Photo courtesy Kelly Poole

Moments after the bowsprit cracked, causing the rig to come toppling.

On September 5th, 2005, 75 miles off the western coast of France, the 157-foot Pride of Baltimore II was dismasted in a moderate squall. I was one of 18 crew members aboard during the accident, and I write this from St. Nazaire, France.

Pride of Baltimore is a replica of an 1812-era privateer that operates as a good will ambassador for the state of Maryland. She is a topsail schooner, with two large gaff sails (one on a boom and one loose-footed), several headsails, and a single square topsail on the foremast. She has sailed all over the world, logging nearly 200,000 miles, and visited over 200 ports in 40 countries in North, South, and Central America, Europe, and Asia.

During the European tour of 2005, Pride of Baltimore II has had its series of squalls. The North and Baltic seas are not known for their tranquil waters and gentle breezes. These squalls have shown us who we are and how we cope with stress. In four months we've had to set and douse sail, climb aloft in heavy wind and seas, wrestle the mad flapping canvas and lash it down to protect it, all done with the ship’s interests in front of our own. So as the two squalls hit us on September 5th, they were met with a familiar drill. Racing towards Spain, the first squall heeled the boat over to 30 degrees and blew rain down at an angle. We struck our jib topsail, let the squall pass and then reset the sail. An hour later, the second squall hit with no rain, just wind. The anemometer topped at about 44 knots of apparent wind, but then died quickly.

Running up on deck, I should have heard the bowsprit crack, but did not. I looked forward and our headrig, comprised of the bowsprit, jib boom and three giant sails, was gone. The captain called to drop the mainsail, so we quickly followed orders. Immediately the crew lowered the peak and throat halyards, during which our second mate Jamie Trost and bosun Kelly Poole took up and made fast the port topping lift. I made my way toward the starboard side of the boat and my sporadic thoughts were interrupted by a cracking and popping coming from up forward. It was our foremast and reefed topsail tilting back toward us and crashing onto deck port side. Running further to the starboard rail, a thought of jumping overboard flashed through my head, followed directly by the thought of never getting back to the boat if I did. The mainmast then broke as well, coming down on the starboard side with an incredible noise. It missed the captain, first mate Andrew McKee, myself and most of the crew by six feet or less. In fact, everything missed us, not just the mast but its shrouds, stays, yards, sails, radar--everything. Furthermore, not only did both masts miss the crew but tons of wood and rigging also missed the helm, engine throttles, compass binnacle and GPS antennae.

And then it was over. Silence. For the hours afterward, my sense of time was lost. The silence was broken by urgent yells to assure everyone was OK which, apart from being shaken up, seemed to be the case. The ship however, was a mess. Within minutes the crew had been transported to an alien place as, looking around, nothing seemed familiar. Tangles of ropes littered our feet and hung twisted and chaotic. Sails draped lifelessly over broken spars like bedsheets or rocked in cobalt blue unison with the swell of the sea. Moving about now necessitated a careful eye as the surroundings we've gotten to know so well, have traversed hundreds of time and learned to navigate on moonless nights. The stage on which we have weathered mother nature's unpredictable performances, were gone. Well, not gone, but different. Completely different. Order and cleanliness became disarray which required a whole new sense of exploration and discovery. There was the instantaneous awe I liken to losing a home in a storm, such as Katrina--there is just wreckage, and it doesn't seem real.

Photo courtesy Kelly Poole

The crew of 18 set to work securing and salvaging what they could of the sails and rigging.

As the smell of freshly sawed wood hung in the rainy air, the reality of the situation settled in. We immediately went to work securing flailing spars and rolling masts so we could awkwardly, but safely, move about the deck in the six foot swell. For the next five hours until dark, the crew creatively engineered methods to salvage as much wreckage as possible. We managed to pull both jib boom and bowsprit out of the water and hang them over the bow. The sails were pulled up over the cap rail and into the boat. The top sail yard was cut and brought aboard. Most of the gear was lashed in a position where nothing could get wrapped in our propellers. We worked together beautifully. Not manically, not hastily, but with calm presence of mind. I suppose concentrating on what had to be done at the time kept us focused.

For five hours 18 people worked harmoniously for a common goal, shocked and euphoric with a sense of how lucky we‘d been. It was one of the finest hours of any crew I've had the pleasure of working with. That crew is as follows; Captain Jan Miles, first mate Andrew McKee, second mate Jamie Trost, bosun Kelly Poole, engineer Josh Rubin, cook Martina Deering, six deckhands including myself, Dave Castle, Alan Morse, Bhodi Sheridan, Erin Doak, and Sophie Deler, and finally six guest crew, Steph Roberts, Emma Roberts, Terrance Porter, Robert Moffey, Robert Hendry, and Micheal Fleming, all UK citizens.

Photo courtesy Kelly Poole

Docked in St. Nazaire, France, repairs are underway, and the boat is moving toward the future.

It is yet to be determined if our salvaging efforts will prove useful in determining the cause of the accident. What is known is the bowsprit broke completely in two, compromising the forward support of both fore and main masts, which led to their falling. Under the cover of darkness, Pride of Baltimore II motored at seven knots toward St. Nazaire, an industrial port held by the Germans during World War II.

Our arrival was spectacular. We slid by the docks and homes that dotted the shoreline in the mouth of the Loire River and headed towards the St. Nazaire basin lock. As we passed, French joggers stopped their run and morning bikers got off their bikes. Old ladies with poodles stood with a look of bewilderment on their faces. The crowd who assembled to watch us lock through to the main basin whispered and pointed and opened their mouths to gasp in disbelief of this or that. A few shouted what seemed like a question, but unfortunately, none of the crew spoke French. Upon entering the lock we tied up behind a sunflower seed processing plant jacketed with pigeons and began the restoration process. This was one month ago and, even still, the unending warmth and assistance the French offer is astounding. Many of the crew have taken to learning the language and gratefully explain to passing eyes and inquiring minds the reasons for the graveyard of broken spars lying beside us on the dock. With every passing day, Pride of Baltimore II moves toward a new future. Looking back, I'll remember my father's good advice that in every disaster lies chaos and opportunity. What is important is how you handle the situation, for that is a true test of character. Having said that, the crew of the Pride of Baltimore II sees the opportunity to learn, rebuild and sail this beautiful ship back home. For more information, see http://www.pride2.org/