Fragments From Floyd

Rivendell Retreat Center is a beautiful place (pictures to come), but after two days of cold rain, we were ready to be back in the comfort of a hotel room for a while between outtings with our son and his friends in Vancouver. His friend, J, was to pick us up at 11:15 at the Ferry Terminal just a few water-miles from the shore of Bowen Island. I'd been watching the water with my binoculars from the window of our room; the waters were choppy but nothing the large, stable ferry couldn't handle. Sun was breaking out weakly here and there, but the wind would be worse on the water than in our sheltered place on the hill above the harbor.

The ferry arrived and boarded on time. There were only perhaps 40 people leaving the island with us, so we found a comfortable place at the bow for the thirty minute ride to shore. Even as we waited to depart, I stood at the large windows, saying my farewells. I was fascinated by the vertical shoreline at low tide, mesmerized by the newborn clouds rising and growing from the wet forest, lifting like spirits on invisible eddies of cool salty air. It was an atmosphere alien to a Virginian. We would not likely be back. Look. See it whole. Breathe it in and remember. And we were on our way.

I saw it but didn't think anything of it: a small spot of orange bobbing in and out of the swells, far to the north of our path. A woman standing at the window was watching it as we came within a quarter mile. "It's a little boat, I think. Yes, someone is standing. Waving. I think they might be in trouble."

A short while later, the captain of the ferry announced we'd be stopping to investigate a possible distress situation and offer aid. By then, I had my long lens on and was watching as the bow of the small craft rose at a steep angle from the waves, then disappeared, each time rising less and less. In a minute, only the warning orange jackets of the two occupants showed intermittently above the foam. The ferry moved their way cautiously as the tiny boat rolled on its side; the orange bouys of several crab pots floated off in the direction of the stiff winds. The two men were bobbing reassuringly--at least they wore life preservers--but the water was still little warmer that it was in winter, and the wind was biting. They would not last but a few minutes before their arms grew numb from hypothermia and they would lose consciousness.

By then, everyone on the ship was standing at the bow windows watching the drama unfold. A small rescue boat was launched from the ferry. With no small difficulty, the two men were pulled from the frigid water as their boat drifted to our starboard, keel to the tattered sky, crab pots bobbing randomly away. The two had been out of the boat for perhaps five minutes, in a boat half full of water for at least twice that long. They were probably within minutes of losing the ability to hold their heads above water. Here is a closeup of the two as the rescue boat approached the ferry near the end of this ordeal at sea.