Two words that incite immediate and focused attention in the minds and hearts of any sailor are, “Man Overboard!” alongside that other word almost as powerful at sea - “Fire!”.
We were sailing through the fiords of the South Island; a journey that I had done several times previously - having waxed lyrically and expansively about them in this very column. The mind-blowing scenery, the towering peaks and the sheer majesty of the fiords again seared its primordial beauty into my very soul.
We entered Milford Sound, where once shipwrecked hulks of ancient mariner’s vessels had lain, but are now inhabited only by colonies of seals marking our passage with their barking trailing behind us as we sailed past.
Drifting against granite walls and mammoth peaks, we finally nudged our nose under Stirling Falls at the end of Milford Sound with only a few feet to spare between the solid rock and our steel hull - the falling waters splashing onto the bow of our ship.
As we cruised back down the fiord, an alarm sounded on the bridge sending ripples of anxiety through the bridge officers, who quickly fell back on their substantial years of safety training.
The most up-to-date modern ships are protected by an electronic cocoon of radar. Systems which continually monitor the exterior of the ship for any incursion include one so sensitive that it can detect the breach of a small body of organic material passing through the signal to activate that dreaded alert, “Man Overboard!”
Once initiated, the system will immediately set an alarm on the bridge and note the exact GPS co-ordinates on the ship’s computer; a system so intuitive that I remember when they were installing it several years ago, that even waving from your balcony would set it off.
Having received the warning, the Commodore immediately began retracing our passage back up the Sounds to the point indicated.
The tannoy announcement for those on deck to look out for “debris” in the water brought hundreds more passengers out on deck. Both excited and horrified to be a part of “This is not a drill,” we scanned the horizon, and while the officers deployed a tender we waited tense and alert as they circled the area.
An object spotted in the distance was pulled onboard and discovered to be a Cunard cap - not unlike those sold in the ship’s dispensary. A pall of horror encased the ship while another search vessel descended into the lucid and apparently threatening waters of the Sounds. There was a cap, but what happened to what it was attached to?
Meantime on the bridge, a hive of activity was taking place with the Milford Search and Rescue Squad alerted and two helicopters sent from nearby Queenstown to assist in the search.
Recalled to our staterooms for a full head count of passengers and crew, we waited while a request was made over the ship’s tannoy for anyone who had lost a cap over-board to report immediately to the Purser’s Office.
Time ticked on until eventually it was revealed, with relief, that the now soggy cap had been lost earlier and the ship still had its full complement on board. But what then, of the mysterious alarm?
Later that evening a crew member admitted he had thrown a half bucket of warm water overboard, and that had been picked up on the alert system. I would love to have been a fly on the wall for that disciplinary meeting.
The helicopters were recalled to Queenstown. Milford Search and Rescue were stood down. The total cost of the exercise was later reported as USD$230,000.
I watched from Brian and Lesley’s balcony as we left the Sounds. Sadly, because of the lack of daylight, we had been unable to finish our scheduled day of cruising. Doubtful Sound would not be troubled by our intrusion, so we were left with the image of Mitre peak disappearing into the dusk as we set sail for Wellington.
As Brian turned his head windward, a cheeky lick of wind caught his hat blowing it straight off his head and into the slip stream of our ship. Tumbling and spinning through the air it finally settled on our wake, only to be further tossed and turned by the cresting waves.
“You better warn the Purser’s Office,” I laughed. “We don’t want a repeat of today’s episode.” Sheepishly he went down the stairs to turn himself in.
No, we don’t want any more expensive incursions on our tab thank you, Brian. (ROSS THORBY)
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