Distress at sea: Mayday at midnight at the Silverrudder

​Just yesterday he said he needed to think it over first. The night and the dramatic events were still too fresh in his mind; what he had been through was simply too much. His wife had picked him up from hospital early that morning; his boat needed looking after. On the night of the Silverruders Matija – who does not wish his surname to be published – had fallen overboard from his Beneteau First 18 SE. For an hour and a half, he was dragged behind his own boat, which simply carried on sailing at four knots in the pitch-black night. He needed time.

This morning, he talks about what happened. His voice sounds calm, as if it were important to him to recount events in the right order. Not for his own sake – but for the sake of others.

Matija is 50 years old and has been sailing a Beneteau First 18 SE. The Silverruder 2026 was his second attempt at the solo regatta round Funen. The first time, he finished the race. The second time coincided with his second birthday.

YACHT: Matija, how was the race up until the moment things went wrong?

“The first third was really lovely. I enjoyed the race – it was windy, but absolutely manageable. Then the upwind leg began at the northern tip of Funen. It was gusty, but still doable. I told myself: I’ll give it a go, and if it gets too tough, I’ll turn back and look for a harbour. It was still light. But now, looking back – that was my first fundamental mistake. I should have turned back there. I misjudged my situation – how long I could still sail safely in those conditions. That was the key mistake.”

Did they sail on anyway?

“Yes. I decided to sail closer to shore – just like most of the other boats. The waves were smaller there, and the wind was lighter. I was going fast. But those short, steep waves were very uncomfortable for such a small boat. The boat would plunge under, come up briefly, then plunge under again. You have to brace yourself with your legs and the straps; there’s nothing to hold on to. There’s not a moment’s respite. I didn’t have an autopilot either.”

Then I passed the island Æbelø and came out into more open water again. The waves grew bigger, the wind became more gusty. I knew what that meant. That was my second chance to turn back. I didn’t take it."

So what happened then?

It was just before midnight. Completely dark. I was tired and decided to take a short break. I rolled up the jib, had a drink of water and ate a sandwich. I thought that would be enough – and then I’d carry on.

When I was about to set off again, I unfurled the jib. But the wind caught the boat from the wrong side, and I didn’t ease the jib sheet quickly enough. The boat capsized completely – the mast was lying in the water, and the sails were submerged. I eased the sheets. But then – I’d panicked – I climbed onto the keel to right the boat. That was stupid. It all happened so fast that I was in the water before I’d even realised what was happening."

Were they on a lead?

“Yes. Ever since we set sail from the harbour, I’d been clipped in the whole time – to a lifeline attached to the mast. I never unclipped myself. The lifeline was long enough to go all the way round the boat. And long enough for me to shimmy my way to the stern once I was in the water. I was about 30 centimetres behind the boat. I thought, right, now I’ll call for help. But then I realised: the jib sheet hadn’t been fully released yet. The boat started to move. It got faster. And faster. The boat was travelling at over four knots. The water pressure was so strong that I couldn’t pull myself up. Not even close. I kept trying. But it was impossible.”

When did you send the Mayday call?

“After perhaps five or ten minutes. When I realised I wouldn’t be able to make it back on board under my own steam, I called Channel 16. And I’m incredibly grateful that I had the radio with me. It was the first time in nine years that I’d been carrying it on my person – in the pocket of my life jacket. Before that, I’d always left it somewhere in the boat. Without that radio, nobody would have found me. It was pitch black, and my boat was drifting on its own. No one could have known that a person was being towed behind it."

How did you find your time in the water?

“How long I was actually in the water – I can’t remember exactly. An hour, perhaps an hour and a half. I’d lost all sense of time. At some point, I realised that my trousers and shoes were dragging me down – like a parachute in the water. I took them off. I thought that might make it easier for me to get back on board.”

I kept trying. I pushed against the oar blade to force the boat into the wind – so that it would stop and I could climb out. And sometimes it worked; the boat would hold against the wind for a moment. But the moment I let go of the oar to pull myself up, the boat immediately picked up speed again. Every single time. It was… it really was incredibly strong, that water pressure. I just couldn’t do it.

Every few minutes I called out on Channel 16. My race number, my sail number – over and over again. I thought: if anyone sees my boat on the tracker and knows the number, they’ll be able to find me. I wanted to tell the world that I was still there. That I was still alive.

At some point, the helicopter flew over me – and carried on. At that moment, I started to shiver. For the first time, I really felt the cold. I thought: ‘Either I’ll manage to make it on my own somehow, or the boat will eventually drift ashore and come to a halt there. Those were my last options.’"

And then, after all, help did come?

“Yes, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes later, a lifeboat arrived. A man jumped straight onto my boat and pulled me out of the water. He was a real expert. When he pulled me out of the water, I could barely lift my arms and legs. But I felt as good as new – as if I’d been reborn from the water.”

The rescuer didn’t know how to stow the sails – so I showed him. Then they got me onto the lifeboat. I was lying on a stretcher there, and they immediately wrapped me in that golden thermal blanket. A second man kept me warm with his body heat and talked to me the whole time – he didn’t stop for a moment. About five minutes later, the doctor was lowered down to us from the helicopter. They were truly exceptional professionals. In every respect.

So what happened next?

“I was winched into the helicopter, flown ashore and taken by ambulance to the hospital in Odense. There, they did everything – an ECG, a blood test, and gave me a heated blanket. When I think back: the rescue workers on the boat, in the helicopter, in the ambulance and at the hospital – there were eleven or twelve people who looked after me. I am truly grateful to them from the bottom of my heart. I would really love to meet them again.”

Were you in hospital for a long time?

​“I think I arrived at the hospital at about half past one. Then a nurse rang the Silverruder race organisers – and they gave her my wife’s phone number. That meant I could finally speak to her. The doctor said I had to stay for at least two hours so they could check everything. My wife came to see me at the hospital at five o’clock in the morning. We then drove to our holiday flat shortly afterwards.”

And what about their boat?

"The lifeboat towed it to the nearest harbour. The following afternoon, we hauled it out of the water – a friend from the Seascape community helped me with that. Now it’s on the trailer, ready for the journey home."

What will you take away from this evening?

“Firstly: the radio must be worn on your person. Always. Not just anywhere in the boat – on your person. That saved my life. I am 100 per cent convinced of that.

Secondly: If the boat capsizes, do not climb onto the keel. Roll up the jib first. The boat will right itself. Stay on board and call for help if necessary.

Thirdly – and this is perhaps the most important thing: know your limits. For this type of boat, 25 knots is the maximum for safe, sustained solo sailing. Perhaps one, two or three hours in 30-knot winds – but not a whole night. I learnt that the hard way.

And then there’s the length of the lifeline: it stays clipped in at all times. But do bear in mind the length of the line. Mine was so short that I could barely move. A longer line would have given me more freedom of movement – perhaps I’d have managed to get back on board with one."

Will you carry on?

“Sailing – yes, definitely. But a single-handed night regatta? I’ll have to think very carefully about that. I was so close to the end. I don’t know. When we go sailing, it’s my wife and me – together. It’s a completely different situation when there are two of us.”

Matija is very keen to thank the rescue team in person once again. If anyone knows how to get in touch with them, please contact us at the editorial office (mail@yacht.de or meer@yacht.de) – we will pass on the details. Thank you!