Earlier this summer, a strong southerly breeze whipped up Tangier Sound, an isolated and scenic body of water on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Marshes brimmed with ducks and wading birds, and low islands dotted the blue expanse like green oases in a classic Chesapeake Bay seascape.
By early evening, the tide was ebbing and the shallow sound began to churn. Thunderheads rose to the south, darkening the sky and signaling the likely approach of a summer squall. Around 7 p.m. on July 9, a 16-foot center console skiff pitching in confused 2- to 3-foot seas was riding a riptide over Shark Fin Shoal. The family aboard had been enjoying a day of fishing for croaker since about 1:30 p.m. “We were catching lots of fish,” says Contessa Riggs, 43, of Washington, D.C. “We thought we’d make one more run and then head in.”
Onboard were Contessa’s 3-year-old son, Conrad, and her 9-year-old niece, Emily Horn. Also present were Contessa’s brother, John Franklin Riggs, 46, who operates the 50-foot workboat Perseverance out of Rock Hall, Md., and their father, John Riggs Jr., 70, a retired Chesapeake Bay commercial fisherman from Salisbury, Md. All of the adults were experienced boaters familiar with Tangier Sound.
Without warning the skiff took a big wave over the bow, and then another. As John rushed aft to grab a bucket and bail, Contessa pulled life jackets from a locker and hurried to fit Emily and herself. A set of three steep waves reared up astern and hit in rapid succession, delivering a devastating one-two-three blow. The boat capsized and sank stern first in seconds, tossing everyone into the water. “The boat just went over. It was amazingly fast. There was no chance to grab flares or anything like that,” Contessa recalls.
Contessa clutched Conrad—who was wearing a life jacket—while holding on to the bow section of the skiff. About three feet of the bow remained above the surface, buoyed by trapped air under the deck. She secured Emily’s partly fastened life jacket and then completed her own. John and their father dove under the overturned hull and managed to free two more jackets from a locker.
With night approaching and little chance of being seen from shore, Contessa recognized how serious the situation was. “There’s not a lot of shore traffic. The chance that we’d been seen was pretty much zero,” she says. Their location—about three miles from the nearest land—and the fading light made rescue unlikely without help. The water temperature, however, was about 80°F, which helped delay the worst effects of exposure.
The squall hit fully at roughly 7:30 p.m.: cold rain, lightning, and waves that repeatedly broke over the upturned skiff. Waves tossed both children off the exposed bow section; Contessa, her brother and their father fought to keep the kids on top of the hull between surges. Sea nettles stung everyone. “It was terrible out there,” says John Franklin. “The kids were getting slammed around. They were cold. I don’t like talking about it.”
The squall passed in roughly ten minutes, but the storm ensured that no one would be out night fishing, reducing the chances of a timely sighting. They drifted through the night; a passing fuel barge didn’t notice them, and their wet VHF radio lay under the capsized boat. There was no cell signal. As hours passed, hypothermia and exhaustion began to set in—the children were especially vulnerable.
At about 8:30 p.m., John Franklin quietly asked Contessa if he should attempt to swim to shore. Though staying with the boat is generally the safest option, the family knew their situation was deteriorating: the toddler was fading, Emily was weakening, and their father was tiring from jellyfish stings and fatigue. After considering the risks, John Franklin chose to try for help. “I did it knowing the consequences of not doing it,” he says. “It was just something I had to do.”
Contessa watched him swim away into the dark. As night deepened, the tide turned and the overturned skiff began rushing north; crab pot buoys slid by and faint shore lights appeared as distant smudges. She kept reassuring both children, though at about 1 a.m., six hours after the capsize, Contessa reached her lowest point. “I knew my brother hadn’t made it. I knew my dad was going to float away from the boat and that my son was going to die in my arms. But I knew I had to hold it together for Emily in the off chance that we made it till morning and were picked up,” she says.
Meanwhile, John Franklin’s swim had been brutal. He had swallowed large amounts of water, been stung repeatedly by sea nettles, and felt his strength fail as shore lights winked out one by one. When he finally felt his feet hit sand, it seemed miraculous. He staggered ashore and found a house brightly lit with multicolored exterior lights. From there he joined rescue efforts and returned to search.
Rescue intensified after John Franklin reached shore. A helicopter searched the area and a fire rescue boat soon located the family’s overturned skiff more than eight hours after the capsize; by then they had drifted about six miles north. The helicopter’s spotlight twice swept over the boat before its pilot signaled that they had been spotted. A short time later, the fire rescue boat pulled alongside and lifted the family aboard. John Franklin arrived in a second rescue boat, and the reunion was emotional.
The family credits calm decision-making, quick use of life jackets, and the physical protection of the partially buoyant bow for their survival. “Leaving the boat was a dumb thing for me to do,” John Franklin says, reflecting on the desperate swim. “There just wasn’t anything else we could do.” He then laughs and adds that the silver lining is the children’s resilience: “The best part is the kids can’t wait to go fishing again.”
October 2013 issue