Swept Over the Side
On October 17, 2025, roughly 600 nautical miles offshore between Nova Scotia and Bermuda, One Ocean—a 48-foot ketch—ran south in heavy weather. The crew of four had already spent days navigating a fast-moving North Atlantic storm, hand-steering through darkness, lightning, and breaking seas. Then, in the Gulf Stream, wind, current, and sea converged in a knockdown that tested not just seamanship, but preparation, trust, and the systems designed to keep people alive when everything else fails.
Captain Mark Schrader, alongside Co-Captain Jenn Dalton, Outreach Coordinator Tess Schornack, and volunteer Charley, set the boat conservatively as conditions deteriorated. They triple-reefed the main, reduced sail area, and dropped the mizzen. By mid-day, sustained winds pushed well past 40 knots, with gusts climbing higher. Steep, breaking seas built quickly as the east-running Gulf Stream shortened the wave pattern.
One Ocean began to surf—smoothly at first, then violently—regularly hitting double-digit speeds with only the staysail set as winds pushed into the 50- and 60-knot range, peaking at 69 knots. The autopilot struggled to manage the rapid acceleration from trough to crest, so the crew hand-steered much of the day. They rotated through exhaustion, rain, and the kind of focus that narrows the world to the next wave face.
Then the wave came in from the side.
“We were just changing helm duties,” Mark recalls. “We looked, and we saw a wave just for a split second, coming at a really different direction—but it was above us and crashing.”
The breaking wave struck the starboard quarter and knocked One Ocean sideways. Water flooded the cockpit. The dodger collapsed. Lifelines tore free. Solar panels shattered. The dinghy ripped from its mounts and began dragging behind the boat.
The wave swept Mark off his feet and over the port side.
“I didn’t really know what happened,” he says. “I hit my head on something.”
What kept him from disappearing into the sea wasn’t luck. It was gear.
“It was the tether on these,” he says, referring to their Mustang Survival life jackets. “It kept me on board.”
As Jenn assessed the damage and began recovering loose gear, another wave hit. That wave washed her off the boat as well.
“We wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for these—our life jackets,” Mark says.
Below decks, the knockdown made its force known. Locked cabinets burst open. Drawers and doors released. Cushions, tools, food, and gear scattered across the cabin. Water forced its way in through vents and the companionway. Chaos filled the interior—but the hull, deck, hatches, and bilges held.
Above deck, the crew didn’t pause.
With the dodger torn and flailing, Tess and Mark moved to secure what remained while Jenn fought to keep the bow pointed down-sea. Forward visibility disappeared. Each wave boarding the stern quarter demanded constant correction at the helm.
Meanwhile, the dinghy—partially submerged and twisted—acted like a drogue and added enormous drag. Mark stepped onto the swim platform to try to control it, standing half underwater as the stern lifted and dropped. Despite decades of experience, he struggled to tie usable knots—an early sign of the concussion he didn’t yet recognize.
Tess noticed immediately and joined him. Together, they wrestled the dinghy back aboard and recovered Watt & Sea's hydro-generator, which trailed behind the boat, held only by its electrical cable.
As night fell, the seas turned into dark, moving walls. The crew tested the autopilot again—and this time, it held. With the staysail sheeted amidships and the engine engaged in gear for directional stability, One Ocean settled into a controlled run. For the first time in hours, the crew steered from inside, changed out of soaked gear, and caught their breath.
The toll, however, was already clear.
“For days,” Mark says, “we didn’t sleep. We were hand-steering, physically hurt and exhausted.”
When dawn finally broke, the wind eased slightly. The waves still towered, but the crew could manage them. Everyone carried bruises, shock, and deep fatigue—but they were alive. The engine ran. Navigation and electronics worked. The boat, though damaged, continued to do her job.
When One Ocean reached Bermuda, the crew didn’t collapse into rest. They stripped the cushions and dried them. They washed and re-flaked sails. They made calls. Local tradespeople stepped in quickly to weld lifelines, repair the dodger, and secure the stern. As they worked to stabilize the boat, recovery finally began—for both the vessel and the crew.
“I got really injured,” Jenn says. “And mentally injured as well. I think we all probably have a little PTSD from that storm.”
Healing came through work and community. Repairing the boat gave the crew a way to repair themselves, alongside other sailors who understood what they had just survived.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on the ocean,” Mark says. “That was probably the most severe of anything I’ve experienced. And it was harder this time, because I was responsible for a crew.”
In the end, bravado didn’t carry them through. Preparation did. Conservative decisions. Training. Clear roles. And gear that performed exactly as intended when it mattered most.
A knockdown isn’t a single moment—it’s everything that leads into it, everything that happens during it, and everything that follows. On this crossing, preparation and trust shaped all three. And when One Ocean finally lay quiet at the dock in St. George’s, battered but whole, the crew agreed on one thing: Once was enough.
For inquiring minds:
What PFDs were you wearing at the time of the incident? We were all wearing the Mustang Survival Atlas 190 DLX life jackets.
Why was it beneficial to have this model for such an event? It allowed us to move with agility while putting the the boat back together. This kept us safe and functional and the easy attachments for our harnesses were vital for our survival during this storm.
What advice do you have for sailors that could find themselves in a similar situation? Focus is key. Focus on what needs to get done and do it.