Riding Out Hurricane Hugo Turned Sailor’s Adventure Into Nightmare

A year ago, Charlie Thomas rode out Hurricane Hugo aboard his 63-foot charter yacht Zinja at Culebra, Puerto Rico. During the 24 hours he was alone on board, Thomas recorded his preparations for the storm, his fears and emotions, and documented his fight to save himself and his boat. The following is an edited transcript of his tapes.

This is my first hurricane afloat, so I’ve been asking people who have been through six or seven for advice. They tell me to get everything done now because when the wind really starts blowing, I’ll get disoriented and start doing things backwards, like writing with the wrong end of the pencil or holding the flashlight at its beam end rather than its handle.

It’s blowing about 25 m.p.h. now. I just put out my second anchor. The deck is stripped. I’ve checked with boats around me to determine how many anchors they have out. I guess this is really going to be one hurricane, as they are saying on the radio:

“We are expecting combined seas of 15 to 20 feet and 75 m.p.h. winds, with gusts over 100. There is great likelihood of major damage. There will be rain such as you have never seen before; as much as 10 inches is expected by tomorrow. Stay inside. With the surge, manhole covers will blow off. The hurricane is scheduled to hit 24 hours from now. At noon we will have new official coordinates. Stay tuned now for the CBS news broadcast.”

11 a.m.: Things have settled down a little bit. When Hurricane Gabriel went through last week, I elected to stay at the dock in Yacht Haven, St. Thomas. I felt comfortable it would pass wide. They predicted 12- to 20-foot swells outside. With the surge in the harbor, I snapped three lines. I thought, these hurricanes aren’t a fair fight. I decided I would never ride out a hurricane at the dock again.

I had the boat about 80% ready to move. Two boats I really respected said they were going to stay, but I checked the weather fax and it said there is an 80% chance that it will hit here. I chose Culebra over Hurricane Hole in St. John, even though it was farther away, and I decided to go without sails. I thought I should go early, so I left Sept. 16, while the hurricane was still 300 miles from Guadeloupe.

I got into Culebra three hours later and looked around. I knew there were a lot of boats behind me. The one thing I didn’t want was a boat dragging down on me. I decided to go out on a point, where I figured no one would want to be near me.

11:30 a.m.: I put out 400 feet, 1,400 pounds of chain plus a 105-pound anchor. I’m out on a point with two inlets on either side. A fellow I knew came in to the left of me 100 yards away, and there’s another boat 150 yards away. Two tour-boat “pirate ships” with a lot of freeboard anchored in a little cove to the right of me. I don’t like their location, but relative to other boats, I have three times as much room. If the wind does what’s expected, I can drag a mile.

I then went around to each of the other boats to find out what kind of anchors they have out and how much scope. All agreed to monitor Channel Six. At one point, the anchor hung up on the Zodiac (a motorized rubber raft) and I thought for sure it would puncture it. A guy on a nearby boat was watching me and got his oars out and was ready to help if I needed it. That’s the thing about the people here: Nobody gives you advice, nobody tells you anything, but they all watch and they all help.

Noon: More and more it looks as if Hurricane Hugo is going to hit 540 miles south of St. Croix. They say this is a Class 4 hurricane. I don’t know what the hell that means but I know it is the worst. They say that at 175 miles from the center of the hurricane the winds are about 25 m.p.h. At 150 miles, winds are 40 m.p.h. At 140 miles, winds really start to build up. This one is sustained at 150 m.p.h.--on open water with no obstructions.

The anchorage we are in has a narrow passage, a quarter-mile wide, and all but 100 yards are covered by reef. This place is safe as safe can be and there are now 300 boats in here. It looks like Newport Harbor in the mooring area. Most boats that can be are pulled up into the mangroves. I’m happy out here. I have a strong aversion to bouncing on the bottom.

12:30 p.m.: The main saloon looks as if Moby Dick swam down here and deflated. All the sails, cushions, motors, everything is stripped off the deck. All halyards and lines have been taped down, and emergency gear is out. I have informed the local Civil Defense boat that I am staying aboard. Other people are going ashore, but I don’t feel any danger. I think I will be safe on the boat and can help it ride through by starting the engine to keep the shock off the anchor.

The radio brings the noon weather: “Winds in the hurricane are still sustained at 130 m.p.h. Barometric pressure is at 29.8 inches and dropping. . . .”

1 p.m.: The storm seems to be very predictable. I have been plotting it and have it going right over St. Croix. The eye will pass within 31 miles of Culebra. Thirty-one miles is very close in a storm of this magnitude, and I imagine we will get over 100 m.p.h. stuff. If so, with tremendous, big seas, I think things would start coming apart.

But I’m in a place just like Cat Harbor in Catalina. I think the velocity will get cut down by the hills to 70 or 80 m.p.h. I know we can take 70 without too much trouble. We had 60 before, and I’ve learned a lot about chains snapping. But, if we do get winds over 100 or up to 150, or if the wind changes direction, then all bets are off.

The radio again: “In Guadeloupe, the winds clocked 180 m.p.h. The harbor is boiling and the town is completely awash. Eight people have been injured.”

1:30 p.m.: The wind is blowing 60-70 m.p.h. The fellow in front of me’s dinghy blew off. He jumped over and swam after it as the wind blew it along. I wondered where my fins were and if I could go after him, but he got it just in time.

6 p.m.: The sky is sunny in the direction of the storm, but you can see strange clouds swirling. CBS gave a location and I was able to plot it. I know the Coast Guard is working hard, but it is still posting the 3 p.m. locations. Right now, my only worry is the pirate ship 400 feet in front of me. I think she is going to drift.

6:50 p.m.: It is now dark, and by my calculations we are close to the worst of it and it will continue until 6 in the morning. I have on my foul-weather gear that has a built-in float coat and safety harness. I would feel a whole lot better if there were two chain hooks rigged forward and both of them were three or four times longer than they are. I am afraid the line on the chain hooks will snap. I have three backups rigged on it.

7:30 p.m.: I just made contact with the boat in front of me to make sure he has his ears on. It’s not raining yet but it will. It is blowing over 100 now and the boat is rocking quite a bit and making some very strange sounds. I’m hesitant to start the engine because there are no seas and with all that scope out I don’t have a problem. The barometer is really dropping fast. I think that by 9 or 10 we will know what the worst of it is.

9 p.m.: It is blowing just enough so that I can’t stand up. Three boats have broken loose and now that pirate boat is well back and tangled in another boat. I am actually better off, since there is no longer anyone who can drag onto me.

2:30 a.m., Sept. 18: It’s raining like hell. The radio said we’d get as much as 10 inches. I believe it. We are oscillating 15 degrees to port and starboard and it is blowing 100 and more in gusts. Lights are out on shore; there is very little radio activity. A number of boats are in trouble.

I don’t think I have dragged. There are sounds coming out of the boat and out of the air that I’ve never heard before. I just hope that we can take it for a couple more hours. I think we are going to make it--thank God there are no seas; we’d be breaking anchor chains.

I’m wearing windsurfing shoes, which are great because they keep your feet warm even when they are wet. I ate a little pasta and drank some coffee. I’m just trying to stay fueled up.

4:30 a.m.: We are going crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it. The barometer is at 29.2 and still dropping, which means it is going to get worse. Winds are consistently in the 100 to 120 range. The barometer just went to 29.1. There is a message to all stations: “Hurricane Hugo has taken a swing to the north. It is now scheduled to hit Culebra dead on. Expect sustained winds to 150 m.p.h.” We will see what we can take.

The barometer has hit 29, which is the lowest it can go, and has now gone off the scale and started going back around. I’d say we are in 150 m.p.h. Nothing can take this very long. Stuff’s flying around down here.

(At this point there are sounds of crashes and of wind rattling like sheet metal. The tape goes off. When it comes on again, there is a difference in Charlie Thomas’ voice. He is, as he admits, fatigued. The words come slower, and are broken by sobs as he recalls what happened during the rest of the night and becomes aware of the devastation around him.)

Noon, Sept. 18: I just had a shot of rum. I’ve been up at the wheel since three in the morning and I am really rattled. We are safe, but it’s not like we are in fat city. This is one of the all-time unique experiences for me. It is also going to be one of the all-time unique experiences for the Caribbean.

About the time that I stopped recording, the wind picked up to God-plus-10. It also changed direction. I only thought hurricanes changed by 60 degrees or so. This one clocked around 180 degrees. This was the worst possible scenario since I was then blown straight onto the point I had originally anchored in the lee of.

The radio started going crazy. I cried twice listening to it. Women were screaming, “We broke loose, we are going down.” Right now, Puerto Rico must be getting the hell knocked out of it.

1 p.m.: I will try to recap. I keep trying to start talking and I just can’t. I’m so tired and all choked up. It is only hitting me right now that I am the only big boat that survived. All the boats, all the big boats are on the beach. I don’t know why I started doing this tape in the first place, except that I thought that something like this only happens once in a lifetime and other people could learn from it.

There is a gap in the tape for the six hours I went on deck. The wind started to clock around the point and as it clocked around, I realized I was going to be blown onto the point. All the restraining lines to take the load off the chain had broken. There was no way of putting another on. It was blowing over 100, and you couldn’t even stand on deck.

I realized that the only way I could keep the chain from breaking was to start the engine. I went up into the cockpit at 3 in the morning and I stayed there until the storm passed. At some point while running the engine, I knew I was within 10 feet of the rocks. I jammed the engine full throttle and I looked at the tachometer, which was at 29.50. We can only go 26 with the prop. I throttled down and went back to the engine room and the shaft wasn’t turning. It had pulled out, so I had no power. A line must have blown off and gotten stuck in the prop. If that anchor gave out, then we would have been on the biggest, ugliest rocks. . . .

I had my float coat on and I went below to put another bulky life jacket on, thinking it would protect me if we went down and I was thrown against the rocks. The wind went absolutely berserk. The boat had almost an anguish in it.

Now Zinja does not roll over on her side. But as I started to come back up, the boat took a tremendous lurch. All of a sudden I realized I was standing on the windows and there was water pouring in over the coamings. Zinja was over on her side.

I threw myself into the companionway, hoping my big life jacket would keep the water from coming in. We were lying on our side and I could feel a vibration going through the boat as she was flip-flopping on her side like a fish. At one point I think I cracked my hand as it smashed into the console. Five minutes later, we were knocked down again.

At the height of the storm, right after the boat got knocked down, I saw the 15-foot Zodiac flying. I had taken the engine off and tied four lines onto the Zodiac. All four broke clean away, and I watched the raft spiral like a jet straight up into the darkness. I got my skin-diver’s mask out because with the wind, I just couldn’t see. Already one pair of glasses had been blown off my head, rubber band and everything.

Sept. 19: I fell asleep at 6 p.m. yesterday and slept right through until 8 a.m. As the light began to come up and I could look behind me, I could see boats all along the beach. Then I looked to the right, all along Ensenada Honda, and saw more boats along the beach. Remember how I said there were 300 boats in the anchorage? Well, there are only about 20 boats still left that I can see.

Sept. 20: I went ashore today and spoke with a National Guardsman who said the eye of the hurricane came within two miles of Dewie. Gusts had been clocked at 210 to 240 m.p.h.

The boats that are small and got here early survived because they were in the mangroves with as many as 20 lines out. Their hulls are all beat up, but the mangroves really cushioned them. The boats that were anchored out some distance had another view of the battlefield. We had eight- to 12-foot seas in an anchorage where there is usually hardly a ripple.

Sept. 21: Yesterday I found the Zodiac, two miles from here. It had blown over a road and was lying on a beach. It has some holes in it, but it can be repaired.

Using the little dinghy, I approached the beach near the Villa Boheme, where I used to go. The villa just isn’t there anymore. Just the foundation. The town itself is 80% destroyed.

The question you don’t ask here is “Are you insured?” Because almost 80% of the cruising boats are not. Sixty- to 70-footers were dismasted. Charter yachts I’ve seen guys spend hours getting a nick out of are high and dry with holes punched in their sides. I saw a hundred boats like this, some stacked four high.

I have heard there is much damage in St. Thomas. I don’t know what my plans are. I do know that from now on, the good yacht Zinja will be treated with a great deal of respect due to the rapport she established with her captain on the night of Sept. 17.