Part 4

As I got nearer to the beach my reading of the North Sea Pilot as to the likely conditions was grimly confirmed. The coast is low lying and is mainly sand doles, the water is fairly deep until within a quarter to half-a-mile of the beach, there are sand bars - from two to three - at intervals lying parallel with the shore-line. These ridges cause the seas, kicked up by Westerly storms, with a fetch right across the North Sea, to break very heavily indeed. The "Pilot" advises shipping to avoid these breakers. I most ardently agree with the "Pilot"!

When I was about one-and-a-half miles from the shore I had a severe argument with myself. Should I or should I not fire my distress signals? My feelings over this are strong. When I am in trouble at sea I like to feel my troubles are entirely mine, that no-one else shall be involved, that no-one else shall risk their lives on my behalf.

On the other hand, I thought, suppose when it is too late, they find my unfired distress signals. What would the lifeboatmen feel if, through local knowledge and from a bigger, more powerful boat, they knew that a call for their assistance would have enabled them to save the life of the idiot who didn't fire his distress signals? In spite of appearances, I dislike being thought of as an idiot. So I fired my signals. It turned out after all that these were never seen.

I now began preparations for what I thought would be my final and forlorn struggle with the sea. I carefully stowed my movie-camera in a plastic bag and fastened the top to make it watertight. Then the film record I had made of the journey. My passport, and papers, the Nova Pal D.F. radio which had aided my navigation so faithfully and well. I stowed these smaller bags inside all my best clothes which were inside a much larger, heavier plastic bag, then I bound the top of this. I felt quite certain that, if the boat was smashed to matchboard, as looked so likely, these items at least would be found almost immediately. In the event this bag simply disappeared.

I then hardened up the air in the four Sea-Esta Roll-a-Boats, to ensure maximum buoyancy through the breakers. Of these I kept one for myself as a form of lifebelt (partially inflated is best for this), the remainder I tied together and placed in the roof of the cabin to help keep the boat from being rolled over. I sealed the plugs with insulating tape.

About a quarter of an hour later I was very close to the first of the breakers. They looked absolutely terrible, I was appalled. I stood up for one last look round then, about half-a-mile to the North, to my amazement and delight I saw a small ship with a very business-like look about her. I thought it was a lifeboat, although I knew for certain it could not, so soon, have come in answer to my signals. In any case it was coming from the wrong direction. There is no harbour for many miles to the North of Hvide Sande. This little ship bore down towards me so I put out a long line from forward (Ulstron, which floats !) so that she could hook it up and hope to tow me clear of the breakers.

As she came near I signalled the presence of my line, frantically - I was afraid she might foul her propeller in it, and be in as perilous a position as my own. Fortunately my signal was understood and three times her skipper risked everything to get my line. We were now among the first breakers. Huge and hideous, and with immense violence they rapidly filled the Potter. Only the sea-anchor kept her head to and saved her from being rolled over and over and smashed to pieces within the first few minutes.

The third time round the fishing vessel got my line, but the next breaker threw the Potter back and simply tore the samson post straight out of her. The skipper of the fishing boat would have certainly lost his ship, his own life and the life of his crew if he had tried again. So he simply had to leave me to my fate. I learned later that he sent out a radio distress signal on my behalf. This action quite certainly saved my life, as I shall tell.

Meanwhile, as I got closer to the shore the intervals between the breakers became less and less, until the whole sea was a vast roaring, boiling mass of white water. I was fastened to the boat with my lifeline, but each breaker nearly battered me senseless.

I never before had to fight so hard to live. After each breaker I found myself, legs one moment, head and arms the next, tangled up in the running rigging. I had to cut myself free time and time again. By the time I and the boat, had got to within a few hundred feet of the beach the sea-anchor probably dragged on the ground beneath I could occasionally feel my feet touch the ground and I knew I had to break the general golden rule. The boat was not getting into shallow water fast enough to save me. I had to cut myself free and make it by myself.

I could see several men running along the beach now. I cut myself finally free and swam, and was hurled towards them, then dragged back again into deeper water by the powerful under-tow. This happened it seemed interminably, as in a nightmare. Somehow I remember I was stood up looking at them, waist deep in seaward swirling water. I expected the next breaker to carry me off my feet at any moment. I did not look behind me, only at the men on the beach, safe and secure, only a few feet from me.

If they could not reach me, I certainly could not reach them. My entire energy had been used up. They waded in and I collapsed, unconscious, just as they reached me.