“Reef！”
In French Polynesia, winter runs from May through October； the days are balmy, but night falls as abruptly as a trap. Just before 7 p.m. on June 25, 2005, a sailing vessel sliced through the westernmost waters of the archipelago, beneath a black and moonless sky. The Emerald Jane had left Raiatea the day before； she was headed for Tonga, 1,400 nautical miles away, guided by autopilot.
The 55-foot catamaran was sleek and elegant, with five cabins tucked into twin hulls and a spacious living area suspended in between. In the cockpit, 16-year-old Ben Silverwood was finishing his watch. In the salon, his younger siblings —— Amelia, 14, Jack, 9, and Camille, 5 —— had just popped Drop Dead Gorgeous into the DVD player. The children's parents, John, 53, and Jean, 46, lounged in their stateroom, discussing the next day's travel plans.
Then they heard it： an insistent scraping, like fingernails along the bottom of a cardboard box. The Emerald Jane had carried the family halfway around the world, on a journey that John, a San Diego real estate developer, had dreamed of for two decades. The Silverwoods were well-versed in their craft's vocabulary of creaks, pings and groans. But this was something different. It was the sound of disaster.
John and Jean were already sprinting up the three steps to the cockpit when Ben cried, “Reef！” An instant later, the hulls rammed into the coral. As water poured through a gash in the starboard bow, house-size waves began crashing down on the pinioned boat. John jammed the engines into reverse, to no avail. He ran to the foredeck, where Ben was trying to loosen the Genoa sail, which was driving the craft farther onto the reef. Ben threw his father a knife so John could slash through the canvas. At that moment, a wave slammed into the Emerald Jane's 14-foot dinghy, ripping it from its stainless-steel hooks and sweeping it away.
The family had practiced emergency procedures, but the emergency they'd imagined was a storm； running aground had seemed unthinkable. Now the unthinkable was upon them.
In the salon, Camille and Jack were sobbing. As their older sister strove to comfort them, Jack kept screaming, “I don't want to die！” Jean tried the satellite phone but couldn't get a signal； her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped it on the flooded floor. John grabbed the main radio. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he shouted. “This is the Emerald Jane. We are sinking.” Ben called out more Maydays over the shorter-range VHF rig.
Finally, John threw the switch on the EPIRB （emergency position-indicating radio beacon） —— a device resembling a milk-shake cup, with an antenna for a straw, which is designed to alert emergency crews by bouncing a radio beam off a satellite. The beacon can be picked up only by U.S. facilities, however, and none was near enough to help. The closest search-and-rescue team operated from a French naval base in Papeete, Tahiti, 310 miles away. They weren't responding.
John and Ben raced back to the foredeck and pulled the cord on the inflatable life raft. Then they faced a dilemma： If they threw the raft over the side, it might be shredded by the sharp coral. Instead, they decided to lash it to the deck and wait until they had no other option. Before they finished, the lights shorted out. Ben took a couple of glow sticks that he'd snatched from the supply cabinet, and they went to check on the family. The salon was knee-deep in water. As Jean and Amelia carried the younger children out to the cockpit, John and Ben headed back toward the raft.
By then, both bows were breaking off, and as John reached the foredeck, the 79-foot mast gave way. Suddenly, he was lying on his back beneath more than a ton of aluminum. A thunderbolt of pain shot up his left leg. When he struggled to a sitting position and peered over the mast, he saw that a metal fitting called a spreader had chopped through his shin like a cleaver； his lower leg was dangling by a tendon. It's gone, he thought, and lay back down. He was pinned to the deck of a disintegrating boat. He could not help his family. If he didn't drown first, he knew, his wound would surely kill him.
In French Polynesia, winter runs from May through October； the days are balmy, but night falls as abruptly as a trap. Just before 7 p.m. on June 25, 2005, a sailing vessel sliced through the westernmost waters of the archipelago, beneath a black and moonless sky. The Emerald Jane had left Raiatea the day before； she was headed for Tonga, 1,400 nautical miles away, guided by autopilot.
The 55-foot catamaran was sleek and elegant, with five cabins tucked into twin hulls and a spacious living area suspended in between. In the cockpit, 16-year-old Ben Silverwood was finishing his watch. In the salon, his younger siblings —— Amelia, 14, Jack, 9, and Camille, 5 —— had just popped Drop Dead Gorgeous into the DVD player. The children's parents, John, 53, and Jean, 46, lounged in their stateroom, discussing the next day's travel plans.
Then they heard it： an insistent scraping, like fingernails along the bottom of a cardboard box. The Emerald Jane had carried the family halfway around the world, on a journey that John, a San Diego real estate developer, had dreamed of for two decades. The Silverwoods were well-versed in their craft's vocabulary of creaks, pings and groans. But this was something different. It was the sound of disaster.
John and Jean were already sprinting up the three steps to the cockpit when Ben cried, “Reef！” An instant later, the hulls rammed into the coral. As water poured through a gash in the starboard bow, house-size waves began crashing down on the pinioned boat. John jammed the engines into reverse, to no avail. He ran to the foredeck, where Ben was trying to loosen the Genoa sail, which was driving the craft farther onto the reef. Ben threw his father a knife so John could slash through the canvas. At that moment, a wave slammed into the Emerald Jane's 14-foot dinghy, ripping it from its stainless-steel hooks and sweeping it away.
The family had practiced emergency procedures, but the emergency they'd imagined was a storm； running aground had seemed unthinkable. Now the unthinkable was upon them.
In the salon, Camille and Jack were sobbing. As their older sister strove to comfort them, Jack kept screaming, “I don't want to die！” Jean tried the satellite phone but couldn't get a signal； her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped it on the flooded floor. John grabbed the main radio. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he shouted. “This is the Emerald Jane. We are sinking.” Ben called out more Maydays over the shorter-range VHF rig.
Finally, John threw the switch on the EPIRB （emergency position-indicating radio beacon） —— a device resembling a milk-shake cup, with an antenna for a straw, which is designed to alert emergency crews by bouncing a radio beam off a satellite. The beacon can be picked up only by U.S. facilities, however, and none was near enough to help. The closest search-and-rescue team operated from a French naval base in Papeete, Tahiti, 310 miles away. They weren't responding.
John and Ben raced back to the foredeck and pulled the cord on the inflatable life raft. Then they faced a dilemma： If they threw the raft over the side, it might be shredded by the sharp coral. Instead, they decided to lash it to the deck and wait until they had no other option. Before they finished, the lights shorted out. Ben took a couple of glow sticks that he'd snatched from the supply cabinet, and they went to check on the family. The salon was knee-deep in water. As Jean and Amelia carried the younger children out to the cockpit, John and Ben headed back toward the raft.
By then, both bows were breaking off, and as John reached the foredeck, the 79-foot mast gave way. Suddenly, he was lying on his back beneath more than a ton of aluminum. A thunderbolt of pain shot up his left leg. When he struggled to a sitting position and peered over the mast, he saw that a metal fitting called a spreader had chopped through his shin like a cleaver； his lower leg was dangling by a tendon. It's gone, he thought, and lay back down. He was pinned to the deck of a disintegrating boat. He could not help his family. If he didn't drown first, he knew, his wound would surely kill him.