ABANDONING MAGIC BUS: First Person Viewpoint by Crew Member Dylan Flack

Jan. 26/2026:  EDITOR’S NOTE—This is, I believe, the first time we’ve had a guest post on WaveTrain written by someone other than me. The author of this post, Dylan Flack, got in touch with me shortly after he and four others abandoned the catamaran Magic Bus via Coast Guard helicopter almost 300 miles off the North Carolina coast this past November. To accomplish this, the helo crew had to land and refuel both going to and returning from the rescue site. This reminded me, of course, of my own helicopter rescue experience, abandoning the catamaran Be Good Too, back in January of 2014.

A much shorter version of Dylan’s story has appeared in the December print edition of Sailing World magazine, but this does not include salient details explaining exactly why Magic Bus had to be abandoned. Since the submission of that story, the abandoned boat was photographed adrift, and the image of the inverted boat made it clear what had happened and why Dylan and company were unable to keep the boat from flooding. I also interviewed Dylan to clarify certain details in his text.

Dylan’s family, owners of the boat, have subsequently issued a press release about the incident, which you can read here.

All images here have been provided courtesy of Dylan and his family.

 

THERE’S SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL about steering a ship that knows she’s going under. The helm felt lifeless. The two throttles rested gently in neutral, both engines by now submerged. The water was creeping further up the aft transom scoops with each passing wave, promising to soon deliver a knock-out punch.

I first set foot on this boat, Magic Bus, as a 15-year-old kid. In the five years since, she had showed me what it means to be an adult. I’d learned more about myself crawling around her bilges than I had at school. The endless work of maintaining a large catamaran provides lots of opportunities for learning. The people this boat had hosted and the collective memories we forged aboard her had become an integral part of my identity. Now I stood at her helm 280 miles off the coast of North Carolina helplessly watching my old friend founder in the North Atlantic. I gently patted her wheel as her vitals flat-lined and her eyes glossed over.

Napkin math says I’ve spent one in ten days alive on the ocean. But I had never seen sustained conditions this harsh. I turned my head and peered to windward. The offshore night sky was simply a void. The moon hung like a spotlight over an endless train of rolling 20-foot waves. It seemed each one was pointed straight at us. The horizon disappeared each time Magic Bus settled in a trough, and whitewater boiled in every direction. A 50-knot puff from the November gale sang in my ears. I had to think more loudly, just to hear myself think. It wasn’t raining, but the consistent spray from the waves crashing into us made it seem otherwise. I thought to myself: it’s a shame one of our planet’s deadliest environments has to be so beautiful.

By 03:30 it was apparent Magic Bus could not be saved. Zach swung open the cabin door.

“Dylan!” he shouted. “It’s not looking good down there. We’re going to have to… ah… abandon.” The last word sounded slurred.

I nodded. My muscles went numb, but my mind sharpened. Oddly enough, it was a relief to hear this. The “A word” had finally been verbalized, and with it came a burning sense of clarity. There is a soothing effect to having a job, even if it entails launching a liferaft.

My hands gently patted the wheel one final time. My only proxy for goodbye. Then I went to find my passport.

 

IT WAS THE COVID PANDEMIC that brought Magic Bus into our lives. As the world shut down, my dad, Brandon, got one of his infamous ideas. “We should sell our house and buy a boat. The kids’ school is online, and we can work virtually.” This was his pitch to my mom, Cindy, whose brain turns sour whenever a boat is mentioned.

My dad identified Braveheart, a 54-foot Simonis Catamaran, as our new floating home. She’d been built in South Africa 20 years prior and had once been active in the Mediterranean and Bahamian charter trades. She was at the time docked in Grenada, being prepped for the hurricane season, and so was offered at a discount.

We held many dinner table debates. My dad, a former professional sailor and racing skipper, stood firmly on Team Boat. My mom, a self-proclaimed “sailor through marriage,” was set on staying ashore. My sister Lily and I, both lifelong sailors, fell somewhere in between.

My dad is the guy who can talk a monk into a round of Jagerbombs. My dear mother never stood a chance. By November, our house was sold. Braveheart, renamed Magic Bus, was to be our new home.

Just before Thanksgiving, we buried the ashes of our old family dog, loaded our lives into a Ram 2500 truck, and headed south. Our new family dog, a basset hound named Boomer, just six months old, slept in the middle seat between Lily and I.

Twenty-six hours later we arrived in Fort Lauderdale and found Bus on a rented dock behind a friendly couple’s home, where she had been installed by the delivery skipper who sailed her up from Grenada. It was dark when we arrived, and I was groggy from a day spent wedged between cardboard boxes. I remember as we walked around the house, blue arc lights brightened the sky.

“That’s a big fucking boat,” I thought to myself.

Big she was. Fifty-four feet long, and a staggering 28 feet wide. She was also stuffed to the brim with crap and gear and her systems were a mess. The four of us and Boomer spent the next week sorting through every compartment. Rusty tools, broken pumps, and hundreds of feet of “extra chain” were thrown out on the dock. By the time we departed, two tons of useless stuff had been removed, 10% of her weight. Her hulls rose up three inches above waterline.

I’d been helping my dad with household maintenance, mostly just holding a flashlight, for as I long as I could remember. But Bus was a different animal. Dad walked me through the electrical panel, emphasizing the various switch combinations that could “break everything.” “If you flip A while B is on, the generator’s fucked. If you switch X to Y while Z is happening, there goes the inverter.” It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that if I looked at C while D was blinking, the boat would explode.

“You see these wires?” warned Dad. “They have 220 volts running through them.”

“Is that a lot?” I asked. He looked down at me as if he had failed as a father.

I’ve been swimming since infancy. I suspect my dad just pushed me in when Mom wasn’t looking. He embodies the philosophy that there is no better teacher than experience. In my first days aboard, he treated me like a seasoned marine engineer, assigning me tasks I barely understood. His trust gave me the confidence to solve problems. By the end of the first week aboard I had more technical knowledge than most 15-year-olds. I could replace a broken pump, change a fuel filter, and crawl around the engine with the best of them. The boat became infinitely more seaworthy, and we became acclimated to our new home. Boomer even learned how to piss through the trampolines. In early December, we shoved off from Florida and headed across the Gulf Stream.

We spent the next three months island-hopping the Exumas. Alluring shades of turquoise glimmered behind my head as I sat through my online Zoom classes. My classmates all looked envious. My teachers noted I was “living the dream.” Little did they know I’d just spent hours crawling around the engine room with my dear old dad, searching for whatever was making “that damn noise.”

Dylan and Boomer aboard Magic Bus

 

Dylan at the helm

 

Magic Bus at anchor in the Bahamas

 

Dylan engaged in maintenance

 

There was plenty of play-time too. We kayaked the winding rivers of Shroud Cay. We followed sea turtles while swimming over reefs and plains of sea grass. We experienced the beauty of Wardrick Wells National Park, and got lost on a hike around the island. We snorkeled on the crashed drug plane at Norman Cay, called “Pablo Escobar Island” by locals. My dad and I kiteboarded wherever we could, trying always to out-jump each other.

Boomer tagged along like a champ and only once fell overboard. I zipped around in our dinghy and yanked him out of the water by his collar. I’m the only one who has ever saved his life, but he still always runs to Mom first. Can’t say I blame him.

 

WE SPENT ONE YEAR living aboard Magic Bus full time in the Bahamas, then moved back ashore in Stonington, Connecticut. By the time of her demise, we were sailing Magic Bus in a seasonal routine. North in the summer, south in the winter. Her southern home was at Staniel Cay, on a mooring just a stone’s throw from the famous Thunderball Grotto. Friends and family chartered her from Christmas through spring. Our family usually spent a week or two during that stretch revisiting the Exumas.

Every May another team delivered her back to Connecticut for the summer. She regularly saw Block Island for the Fourth of July, ventured often up to Cape Cod, and spent countless nights moored in Fishers Island Harbor.

We carefully prepared the boat before departing Stonington for the Bahamas this past November. Zach Doerr, a 23-year-old naval architect and avid offshore sailor, joined as crew and was winched up the 85-foot mast and carefully inspected all components. I grabbed a 12-man liferaft from our barn, checked the expiration date, and tossed it in the back of my dad’s truck. We strapped it down on deck above the cabin.

Professional weather routers suggested Monday, November 3, as a departure date. This time of year there is never an ideal forecast for sailing south on a multi-day offshore passage out of New England. Those who wait for “perfect” conditions will never leave. The best you can do is anticipate when challenges will arise and be prepared for them.

Our forecast was for a rough first day, with a 25-knot breeze from the west making for a fast but bumpy close reach. Tuesday evening through Thursday would be an awesome downwind leg with 15 knots of breeze from the north. By Thursday night, however, as we rounded Cape Hatteras, the wind would switch to the northwest and pump up to 30 knots. Then, hopefully, we’d get another beautiful downwind leg to take us to the Bahamas. Even with the two rough patches, given the time of year, this was a remarkably favorable window. Magic Bus, we figured, would never be over 200 miles from land.

An hour before casting off, all five us huddled in the saloon for a briefing. Buster Pike, our 55-year-old skipper, calmly led the discussion. This wasn’t Buster’s first rodeo. He had raced alongside my dad at the University of Rhode Island in one of the most dominant collegiate sailing programs. After graduation, Buster “escaped the cubicle” and worked as a skipper around the globe. He had racked up countless miles offshore, and Bully Circus, his Farr 30, was a staple in the Newport sailing scene. He and his family had twice spent time aboard Magic Bus in the Exumas.

The other four crew members were all younger than 24. Aside from Zach, we also had Sam Gryska. He was our greenest crew, but planned to become a Navy officer, making him a top pick in any draft. Next to him sat Evan Spaulding, a 23-year-old naval architect. He had graduated alongside Zach in 2024 from the Webb Institute. Both were vital members of that storied offshore sailing team. As for me, I’d been sailing since age four–lots of racing, but I preferred cruising–and I was the one most familiar with the boat.

The last item on the agenda was emergency plans. All our lifejackets were equipped with lights, personal GPS devices, and tethers for working safely on deck. Buster noted: “If you fall overboard, don’t plan on being picked up. It’s not that we won’t try our hardest, it’s just the nature of the operation.” Sobering words.

Sam and Zach would handle the liferaft, if worse came to worst. Buster would make emergency broadcasts. Evan and myself would be floaters, assisting with the highest priority tasks in the moment. We all nodded in agreement. I thought how suffering five simultaneous lightning strikes was more likely than us ever having to touch the raft.

By the time we departed at 19:00 Monday evening, we were all anxious to get going. All hands remained on deck, high on freedom as we watched the yellow lights on shore fade behind us. Two hours later they were gone, and we were fully alone.

 

IN THE FIRST 24 HOURS, Magic Bus took off like a racehorse. She averaged 10 knots, and three times we saw her break 18. We were hand-steering and were all itching to take our turns at the wheel. I woke up Tuesday morning to the largest mountains of water I’d ever seen. Already our weather forecast was falling apart. The breeze was a sustained 30 knots, blowing 30 degrees further south and 10 knots harder than anticipated. This forced us to bear off, taking Magic Bus much further offshore into rougher seas.

My dad sent us a message 20 hours after departure indicating we were about to “shatter the previous 24-hour mileage record.” It looked like we might be drinking Dark n’ Stormies at the Staniel Cay Yacht Club by the weekend.

After a shift on the wheel on Tuesday afternoon, I turned in for a power nap. I still felt high from steering, as this was the first time I’d handled a boat in such large seas. I was in the midst of a wildly vivid dream when I felt a gentle tap on my foot. Buster stood by my bunk, asking about the location of extra bilge pumps.

“You might want to come up on deck,” he stated calmly. This, for Buster, was the equivalent of “get your ass out of bed.” I stumbled on deck filled with sober curiosity.

We all stood around the open port engine room hatch staring down in disbelief. Five feet of water sloshed around the compartment. Just an hour before it was dry. The good news was the rate of increase was slowing; the bad news was a rate of increase existed.

Over the next few hours, Evan took a long bit of extra hose we had aboard, connected it to the starboard engine’s raw-water intake and led it across the boat to the port engine compartment. This allowed us to run the starboard engine as a giant emergency bilge pump.  Meanwhile, Zach and Buster wired up every other spare bilge pump we had available. Sam took some epic shifts on the wheel with a smile on his face. Magic Bus carried on unfazed, charging south toward Staniel Cay.

By Wednesday afternoon, we had achieved a stalemate of sorts. With all our pumps running and some hard work with buckets we’d manage to lower the water level in the flooded compartment by a few inches. But then the ocean erased our gain just minutes later. We knew we had to figure out where the water was coming from. Communicating with Dad on shore, we discussed all possible culprits: hull damage, failed through-hull valves, leaky hoses, the rudder bearing, the seal at the top of the saildrive leg. It was too rough to send anyone overboard, and peering down into the flooded compartment from on deck, everything looked fine. I offered to hop in and take a swim for a closer look if needed.

After loading up on lasagna, our first hot meal since leaving the dock on Monday night, I turned in for an afternoon nap. But soon Buster came tapping again. “Dylan, we’re going to take you up on your offer.” I was beginning to notice a trend with midday wake-up calls. But after two days of rotting away in my foulies, I figured I could use the swim.

I pulled on some cotton thermals, grabbed a snorkel, and lowered myself into the port engine room. The bilge was surprisingly clean, the water surrounding the engine appeared aquarium clear. Buster stood over me and called plays.

We started with the watermaker intake. I tucked my head below the workbench and found a three-inch air pocket. My ears were submerged, my nose pressed up against the bottom of the bench, and my mouth remained just above the sloshing water. After taking a big breath, I reached around the motor. I spotted the strainer and followed its hose down to the bilge. The through-hull valve shined in the seawater. I grabbed the handle and closed it.

I worked my way out around the engine and gasped for air. We repeated the same process for the engine’s raw-water intake. Buster was able to reach down from above the engine and close the valve for the air conditioner. Three for three. I hadn’t noticed any water coming in through the rudder bearing or saildrive seal (not that this would necessarily be apparent underwater), so of course we hoped we had solved our problem. It was smiles all around.

I dripped across deck and waddled to my shower. The team bombarded me with towels. As I scrubbed the oily bilge juice from my skin, they noted I was glowing a bit. Buster joked there is likely a trendy skincare routine involving a similar prescription. Looking back, I guess the glow was from battery acid.

High spirits soon subsided, as it became clear we had not staunched the leak. All we could do was keep pumping and bailing. It was apparent now our destination had changed, as Magic Bus needed a layover in the States for repair. Heading straight for Virginia, just 130 miles to the west, was off the table. It would take over a day and a half, beating straight into 30-plus knots the whole way. Both the crew and Dad on shore agreed Florida should be the new goal, so we kept on heading south. That evening the conditions grew even harsher, but Magic Bus and her crew remained steady as ever.

 

I WAS FAST ASLEEP on the saloon settee later that night, when suddenly, at about 01:30, I was jolted awake by an enormous bang. Opening my eyes, I saw the hatch space above me was wide open, and I was staring directly at the sky above. Then WHOOSH!!! A huge wave slammed into the boat, and a big dollop of spray rained down on me.

“All Hands!” Zach shouted from the wheel, his voice buried under the machine-gun clatter of a flogging sail. I grabbed my gear and stumbled three times while rushing on deck.

It turned out the working port-side jibsheet had parted. Then the lazy starboard-side sheet, whipping about uncontrollably, had caught a corner of the closed saloon hatch above me, ripped it clean off the deck, and ripped the clew out of the jib itself in turn. We furled up the flogging jib and now had no way to bend a sheet to it. Anticipating gale conditions that night, we’d already furled and secured the mainsail. The port engine, of course, had been submerged for many hours. We still had the starboard engine running to help push us south, but within half an hour it too crapped out, having choked on debris its intake picked up from our flooding port-side compartment.

Flooding in the port hull

 

So now Magic Bus was dead in the water. It was blowing a steady 45 knots from the southwest, with long sustained gusts well over 50. We couldn’t even get the generator to start and soon, as our batteries grew weaker, we’d have nothing but buckets as weapons in our losing battle to keep water out of the boat. Lying broadside to the enormous seas, she rolled uncontrollably, and it seemed our range of options had been limited to just one. The flooded engine compartment was not entirely segregated from the rest of the port hull, and once that hull was fully swamped, we feared the seas might easily flip the boat over. It would be best if we were not aboard when that happened.

 

AFTER ZACH TOLD ME we were leaving Magic Bus, I peered inside and saw Buster perched at the nav station. His face was still, his eyes focused, though his demeanor remained friendly. We all crowded into the cabin. There was no yelling, no hyperventilating, no cries of “we’re all going to die.” Locking eyes with each other, I was struck with a sense of pragmatism. Buster issued orders as needed, but sparingly. Everyone had a sense of what needed to be done. Faced now with the darkest consequences, our minds defaulted to optimism.

Buster calmly made calls over the radio and to our shore team, the highest priority task. Evan tried to phone the Coast Guard directly, but clearly didn’t ring the emergency number. We were greeted with a nine-prompt phone menu, as if we were calling about a credit card. Then another four prompts. Then we were told the person we were attempting to reach “was not in the office.” The weather outside, meanwhile, grew angrier.

I opened the distribution panel and checked the battery voltage. The read-outs showed 12.0 and 11.8, giving us roughly one more hour of Starlink service before our phones went dark. Conversation drifted from what could be done to what needed to be done. Evan and I began making up the ditch bags.

I zipped my passport into a sandwich bag and tossed it in a drybag. I quickly rummaged through the boat looking for things we might need. Water jugs, yes. Toaster, no. Whoosh. A wave knocked me off balance. I got back up. Protein bars, yes. Handheld radio, yes. Whoosh.

Evan grabbed his JBL speaker and clipped it to his lifejacket. He later recalled: “If we were in there for a while, we were going to want some music.” The man had a point. We stopped when satisfied we might spend the rest of our days with the contents of just two duffle bags. I can’t believe we forgot the liquor cabinets.

On deck, Zach and Sam were hard at work freeing up the liferaft. They manhandled it to a spot on deck where we could easily get it overboard. Evan and I joined them with the ditch bags. Our minds remained in execution mode. I tied the most important bowline of my life and fastened the end of the raft’s ripcord to the deck. We lifted the canister and heaved our last hope into the Atlantic.

Evan began ripping away at the cord. “It will take more line than you think,” Buster smoothly noted from inside. Evan kept taking line, but the raft canister remained inert. Under my breath, I started calling it names. More line, no result. End of the line. We look around holding our breaths. Bang! Our chariot springs to life square into Evan’s nose. “That’s it?” was my initial thought.

We worked the raft around the starboard hull. My mind began racing with past memories. Sunset dinners with family in the Exumas. Endless summer nights with friends. The 50-person rager my buddies and I threw at age 16 when my parents went out of state. Now I was face to face with the end of all that. I didn’t know whether to be terrified or grateful.

I realized Buster was still inside rifling off last-minute messages. “Buster! It’s time to go!” I called down to the cabin. He put down the iPad like your grandpa folds the morning paper. I wondered if the guy’s heart rate ever breaks 50.

After loading our bags into the raft, it was time to make the leap of faith. Sam was the first to go. Clearly he didn’t understand you want to end up underneath the raft’s canopy. As he lay spread-eagled atop the canopy in 20-foot seas, I thought I’d seen the end of him. Thankfully, he somehow crawled inside.

“Guys, you step INTO the raft,” our captain then exclaimed. By now I would have stepped into a burning building if Buster Pike commanded it. Zach hopped in next. Evan followed, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. One, two, three before me, perfect. Time to go.

Unclipping my harness from Magic Bus is a moment that will live in my memory forever. I stood like a soldier staring at his own grave. I put my right hand to my forehead and clicked on my headlight. Three. Two. One. Go.

Somehow I hit the bulls-eye. There was nothing except darkness and cold, wet fabric. Buster followed behind me. Suddenly, I remembered tying off the ripcord to the deck. Not wanting to get pulled under with the boat, I reminded Buster of this. He’d given me his knife minutes earlier, and now I quickly handed it back. Retrospectively, it was incredible the amount of tools he had on his person. He peered outside the raft, face to face with an irate sea, and made the cut. We were alone.

Seasickness plagued us all within seconds. Sam and Zach were heaving immediately, Buster soon afterward. Evan and I kept it in through all our time in the raft, but we both were nauseous. The raft moved like something in between a bouncy house and a washing machine. Our bodies were contorted into the shape of each passing wave. The ripping wind forced us to enunciate when shouting at each other. Within minutes, water began pooling up around us. Though not immediately cold, we could feel it draining our energy into the ocean. There wasn’t a whole lot to do except think. I recall wondering for the first time in my life how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone.

We each sat soaking wet with our backs to the raft sponsons, feet joined in the center, staring at each other. There would be no pinching ourselves awake from this one. Soon, however, Buster started taking stock and assigned jobs as needed. While he worked the manual air pump to firm up the partially inflated raft, we were hit by a rogue wave. The raft folded like a taco. Buster and I were shot across to the opposite side. Somehow our rubber chariot stayed right side up. Buster started pumping a little faster.

The raft contained enough stuff to sustain us for a few days. We had about five gallons of water, along with two gallons of milk and a few cans of soda. We had a good supply of protein bars, our main source of calories for the foreseeable future. We had our passports, basic tools, signaling devices, and two EPRIBs, in addition to the trackers on our lifejackets. Buster had grabbed the Starlink and a portable battery jumpack before leaving the boat. This meant we could charge our phones and make calls if need be. In theory we could watch Netflix. In the moment, however, binge-watching was the last thing on our minds.

Inside the raft

 

Looking at the other four guys in the raft was the most inspiring thing to do. I genuinely never saw an ounce of panic in anyone’s face, for we all shared an indescribable belief that everything would work out. Solving difficult problems on the water was nothing new to us. We also knew the United States Coast Guard are a collection of the most badass humans on the planet. Our faith in the people in the raft and those we hoped were coming made every wave lighter.

There was some brief conversation to help keep us sane. Most of us started stripping off layers of foul-weather gear as our bodies hot-boxed the raft. Evan mentioned something about how we were out of helicopter range, a thought I wished he had kept to himself. The star of the show was the EPIRB he held in his hands. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Every light and noise coming from that device offered hope we’d be found. Chirp. Chirp. Whoosh. Chirp. Whoosh. Chirp. Then silence. Our eyes locked together. We collectively held our breath. Evan smacked the thing back to life like a Best Buy employee fixing your laptop. Chirp. Five audible exhales. Whoosh. This went on for over two excruciating hours.

 

BACK ON LAND my family had set up a war room in our kitchen. The windows were still jet black with the wet November morning. Computer monitors were glowing and everyone’s phone rang endlessly. The crew’s families were contacted and given minute-by-minute updates. Family friends lined our driveway as the news spread.

Eventually, my parents got through to a Coastie named Roach. My dad later claimed he’d never heard anyone so good at talking smoothly on the phone. “I’m your man” for any further communications, he told my parents, which gravely worried my dad. “If this guy is this good on the phone, he’s clearly the one who informs parents their kids are not coming home.”

Meanwhile, Buster’s wife Heather texted my parents: “You ok? Don’t worry, Buster is the person to have in a situation like this.” Truer words were never written.

An hour before daybreak, we were all still sitting in the raft waiting and wishing. I can only speak for myself, but the thoughts that dance around your mind in a liferaft teach you more than a lifetime of therapy ever could. There is no clutter. There is no filter. There’s just stuff you miss. And the things you miss are the things you know are important.

By 06:00 the world was in that odd state where some light can be perceived, but the sun remains hidden. Just before it crept over the horizon, I heard something a little off. Something artificial. By this point we were all experiencing hallucinations, so I gave it little mind. Then I locked eyes with Evan. He heard it too.

It grew from a murmur into a hum then into a buzz. Evan and Sam zipped open both sides of the canopy directly across from me. It felt like my mom tearing open the blinds in the morning when I was growing up. I saw a C-130 search plane in the sky, its wings framed nicely of our newly opened aperture.

Evan quickly made for a flashlight and I dug for flares. He pointed a strobe light directly at the plane. The once growing rumble began to fade as the plane zipped by. We held our breaths, waiting for the noise to return.

“It’s circling back around!” Zach shouted.

Everyone is free to believe whatever they wish, but to me, God will always be a Coast Guard rescue plane.

During one of their loops around us, the flight crew above dropped a supply crate. It landed within 50 feet from our raft. Sam reached right over, grabbed the cord trailing from the crate, and hauled in our treasure. We opened the mystery box and were greeted with blankets, some rations, medical supplies, and a working VHF radio.

“Airplane. Airplane. Liferaft here,” hailed Buster.

“Loud and clear liferaft.”

Bingo.

The pilot informed us there was a helicopter two hours away, currently refueling on an aircraft carrier. We learned after the fact the carrier had altered course to assist in the rescue. Clearly there were people in high places eager to help us.

The next two hours were purgatory. The time on Buster’s watch was of intent interest. No one wanted to ask the question, but everyone wanted to hear the answer. I finally broke when I believed well over an hour had passed. But only 30 minutes were gone. A raft not only contorts physical space, but also warps time. I tried to expedite things by sleeping, but the standing water in the raft made this impossible.

Most of the crew experienced vivid hallucinations during this time. Zach, for example, thought the miniature light attached to the top of our raft had morphed into a billboard. Since boarding the raft five hours earlier, life didn’t really feel reel anymore. Physically, I only felt wet numbness. But finally the time came. Zach spotted a helicopter coming from the west.

Vvvrrrrbbbbb. You don’t hear helicopters. You feel them. Each blade rotation sends a pulse through your flesh. The down-draft made the raft’s canopy look like a palm tree shuddering in a hurricane.

Arrival of the helicopter

 

“Swimmer going down,” Buster called. Every word out of his mouth was so matter of fact. He showed little emotion. He was simply an objective narrator of reality.

We all watched the swimmer hit the water. He then made a beeline towards our raft. Evan swears he saw him plane down the back of a 20-foot wave. Later, the swimmer told us the first thing he noticed on hitting the water was a thresher shark circling beneath our raft. Learning this, Evan recalled a few bumps on the raft that seemed a little organic. In any event, our diver spent the next hour hauling us up knowing full well what circled below. The bottom line: rescue swimmers only wear lifejackets to keep their massive balls from pulling them under.

“How’s it going everybody?” our savior asked enthusiastically as soon as he reached us. “As good as it can be” was the collective reply. “Anybody seriously hurt?” Negative. “Great, one of you at a time is going to jump over. I will then swim you to the bucket. Sit in the bucket and keep all your body inside. Who’s first?”

Our two most seasick crew members made the first trips, followed by Evan. Buster and I, just the two of us, were then left sharing a luxurious 12-person raft. It was like the Ritz but worse and quickly turned sour. A big wave promptly threatened to flip the raft, but Buster jumped to the other side just in time to restore our balance.

The diver then reappeared, and I knew it was my turn to say goodbye to the raft. Crawling out of the raft felt like running a marathon. I expected to swim alongside the diver, but was quickly told to “just chill out.” He didn’t have to tell me twice.

Turns out rescue divers are essentially a swimmer’s valet. He hauled me to the basket, which was hanging just beneath the water. A few waves buried my face before the cable came taut. The artificial breeze stirred by the chopper blades made it hard to breathe. The diver then gave the signal, and when I next opened my eyes I was 30 feet above the waves. I watched them crash on the orange raft we had called home for six excruciating hours. Then I was in the cabin looking at the smiles of my three buddies.

“Wasn’t that sick?” asked Sam.

Once we were all loaded up, the pilots exchanged first bumps. Then we headed west for the USS George H.W. Bush. Halfway through the hour and a half flight, it hit me I hadn’t pissed in a day. I motioned to the hoist operator for his ear.

“You boys got a head on this thing?”

He couldn’t hear me. He passed his phone and I typed out my question. He replied: “We’re 45 min out, but there’s a piss tube in the back.” I replied: “Brother I haven’t taken a piss in 20 hours, I’ll take whatever you got.” He laughed and motioned behind his seat. Turns out I wasn’t the only one. When I turned around there was a line behind me like it was halftime at a Celtics game.

Landing on a moving aircraft carrier was a box I never imagined would get checked. The pilots effortlessly changed that. After we landed, we were walked across the flight deck. Clearly, we were a sight to see. The entire crew was watching. I never imagined I’d be on a carrier at sea with a bunch of cameras pointed at me. After shaking hands with the XO, we were taken in for a medical evaluation, given food and water, and a slick pair of scrubs to replace our drenched gear. We wrapped ourselves in emergency blankets and walked back to the helicopter.

On the carrier deck

 

We were flying again before noon, headed for the mainland. The next hour passed easily in dry clothes and emergency blankets. When we landed at the Coast Guard base in Elizabeth City, we were greeted with handshakes and smiles. I couldn’t help but feel like a burden, but the Coasties assured us that helping us is why they do what they do. Many even thanked us for making their jobs as easy as possible. If you ever wind up in the Coast Guard’s care, turn off your mouth, switch on your ears, and treat every word they say as gospel. They will thank you for it.

We were moved into a meeting room and were offered a cell phone to call our families. That guy named Roach walked in minutes later. He was clearly someone capable of beating you up while also talking you into saying thank you. I was glad he was on my team. “Dylan, I’ve been on the phone with your family all day. They have been worried sick.” I had no doubt my mom had had an exponentially worse day than me. Since the moment the C-130 started circling us, my day had been pretty damn enjoyable.

The crew of Magic Bus on the ground safe in Elizabeth City

 

One of Evan and Zach’s buddies from the Webb Institute just so happened to live an hour from the base. Our shore team had already arranged for his dad, a former Seal, to come grab us. We drove down the highway in search of any place you could score calories. Burger King popped up first. I never thought I’d be on the verge of tears to have a Whopper in my grasp.

While hounding down our food, I asked Sam if we had not just had the most American day of all time. Boat sank, hopped in a liferaft, saved by a helicopter, transported to a moving aircraft carrier, flown to a Coast Guard base where we were picked up by a former Navy Seal, then driven right to a Burger King.

I doubt Hemingway could have written that one.

Riding down the escalator at T.F. Green airport outside Providence and seeing our families gathered at the bottom was a feeling I cannot describe. All I know is it only happened due to the coordinated effort of the U.S. Coast Guard and U.S. Navy. They are the reason you are reading this article.

WE NOW HAVE a much better idea of what happened to Magic Bus. Ten days after we abandoned our boat, the crew on another southbound sailboat spotted her capsized and took some pix. These show that the full-length skeg in front of the port rudder had sheared off a few inches from the hull, leaving the rudder itself entirely intact. This left an open hole below the hull that I could not detect during my swim in the engine compartment.

This might possibly have been the result of a collision. With all the noise and tumult as Magic Bus roared south at high speed in a strong breeze, we might easily have missed the sound of an impact. But for something to strike the skeg, missing the keel and saildrive leg in front of it, while having no effect on the rudder, seems a bit unlikely.

Intact rudder configuration on Magic Bus, with full skeg

Magic Bus inverted several days after we abandoned her. You can see the port-side rudder skeg is missing, while the port rudder, saildrive leg, and keel are all intact

Another possible explanation: the stress of the conditions we were in, coupled with the boat’s high speed, provoked a major structural failure and twisted the skeg right off the hull.

All we know for sure is we will never know for sure.