the H.E.L.P. posi-tion is not an option and most dog paddle or roll onto their back and kick. Without flota-tion and, in everything except the calmest seas, the head is continuously immersed and heat loss hastened.

It is hard to believe an ordinary fishing, sailing or tourist trip has turned into a nightmare. But, at this stage, the MOB is preoccupied with worldly matters and, in some cases, thinking about television. After Glen Ringdal struggled to get into the lifejacket swum to him by his nephew he was confident someone would report them missing. Rescue would be at hand. What he most expected to see was a "big helicopter" - a Labrador - like the ones featured in the then B.C. Tel television commercial. In TV commercials, Coast Guard promotional films and news coverage of demonstrations at public events, the heli-copter appears above the mariner, the rescue specialist drops from the sky and everyone flies back to base for coffee or a hot shower. Such expectations are vastly discrepant with fractured and sputtering helicopter rescue in B.C. which greatly depends on foreign (i.e. U.S.) resources.

Mike Marshman had similar thoughts when the Heli-Med helicopter arrived overhead the foundering Standaside in the hurricane that decimated the 54th running of the Sydney-Hobart yacht race. The Heli-Med crew decided lifting survivors wasn't going to work. The rescue specialist suspended from the helicopter kept getting washed away in seas bigger than tall apartment buildings. But, as Whitmont (1999) reported, even though "Marshman can see they're in trouble, he isn't too worried. The rescues he's seen on tele-vision are always successful and he can't imagine this one will be any different" (1999, p. 123).

During the first ten or fifteen minutes of his immersion in 5-degree water, Lloyd Webb waited for a liferaft to emerge. Deckhand Max Skinner couldn't swim but got hold of a bucket, decided not to wait for a raft, and dog-paddled toward the gloom of a nearby is-land. Not far from Webb, Eddy Jackson had got hold of a fish tote and was struggling to get attached to it. There was no sound from two others - Tarrant and Barros. Barros probably died after the first immersion and Tarrant soon thereafter.

As the Charmer rolled, the last words spoken by the skipper were "no mayday." Hence, as Jackson, Webb and Skinner settled in for what would be a long wait they had no rea-son to be optimistic. Except for Webb - who was wearing flotation and had swum to an EPIRB flashing a strobe light. Having done survival training, he knew this probably meant a distress signal was being transmitted. But his chief recollection of "settling in" was acceptance of the fact a liferaft wasn't appearing (and, if it did, it couldn't be seen in the dark) and the feeling of being stabbed in the backside with icicles. Icy water entered body openings and, even a year after rescue, he continued to suffer.

Webb was wearing a Stormy Seas floater jacket that he could inflate with a tube con-cealed behind the collar. After all the lights and machinery aboard the fishboat sputtered to a halt, he settled into the H.E.L.P. position and placed a board between his knees to remind himself to "stay tight."

When Glen Ringdal fell off his powerboat 7-8 miles northeast of Entrance Island he was fully submerged but surfaced about ten feet from the boat. The water was, for B.C. a balmy 18-degrees.⁶ At first he and Baron were amused. But, as water soaked the fleece-lined jacket Ringdal was wearing, he said to Baron "you'll have to save me."

At Nootka, Tom Paterson was most worried when upside down in the kayak. Then he was panicked by thoughts of being smashed into barnacle-covered rocks. But, after the first two or three minutes in the water, he settled-in and decided that, despite shouted admoni-tions from friends, wasn't letting go of the upturned kayak.

Bob Lord feels he started to "settle in" after three or four minutes in complete panic. As lights from Queen of Vancouver grew dimmer he tried to settle himself and make plans. Lord has spent a lifetime setting goals. Now the task was to do something. He was not wearing a P.F.D. and, although he knew about the H.E.L.P. procedure, hanging around in the middle of the strait on a dark night, didn't have much merit.

From the water he could see lights at both the Tsawwassen and Active Pass side of the strait. Later, he'd discover he'd fallen a bit closer to Tsawwassen than Galiano Island (at Active Pass) but, on the night, started swimming for the Gulf Islands. These days Bob Lord's e-mail to directed to 300strokes.com. Settling in, he started to swim. 300 strokes. Rest, float on the back. 300 strokes. Rest. 300 strokes … And so on. Perhaps because of the task he'd set himself he began to "acclimatize" to the coolness of the water. After each set of 300 strokes he'd cause the windbreaker to catch air, roll on his back and rest.

After an hour or more of swimming, the effort was taking a toll. Although the lights in Sturdie's Bay looked closer, Lord realized this strategy wasn't working. It was starry and calm but, alone in the strait, what had previously felt like motivated and determined be-haviour, now seemed hopeless. He would soon be frustrated and resigned to his fate. But he still shivered and had not entered the last stages of hypothermia.

Tim Stern had fallen off his sailboat about three nautical miles from Point Roberts. After finding he could not catch the errant boat he decided to "settle down" (Stern, 1998) to "a steady breast stroke in her wake. This not from any conscious decision so I guess my sub-conscious took over. In retrospect, it seems to have been the best thing to do as, at this point, if I had turned around and made for the nearest land, being Point Roberts, I doubt if I would now be writing this."

Stern had gone in the water at 4.30 p.m., shortly after calling his wife on a cellphone. Af-ter swimming for an hour he felt he was about five miles from Mayne Island. Stern is in good physical condition for a 70 year old and a 5-mile swim was within his capabilities. However, "settling in" would become "resignation/frustration" when, at 5.30 p.m. he ran into cold water.

When Paterson was tipped from his kayak at Nootka something from his past told him to "stay with the boat." Despite the facts friends advised him to let go he held on and used it as a buffer for the moment when waves would hurl him into rocks. What made "settling in" interesting was the feeling this was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

With regard to settling in, the cases analysed appear to have the following in common:

Resignation/Frustration

If the MOB is conscious when he hits the water, as soon as he pops to the surface he looks for signs of action aboard his vessel. If he was alone on the vessel and steered on auto pilot the sight of it maintaining course (and the large separation that quickly devel-ops) evokes feelings of profound desperation. If others are on board and have noticed his predicament they will be going into their MOB routines - if they have any. But, no matter how swiftly or expertly these are being executed, the person in the water feels lonely and that time is being wasted. What's going on? What's taking so long?

If, as is usually the case, there are already tensions aboard the vessel, the MOB incident will inflame them. Hence, during an interview conducted after loss of fish packer King Oscar, skipper Art Dedolph was asked "what happened?" His answer was to angrily de-nounce crew members that put the vessel on rocks. "They were probably standing up there talking about pussy and scratching their arse" (Keller, 1997).

Near-Miss Searchers

Depending on the temperature and other conditions it appears all men in the water who survive the initial stages get to a point where they became frustrated by the non-appearance or apparent incompetence of rescue officials. They also become resigned to the hopelessness of the situation although always willing to "bargain." At one point in his eight hour immersion, Bob Lord felt he'd got himself within 400 metres of Galiano Island where he could see lights in cabins.

"I swam for the better part of an hour or hour and a half trying to get to shore … When I realized I wasn't going to get to shore that's when I felt for the first time that I wasn't going to make it" (Victoria Times-Colonist, July 28, 1993, p. 1).

In almost every case studied, the man (or men) in the water rage at the number of "near misses" scored by searching aircraft or boats. As well, they yell and plea for rescue but subside in frustration knowing words hurled into storm or roar of aircraft, hovercraft or boat engines, are energy wasted. In Lord's case two freighters passed by but yells of an-guish were not heard. Even when rescue arrives, the MOB is angry. When the hovercraft sped up to Eddy Jackson (in 5-degree water after Pacific Charmer capsized) he swore at them. When Glen Ringdal and Glenn Baron were plucked from the water they were not pleased with each other. Baron even complained about his treatment aboard the Coast Guard hovercraft.

"I expected them to be a little gentler. I guess they didn't want to drop me in the water. They threw me across and up onto some storage bins and I went banging off the cabin 'Hey, I yelled.' I thought they were trying to kill me," said Baron (Keller, 1997, p. 138)

After interviewing survivors from Winston Churchill (in the 54th Sydney-Hobart yacht race) Mundle reported as follows:

"At around 3 p.m. they heard, then spotted, a plane. By the time a flare was found, un-wrapped and lit, the plane had gone. The already frustrated .. (men) …. could only watch as the plane disappeared towards the horizon. Then, about 20 minutes later, it reappeared" (1999, p. 283). The aircraft was flying a search pattern.

John "Steamer" Stanley and John Gibson had escaped Winston Churchill and were on a raft that had disintegrated. It was little more than a ring in the water so, for all intents and purposes, this was much like other MOB incidents. Emergency equipment had all been lost, there were low black clouds that impeded search aircraft and they were at least 50 miles from where the yacht had sunk.

Both had hallucinations about floors, corridors and search craft.

"It was a most blissful feeling. We both saw buckets of ships and sailing boats; cutters and schooners. I went past millions of them …. There were vessels with lights on that went past us" (Mundle, 1999, p. 287).

At Nootka, Tom Paterson realised that after 30 to 40 minutes in 10-degree water he was in a situation without precedent. For years he's lifted weights and maintained a youthful appearance. Now he gripped the upturned kayak and was scared to let go. For the first time in his life, the strength of his youth didn't guarantee escape. Had age and impru-dence finally caught up?

At first there was an angry and irrational argument about who would pay if the rented kayak got lost. Paterson realised the situation could get very serious if his companions ventured out of shelter afforded by the islet to attempt a rescue. The situation was a par-ticular hazard for the friend in the kayak with a broken spray skirt. One of the friends paddled out to help but, after surfing down a big wave, scurried back to shelter. Had two or, in the worst case, all three gone in the water, with no other rescuers at hand and no ability to signal, there could have been casualties. For Paterson, the situation was frus-trating and out of control.

After plummeting from the ferry, Bob Lord swam many sets of "300 strokes" to a point somewhere off the northeast side of Active Pass. He noticed there were warm and cold patches in the water and, at one point was scared by a seal. After realising he could not swim to land, he went on an "emotional rollercoaster" - involving rage, resignation, re-grets about life's foibles and lost opportunities and, most of all, fear. He would scream, yell, and dwell on "the person I could have become" (Boshier, 2000c). Speaking to re-porters the day after the incident he said "there was occasional panic, maddening frustra-tion and dark loneliness" (Vancouver Sun, July 28, 1993)

Lord seemed to swing from contemplating the possibility of death to a preoccupation with worldly matters like uncompleted tasks and what the rest of the family would think. At times, the emotional swings bordered on the ridiculous. He was wearing a pager which, with all the swimming and other movement, had worked itself into a position where it began to vibrate.

"Who would be phoning me?" he wondered.

As two became three and then four and more hours in the water, tides were literally tak-ing Lord away from Canada. He was wearing a watch and knew dawn was imminent. He would soon be in a foreign country. As he got down near the American San Juan islands he was being swept through kelp. Any intrusion (seals, kelp) upset his concentration and disturbed the rhythm of the "300 strokes" that kept him focused.

After eight hours in the water Bob Lord had defied what the science of hypothermia sug-gests ought to have happened. Having been swept along in an ebb tide - probably doing a respectable eight or nine knots near Active Pass but an overall average of 3.6 knots, Lord got into U.S. waters. But the tide turned and what previously had been a tideline where temperatures were around 17-degrees, he was now in colder (probably 10-11-degree) water. He'd soon be losing it.

Even now, two years later, Tim Stern is nonchalant about falling off Majuba and swim-ming around in Georgia Strait. He felt swimming after his boat had merit because, al-though on autopilot, winds were light and might have dropped off altogether. If the boat rounded up or got into irons there was a chance of catching up, clambering aboard, mak-ing tea and guarding the secret of his adventure. So he swam and thought of jobs that needed completion and what would happen when the boat ploughed into Mayne Island.

Stern did breastroke for the first hour. At around 5.30 p.m. he realised it had got cold. What had started at around 16-degree water had plummeted. In an article for his Power Squadron he explained it like this:

"For whatever reason, perhaps the tide changed, I found myself in ice water and, for the first time .. felt a wave of fear. Still, in view of the limited options open to me I kept on swimming. Due to the cold I was getting minor cramps in my legs" (Stern, 1998, p. 1)


With regard to resignation/frustration the cases analysed appear to have the following in common:

_______________

1 This was not the only Charmer that would come to grief in these waters. At 3.15 p.m. on February 26, 1916, the Coast Guard (Dept. of Marine and Fisheries) ship S.S. Quadra collided with the C.P.R. steamer Charmer in Nanaimo harbour. Captain Le Blanc (of the Quadra) felt the subsequent inquiry was biased and lambasted the then wreck commissioner (National Archives, RG42/225/37425).