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Mid Ocean Reef
I had been alone on uninhabited Palmyra atoll (approx. 1000 miles south
of Hawaii) for several months and decided to head up to Hawaii for
supplies. I figured on anchoring at Kingman reef en-route, having put
so much effort into avoiding it on my many approaches to Palmyra over
the years. Kingman is essentially an atoll in the making. Most of it is
still submerged. There is a small motu that stays above sea level on
the eastern side, probably 100 yards long and not much more than 30 or
so wide. It is mostly devoid of vegetation. Entering the lagoon and
anchoring is eerie, due to the lack of visual cues. A good eye for reef
navigation and an unholy reliance on the accuracy of the GPS system are
ones only tools. I made it in safely (that time), and found a coral
head on the eastern side of the lagoon to drop my hook on. It was a
precarious anchorage at best. It offered a really weird feeling - like
being anchored in the middle of the ocean.
I was really keen to get in the water here as these unspoiled reefs
offer wonderful diving. I found I could only stay in the water for
about 15 minutes on any one dive, as the sharks increased in both
numbers and courage much beyond that. I would have to jump into the
dinghy and motor 100 yards or so on before getting in the water again
to continue diving.
That evening, after a good day in the water and a fine meal, I set the
hammock up under the boom, jumped in with a good book, and swung the
boom out over the water. It was a surreal feeling, anchored seemingly
in the middle of the ocean, on a dark moonless night with only the
stars for company. I reminisced how unbelievably lucky I was to be the
one man on the planet to be in such paradise when so many were starving
or at war, or even, at the office. I had rigged a lead light to
the boom to read by, but was reluctant to turn it on for a while. After
a while I caught sight of a larger than normal movement in the water,
and leaned out of the hammock to see what it was, switching on the
light as I did so. There, directly under me, was stealthily gliding by,
quite the biggest shark I have ever seen, his eyes riveted on me in my
hammock, no more than 4 feet directly above him. I cant adequately
describe the feeling of vulnerability during those moments (ages) it
took to reel the boom back in over the boat. My heart raced for a good
while after that!
Years later, I almost saw my end at that reef. Having been there a
couple of times before, I was lured into visiting when prevailing
conditions suggested it unwise. It was late afternoon and blowing in
the low 30's with higher gusts. It had backed all day and was now
heading me off my course for Hawaii. I figured I'd sneak in there and
wait until the wind direction became more favorable. The scary part of
entering the reef is that you have to pass over the submerged rim to
get in. This is around 17 feet at its shallowest. When there is a big
swell running, as there was on this occasion, the troughs put you very
close to the bottom. I jilled to and fro till I thought I had the
timing figured out, and then with my stomach in a knot, went for it.
Shortly after crossing the reef it should drop off back to 60 to 100 ft
deep. The problem now, of course is that it is well nigh impossible to
run down below to consult the computer screen with the digital charting
system running, as too much attention is needed outside. Suddenly, I
started to lose confidence. Things were just not looking right and the
light turquoise of shallow reef was showing up all around me. The depth
sounder was indicating almost nothing below me in the troughs. I was
suddenly in that awful position where you realize you really may have
'done it' now. With scarcely half an hour of light left, I recognized
if I were to avert disaster, I needed to extricate myself from this
reef - right now. I flipped on the autopilot, reduced rpm, rushed down
to the nav station and zoomed the chart display really big. I then used
the inside autopilot course control knob to turn the boat around in a
sharp u-turn and followed that track on the display for all I was
worth. Following exactly my inward track was my best chance of staying
alive. While all this was happening, strangely, there was time for my
head to live out the impending wreck. It was clear that I would not
survive, as that small piece of land was a good mile and a half to
windward. With the wind and swells as high as they were - completely
impossible to reach. Reaching it would only prolong the agony anyway,
as no one visits the reef. The hugely zoomed display enabled me to
follow very accurately my incoming track and we eventually reached deep
water without further incident. As I write this, years later, my
adrenalin flows, such was the severity of the danger. For years I have
pondered that decision. After, at that point, 20 years of faultless
navigation, it serves as a clear reminder just how one can still make a
bad call.
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