MOB Recovery: A true story.
My real-life rescue of a crew member when they fell overboard.
I was encouraged by the Founding Crew members to share some of my real-life experiences. [Next zoom call July 31st]
This is one of them. It happened in February 2025.
Before I begin, some truths from me, and a request from you:
Nothing is ever text book when it comes to emergencies. Theory is one thing, but putting it into practice is another. I made a lot of good choices that led to the [spoiler alert] successful rescue. But, it wasn’t seamless. Of course not! Nothing is ever wholly perfect at sea.
I’m interested to hear what you take from this story. I’ve shared my own learnings below. But, the beauty of any creative outlet is that everyone connects with the piece in different ways. So please share what strikes you in the comments.
I’d love to know:
What did you learn from this story?
What questions are left unanswered for you?
Have you taken any deeper learnings from this story that stretch beyond MOBs and connect more with the concept of a SALTED life?
I can’t wait to hear from you.
And, if you want to learn what my procedure for recovering a crew member from the water is, please join my Founding crew and enjoy this printable PDF.
I hate race starts. I love race starts. I keep going back for more. Because, I like to scare myself and challenge myself. But honestly, it can fee like a tightrope between a net gain and loss.
A race start is truly a test akin to any great sailing challenge. Ego, determination and skill all help with a good start. But an absolutely brilliant start needs as much restraint, emotional-control and humility as it does competitive drive. When a start goes wrong, you’ve got the balance wrong. Either, you are blinded by your ego, didn’t bow out when you should have and end up in a collision or over the line early. Or, you are too timid and afraid, delay in pursuit of clear water, hold back for others to go through, and you end up behind the fleet and late to the line.
The latter was our backdrop.
We had just started the RORC Caribbean 600 Race. I’d chartered a J122 called El Ocaso and had onboard two other professionals and seven amateur crew. We had enjoyed six days of training prior to the start. But, no matter how much work you do, you can never quite create the carnage of an actual race, until the race itself.
Yes, we were over the line late and I was kicking myself. Well, until the first tack! Racing teaches you how to get over things fast. Distraction works. With 20 boats on our line all zig zagging west in a WSW breeze - and another 40 coming up our rear - there wasn’t much opportunity to wish I’d done better. No time for self-loathing. The therapeutic nature of yacht racing shows itself in many forms…!
The breeze was fresh; about 17 gusting into the low 20s. And a swell to match. As is the way in the Caribbean. With 3000NM to build, the transatlantic sets roll in with impressive gusto towards Antigua’s Southern shore.
After a few tacks, we were getting into our swing. My heart rate was relaxing and I was starting to enjoy myself for the first time that day. The J122 drives absolutely beautifully upwind once you get her balanced. Just a few fingers on the helm and the J2 flying, we were making perhaps 35 TWA and over 7 knots.
The south coast of Antigua only has a few outlying rocks that posed a danger to us. One of them I’m slightly too familiar with. Over a decade ago when racing in Antigua Sailing Week, we hit it straight on the nose at 7 knots. So, as the water turned from a deep blue to a turquoise, I wasn’t in the mood to cut it too fine.
“Tacking in 3, 2, 1 and tacking!” I called to the crew. Three of them were already poised and ready in the cockpit early as we didn’t want to take any chances. I could swing the boat into the tack pretty quickly.
All went smoothly and were heading off on a port tack fine tuning the trim. I saw one of the crew pointing. And then I heard it - it must have been the second or third time it had been called:
“MAN OVERBOARD!”
Well, it wasn’t a man in fact. But, one of our fearless bow team.
I later found out that they had so eagerly been ready to switch sides of the boat and not risk leaving some of their team stuck on the soon to be low side, that they had actually slide right over the roof and under the lifelines before the tack had even happened.
With the crew member still pointing, arm parallel to the horizon, I swung the boat into a crash tack. As the boat was turning, I pulled the throttle into neutral and turned the engine on. My hands were already shaking as I pressed the buttons.
Looking up, I saw the arm still pointing.
“Have you got eyes on her? Where is she?”
Following the hand, I found her. Their lifejacket had inflated. Good news.
Sailing downwind now, I called for the jib to go down. The new crew knew how to do it. But, they were slow to respond. And I called again,
“Get the jib down. NOW.”
The tone in my voice had definitely changed. As I remember it, I must have learnt that voice from my mother. It’s sickeningly similar to the voice she used when we were really in trouble.
As the crew hauled the jib down, I heard a version of a Mayday being called via the handheld VHF that was handily in the cockpit by the helm. We had been using it to communicate with the fleet during the start.
Swinging back into the wind, I now used the engine to motor up to the person in the water. I can’t remember exactly if it was at this point, or just after we crash tacked, that I called to her. But, in one of those moments we were close enough to converse. I reassured her
“Alright darling. It’s all ok. We are coming back for you. Pull that sprayhood over you would you?”
They immediately reached behind for their yellow hood.
My heart rate started to spike significantly at that point as I now faced the dilemma of how to get the crew member back onboard. Intuitively I knew that lowering someone on a halyard would take too long and would be too complicated. The invention of a new plan probably added to the stress levels.
Speaking my thoughts now, I said to Alex my first mate: “The only way we are going to get them is to throw them something.”
Why did I say this? The subtext was probably that I didn’t know instinctively what it was that we were going to throw. I needed some cognitive help.
Alex stepped to the back and grabbed the life-sling out of its bag. Still very close to her, he went for an immediate throw. The life-sling flew out of his hands and hit him in the face. He had thrown it upwind. Nowhere. We weren’t in synch. We hadn’t remembered to take a breathe.
I felt nothing except solution orientated.
“I’ll drive to windward of them and then lets try again.”
And with that, I circled and brought the boat to windward of her. Pointing just off the breeze, the mainsheet started to peel out. Yes! I thought. Someone is instinctively trimming - now depowering the sail. It wasn’t actually what I wanted to happen to the main. But, the fact that it showed me that someone was there was hugely reassuring.
“Brilliant. Hold the main there.”
Engine in hard reverse, nose almost to the wind, we stopped dead about a boat length away from the crew member.
“This has got to work, Al.”
It was a plead as much as an instruction. Probably not hugely helpful. But, something focused Alex enough and the life-sling was soon around the crew member and we were pulling them back in.
As they dragged, I looked forward and saw three or four crew members looking back at me and the operation at the stern. One was at the mast, one in the cockpit, one on the side deck and one in the pit. It was as if the crew were in the ‘ready’ position.
“Let’s get some help to get them down below.”
And, with that, all was well.
Well… nearly.
“Nikki. The rock. We’ve got to get out of here.” Alex warned me.
Suddenly my tunnel vision expanded. The rest of the world returned. And with it, the crashing waves on the jagged rock barely a boat length away. The turquoise water indicated a shallow depth below us. The fleet bearing down on us and tacking off.
We tacked, hoisted the jib and sailed away to safety, and onwards.
I’ve probably run or taught an MOB recovery drill over 500 times. The method is imprinted in my long term memory. And thank goodness for that.
I’m so incredibly grateful for every single time I practiced picking up an MOB. I dread to think how differently it would have turned out if I hadn’t.
What a mess it would have been - what a tragedy it could have been - if I hadn’t had a well thought out procedure to follow.
And on the note of gratitude, there are a number of other things I’m thankful for:
On the call ‘MAN OVERBORAD’, my vision tunnelled. All I could see and think was the immediate ‘mission’. I’m grateful someone else knew what was going on with the navigation and was keeping an eye on the rock! Not that we changed the plan to hit it. But from Alex’s comments after the rescue, he was clearly keeping an eye.
Focused on my role leading the crew and rescuing the casualty, there were things that didn’t even cross my mind. I’m grateful we briefed this and that the crew listened. They did an incredible job at doing all the things they needed without me telling them to - they shouted MOB, they called a mayday, they tried to release the Dan Buoy (see below), they trimmed the main to my driving, and they keep a constant visual on the crew member.
Bad luck turned good with the Dan Buoy. It didn’t deploy. And if it had, I think it would have gotten in the way. I’m grateful for the misfortune there.*
The crew member was wearing a life jacket. Thank goodness. And it inflated automatically. Thank goodness. And when we recovered them, the AIS PLB had also automatically started transmitting. I turned it off as they came in. It was a confidence boost to know I’d fitted them all correctly. Grateful for that too.
The jib came down, and the crew felt confident enough to do it without a step-by-step instruction. So, I feel grateful for all our training. Five days earlier - that wouldn’t have happened.
We had a medical doctor onboard. Having a trained person to send down to care for the casualty was a huge relief. It would have been a terrible time for me to leave the deck, and both things - sailing away from shore, and tending to the now-urgent-medical-patient - were both critical and needed to happen at the same time.
* On reflection, I’d still not make the Dan Buoy deployment a choice. I still see it as a critical part of the immediate response to a crew falling overboard. I’ll continue to enforce that. But, now I’ve learnt first hand that in close quarters situations with limited manoeuvrability it’s not always a good idea to deploy it. As a skipper, if faced with a similar scenario again (I hope not!) I might now think twice about the Dan Buoy and instruct the crew to “stand-by on releasing the Dan Buoy”.
And finally, I’m grateful for you. For being an active member of this community and for reading this far.
Any feedback, comments or a message - I’d so appreciate learning what you enjoy and what you want more of!
Wishing you a salted life. X
Great rescue, glad it ended well for everyone.
Also, well written. My own heart rate went up reading it, despite the “spoiler”. :)
Having a good working relationship with your first mate is key in these stressful moments. Alex trusted you, followed instructions and used his then spare capacity to focus on the secondary agenda, but only informed you when you needed to know👍