El and I were on a fishing boat, east of those waters, off the south coast of New Zealand. Cold rough waters in that Great Southern Ocean. Smoke suddenly poured from the engine room - we were in the pilot house at the time - skipper gave El the helm, engine now dead and dead helm - gave me the radio - and headed below. I called "Mayday," the standard three times, and held for an answer. El held the helm steady - seas were very high, winds strong, and we were drifting down onto a rocky reef 50 yards downwind with breaking surf across most of the reef.
No one answered the 'mayday' so I called again. Silence. El and I talked - "when she strikes, we leave the pilot house, head to the stern, slide into the water atop a wave, stay close to each other, and swim our best to the rocks and land between the waves if we can."
Called the 'mayday' again - crackling static. Ten yards or so from striking, engine coughed and caught. El spun the helm and slowly gave her throttle and we turned out to sea. When the ashen-faced skipper returned to the pilot house, he said they were "damned lucky to get the fire out and the engine wiring wasn't damaged." We told him we were about to leave the helm, if we struck, and he said "you probably would have been the only ones with a chance to survive. No life jackets or life boats and none of the crew aboard (including the skipper) can swim."
Those guys in Australia were mighty lucky the police boat was handy, they had the epirb, and they could stay afloat with the cooler - that water in the Great Southern Ocean is cold and rough. We empathize after our close call.
eh
