Disaster

December 1, 2015, 0345. Wind calm, variable NE

A waning gibbous moon hangs in the southern sky.

Flicka is safely tied to a dock at the Palm Coast Marina in Palm Coast, Florida, about fifty miles south of St. Augustine, Florida.

In this writing, I chronicle events of the last few days, at once horrifying, uplifting and inspiring. We have endured much physical and emotional pain but have also received at least as much kindness and encouragement from strangers. 

This story starts on November 28. The night before we were anchored near Fort Matanzas, built by the Spanish in 1742 to guard the southern approach to St. Augustine. We had come there by first running aground at the entrance to the Matanzas River where constant shoaling shifts the channel around. One has to ‘feel’ one’s way in and apparently we weren’t ‘feeling’ so well, because we ran right upon the sand bar.

Luckily the tide was slack and beginning to flood. So we simply had to wait. Maybe put out a kedge anchor to keep the strong current from pushing us further onto the sand bar. Not big deal. One more lesson in patience.

While we waited, a boat full of good Samaritans motored by and offered assistance, which we accepted because it was getting dark. After some jockeying around and tense moments transferring lines and getting set up, sure enough the Samaritans were able to pull Flick’s nose into the incoming current and the deep part of the channel. Lines got dropped and as the Samaritans drove away we heard them gleefully shout, “Welcome to Florida.”

Never even got their names.

We made our way to the anchorage in the dark, successfully this time, and spent a pleasant night in the river, not far from the fort. The next morning was sunny, pleasant. Temperature hovering around sixty-five degrees. A new flood tide was on.

After bacon, eggs and the usual two cups of strong coffee, we successfully negotiated the river entrance, joined other boats headed south on the ICW and motored merrily along, passing Pellicer Flats to the west, with a narrow strip of land between us and the mighty Atlantic to the east.

The water was calm and flat, no wind, current setting to the north. We could have been sitting in our living room at home.

I was at the helm and Emily decided to go below to get our fuel checker stick. As she made her way back from the forward cabin she somehow got tripped up and fell. On the way down she managed to hit the companion way ladder and then the cabin sole (floor). And she hit it hard.

I heard the agonizing crash and a much greater agonizing moan.

Panicked, I yelled, “Are you hurt, are you hurt?” The ensuing silence was even more unsettling.

Finally she managed to say, in obvious pain, “I think so”.

I wheeled the boat around into the current and quickly went forward to deploy the anchor.

Down the companion way I went to find my poor wife laying on the cabin sole in a most unnerving position, in obvious pain.

I gently palpated areas of her body only to elicit more groans. It was obvious that she was hurt bad and sitting her up or getting her into a settee was out of the question. So I used pillows to make her as comfortable as possible and returned to the cockpit.

We were anchored right in the middle of the channel which is not a good idea generally, but I had no choice. A few boats went by and I got stares of indifference and, I imagined, contempt at my audacity at having anchored in the channel.

Just then Good Samaritan number II came by headed south, under sail in a twenty-seven foot boat, two souls aboard.

“Are you OK?” John (as his named turned out to be) yelled as they went by.

“No”, I replied, “My wife has fallen and she is really hurt.”

John dropped sail, wheeled his boat around and slowly approached Flicka.

As he came abreast, he asked “How can I help?”

I’m crying as a write this, remembering Emily’s agony and the look of genuine concern on John’s face, the look on the face of this perfect stranger.

“Help me weigh anchor”, I said.

With not a moment’s hesitation he directed his companion, now at the helm, to approach Flicka and, at the right moment, gingerly boarded her and went to the bow to pull in the anchor chain while I drove forward. After he had the anchor aboard he came back to the cockpit and we talked briefly. He and his companion are from Tennessee. He bought their boat, which had previously been sunk, for fifty dollars, and now they were headed south to points unknown. He expressed his sympathy and, as his mate gently guided their boat abreast Flicka, took his leave, nimbly stepping back to his boat. They wished us well as they drove away.

I turned Flicka south and revved her up to 2000 rpms. Fortunately we were not too far from the Palm Coast Marina. I called ahead and explained our situation and a very nice lady said she would call the EMT people and get us set up for docking.

So away we went with poor Emily laying on the floor of the boat in great pain and me freaking out at the helm intent on not running aground or into any other boats.

We arrived at Palm Coast with EMT already there. Five crew members lead by a US Marine boarded Flicka, assessed her condition, made here as comfortable as possible and then loaded her on to a gurney. They had her off the boat in fifteen minutes. I had the good sense to stay the hell out of the way. These guys were fabulous. Cheerful, friendly, competent and very focused. Emily could not have been in better hands.

They started to load her into a squad transport vehicle and I, the basket case, stood there like a deer in the headlight, wondering what to do next.

That’s when Meg showed up. “Hello my name is Meg. “I’m taking you to the hospital. No protests please. I insist”, she said emphatically. Meg talked all the way to the hospital, telling me about her cruising life, the local taxi service, the best restaurants, the best physicians, why she and her husband decided to stay in Palm Coast. She told me the best short cut to take from the hospital back to the marina, naming all the back roads in order. She told me about her family and named other residents in the marina, affectionately known as the Palm Coast Geriatric Marine Preserve.

Meg was simply great. She delivered me at the ER entrance of Flagler Hospital just as the EMTs were off loading Emily.

It was not long before we were together again in an EX exam room. Two nurses and a nurse practitioner attended to her within minutes. The NP ordered an x-ray. Not long after that, in walked Dr. Russell, the on call orthopedic surgeon, to inform us that Emily had broken her hip, actually the neck of the upper long leg bone, the femur.

But he had a plan. Get Emily stabilized, manage the pain, do an MRI to get the best picture of the fracture and schedule surgery to fix it. Which is what he did. Within the hour she was admitted to the hospital and moved upstairs. Surgery scheduled for the next day, November 29.

Sure enough on that day at around 1300 OR staff showed up to take her to pre-op. Away we went. Dr. Russel installed three screws to stabilize the joint and fracture and afterwards reported that everything had gone  well.

November 30 was a whirlwind of  activity involving visits from occupational, respiratory physical therapy, Dr. Russel, the chief hospitalist, a case manager, a representative from a potential rehab center and, of course, the business office.

The very next day, December 1, 2015, Flagler discharged Emily to the care of another Florida hospital, this time to Florida Hospital Oceanside, in Ormond Beach, where she shall remain for anywhere from two to four weeks, undergoing physical therapy.

After that, well we will just see.

This was a pretty trying and of course totally unexpected experience for us. Just a few days before we were motoring along in ten foot swells in the Atlantic. If such an accident as this had happened to either one of us then it would have gone to a whole other level of serious.

But it happened on a dead calm day practically in site of a marina. Pretty lucky I’d say.

During it all, Emily was attended to by no less that fifty competent, dedicated, cheerful, empathetic and pleasant professionals.

We shall forever be grateful for their help in our time of need.