Local farmer and Bermuda Offshore Cruising Association member Mr. Tom Wadson gives his account of being caught in the midst of Tropical Storm Barry off Bermuda and forced to abandon his 31-foot yacht Swift of Paget on July 8.

I have owned Swift of Paget since 1983, almost half her twenty-five-year life.

My father, TJ Wadson, had her built in 1970 in England. She has been in "the pool'' at the Earl's court boat show. She came across the Atlantic under sail skippered by my father and crewed by my brother John. She was owned by three other people prior to coming into my possession.

The first part of the (fateful) voyage consisted of racing her in the double-handed leg of the Bermuda 1-2 from St. George's to Newport, Rhode Island. Steven Hollis of the Ocean Sails shop in St. George's was the "other half'' of the crew.

We had a fabulous sail to Newport. The boat could not have been better.

Everything worked well, she went fast, she revelled in the crossing. She allowed us to win our class IV and come fourth overall in the leg. She was helped along with what I honestly believe is the finest inventory of sails on any boat raced out of Bermuda. The entire voyage to Newport went extremely well. We had conditions from 0 to about 30 knots on the nose. The boat loved it. The trip took a few hours more than five days -- fast.

A fine time was had in New England. We were met by my fiance, Nancy. We were offered either a Porsche or Mercedes by another friend. We took a sail to Block Island on Coyote , the 60-foot around-the-world-yacht. We visited numerous friends and generally had a fabulous time. I love New England in summer. We went to the prize giving, collected our trophy and continued to be in the company of many exceptional sailors and good people.

I was planning on leaving early the next week. My delivery crew, Dr. Jack Bailey, had arrived. We discussed our departure -- it was to be early evening Monday, July 3rd.

We provisioned the boat, filled the tanks, checked weather, including obtaining a rather poor facsimile off Coyote' . All looked reasonable, we said goodbye and off we went.

We motor sailed off into a light SE breeze, dodging the odd fishing boat and watched fireworks over the transom. The next few days offered truly fabulous sailing, albeit on the wind, light breezes and much distance behind us.

Thursday night had us halfway there. We had been eating well -- roast dinners with all the trimmings -- including fresh "Lukes Farm'' beans.

Steering had all been with the autopilot and occasionally the steering vane.

Life was great. We recorded all weather forecasts.

I always love when the section on warnings occurs -- there is always a pause and then it is announced that there are none. Well, the warning section came over NMN Portsmouth and (the forecaster) then proceeded to deliver an epistle on tropical (now I know why they call them) depression 2 west of Bermuda.

It was still well to our Southwest but it was there. I never did like tropical depressions and I hate hurricanes. I've been at sea in two in small boats during them.

I remember becoming angered by the fact that the depression was forming in our face. I really didn't feel I deserved it! Brawl with tropical storm I was on watch at midnight. We were halfway through it when it was time to put the first reef in the main. It was starting to blow a bit, probably 15 knots.

I felt we could hold the 2 jib a while longer; after all, it was dacron and fairly forgiving, and keep the power on that we needed to get through this. I remember thinking, "So this is Friday'': I always try to avoid anything major with regard to the sea and boats on Fridays. Most prudent seafarers do.

We listened to Bermuda Harbour Radio weather and they mentioned Tropical Storm Barry. I really hoped we could duck it. Not a chance. It was already in our face.

We went to a 3 jib with two reefs in the main. At some point we put the tiny working jib on and took the main down completely, lashing it to the boom. We were definitely in the northeast quadrant of the storm -- not good -- probably the nastiest part. Oh well, I thought, I really have to think now.

My main concern was to free the boat up as best we could, really make sure nothing was under any excessive load.

We had been hand steering for a while now with violent squalls blasting through. And serious lightning -- lightning we needed to avoid. Somehow we ducked it.

The boat was wonderful; solid yet responsive, buoyant and nimble, better than most I've put to the test. It felt very safe in her. I trusted her. I had been over her from stem to stem, top to bottom, inside and out. She gave all I expected. She was wonderful, indeed living up to all my expectations. She was nimble and ahead of Barry.

After four and a half hours of squall ducking, I remember thinking of a dear friend's expression -- "When the going gets tough, the weird turn pro''. If felt safe with Swift . She knew me, I knew her. It was very intimate. This was what she was prepared for. I wanted to let her have as gentle a time as was possible.

We had to be alert. "Don't ever drop your guard'', "This is as tough as farming'', were a few of the things running through my mind.

Five hours of hand steering went by. It was Jack's turn. "Try to keep as much south in it as you can,'' I remember telling him and watching him. Jack knew exactly where the groove -- maybe it was as big as the Grand Canyon -- was. He was doing a great job. The motion was not easy.

More squalls. The tops were spuming off the waves...We were running east and had been forced 30 miles by now. I did not want to go East. It was time to slow the boat down, time to see how she would behave in these conditions, time to stop running with the storm. We proceeded to stream a warp, with a large bumper attached to it. We let it out the full 500 feet of its length -- there were always two waves between us and the end. Our speed had dropped by a knot and nothing seemed to be overly stressed. I felt we could slow her more. We sent the cockpit bucket back on the warp. This soon arrived and took another knot and a half off the speed. The small jib was still dragging us eastward.

This same jib was steadying the boat. This was the unknown, the balance that had to be struck.

How would she behave with no jib? Would she behave at all? There was only one way to find out.

There was a lot of wind and sea; still, we had to try it. We dropped the jib, she lay ahull and she seemed to relax. She was fine.

I stayed in the cockpit for another hour. The wind was easing, the sky clearing. We were through the worst of this one. My plan was to take the day off, rest, and see what the evening brought. I hoped it would be possible to start sailing then.

We rested the boat, rolled a bit, taking the occasional "greenie'' over the top. These waves breaking over the boat were indeed, I thought, quite rude.

The only occasional drip inside the boat was of course into my bunk. Nothing serious. It would aggravate you if you let it I awoke at about 1800 hours and went on deck to take a look. My first view was of the rudder -- it was not right. The stock had disintegrated, the trim tab was bent and we were now potentially in trouble. A thorough inspection revealed the top of the rudder had come away from the bottom; in essence, the rudder was there but could not be connected to the tiller. Big problem! The trim tab was being held on by the vane lines. It had to be taken off before it, too, became damaged. It could well be our best shot at emergency steering.

I cut the control lines and brought it up on deck. It was lashed to the deck.

We definitely had a big problem! The good news was that we were rested, the weather was easing and the boat was riding well. The bad news was no steerage.

We were now almost 200 miles to leeward of Bermuda and there was another depression/trough to our east, well east, but it was there. We also knew that friends ashore were probably concerned.

Sailor Wadson forced to abandon ship in storm I will never forget sitting at the table looking at Jack. We began discussing our options.

We decided it was important to inform someone that we were there and that we had a potentially serious problem.

We discussed how to steer the boat under jury-rigged rudder. That was easy.

I had thought about that for twelve years.

We could easily do that. We had the materials, we had the tools, we had everything wee needed. We also had a very bad sea state and we had 200 miles to go.

I was working the radios -- 2182 and channel 16. I could hear traffic on 2182 clearly. This was good -- they should be able to hear us. I put out several calls for possible assistance and gave our position. No answer. Try again. No answer. Try again. Nothing.

I remember thinking that this really sucked.

Surely someone could hear us.

Jack asked me about response times to EPIRBs. A general rule occurred to me.

The last time I was in this situation it took 14 hours -- a long time if the weather should deteriorate more.

I fired off the EPIRB to start the process. Back to the radios, I went through the channels.

There was a lot of traffic on 4 megs. Surely they could hear us. Nothing. Back to 2182 and Channel 16.

I could not believe it when Bermuda Harbour Radio ZBM responded on 2182.

Communication was poor but there was communication.

We switched to International Channel 410. This was a bit better. ZBM came back fairly well.

He could understand that we had rudder problems.

He informed us that a merchant tanker, the Sea Empress was close and could be there in 90 minutes. I was amazed.

We shut down the EPIRB at ZBM's request. We had fired it' thus, everyone, it seemed, knew of us now. This was good.

Now that we had made contact with Sea Empress I could see her. We were probably five miles off her starboard bow.

Her working lights were blazing. She was big. We turned on our lights at her request. He could see us and had us on radar.

We discussed the situation regarding abandonment. We were now committed.

There are not a lot of buses 200 miles northwest of Bermuda.

I had reached the sad conclusion that we would have to leave "Swift''. So be it. We had to go. I cried. My soul and my family's soul is in this boat. I felt deep sorrow. We had to go. I told Jack to take his personal possessions, pack them in a bag, put them in a garbage bag and then put this into a sail bag. I did the same.

We now thought we knew what the tanker had planned. He had gone five or so miles past us and was swinging around slowly. He said how he wanted to come along side, port side to. This didn't seem right. He was coming straight at us. Would this work or would we simply be crushed? I prayed. I caught myself and asked Jack to pack all the food in the refrigerator into a trash bag. He did and then asked why. I explained that if this didn't work out we would need the food. If it did work we would leave the food but it would rot fairly quickly. I didn't want to have to handle each piece if we did get the boat back -- maybe I was dreaming.

The interior of Swift was all in order. She was lashed down and in order. All was sealed and tight.

We went back on deck.

The tanker was coming towards us. Something seemed wrong. Her port light was showing -- somehow we were on the windward side. The tanker was close -- less than a mile. The tanker was huge. The sky was now black and the wind seemed to pick up. The tanker was definitely closing.

It was massive. One half mile away. I speak to the tanker: he is going to put us under his starboard side and make a lee, yet he is still to leeward.

"Jack -- this is really dangerous!'' The huge black bow is very close, it starts to swing -- 200 yards -- I still see the port side. "Please! Please! Don't hit me,'' I think to myself. Yes, the bow is swinging. The bow is above us now. 100 yards. It is massive. Now we see the starboard side. Thank God. He missed. Thank God.

Before we know it we are aimed at the ship 20 feet away from it, midships on his starboard side. I remember he told us he would send a line down to make our bow fast. It arrives. I tie it around the rig. Our bow approaches the ship. Our pulpit is knocked off as it connects with the ship. We are along side.

The two sail bags are tied on a 120' line. I try to heave a line up. I'm 5' short. I try again. Another miss.

A huge crane is swung over the side. A cargo net appears. It is lowered. It is at our transom. Jack checks his life jacket. They have the "luggage line''.

The two sail bags are hauled up.

Jack is in the net. The crane starts to take him up. The radar slaps him twice. He is on his way.

Bang! The spreader taps the ship. Amazing. The rig is still there. Jack is on deck. He must be safe.

I put the weather boards in the companionway. I pull the hatch closed. Swift is sealed. She will survive.

The net returns. My life jacket is secure. I clip my safety clip on into the net. "Up! Up! Take it up!'' It seems like forever. I look down at Swift . I look up at the faces. I'm almost there. I'm on the deck. I have arrived. My knee is cut. Jack's knees have buckled. He's up again.

"They are Russian,'' he says.

I take my knife out and go forward to the hawse-pipe. The only energy I can muster is from anger. I cut Swift away. I throw the knife overboard.

The physical part is over. God spared me again.

We are taken to the bridge. We meet the captain. We are shown our cabins. A shower! It is now 10.30 p.m. We are served dinner.

Back to the bridge. We are encouraged to call home. I call Nancy. Jack calls his wife, Sally. I'm back in my cabin. I am asleep until the morning.

The ship handling skills of Master Vladimer Derkack and his crew, especially Chief Officer Dimitriy Lobzov and Radio Officer Valeriy Kankava are outstanding.

They put the 900' long, 147,000 ton Sea Empress filled with 951,000 barrels of crude oil along side us -- within 15 feet of where they wanted to be-in a gale.

A truly remarkable achievement. They showed incredible human kindness, professional ability and outstanding skill for which we shall be forever grateful.

As I write this final page, Hurricane Chantal is probably battering poor Swift to pieces. It is my sincere hope that she survives today and reappears.

She still has one more race to win to clinch the (Bermuda Offshore Cruising Association) summer series! Mr. Tom Wadson arriving back home after his ordeal.