The wind is sitting at about 25 knots, and I’m 15 miles north of Padstow, but the tide is against me, writes Freya Terry.

Although I’m making good speed (4 knots), I just can’t point. So, I put in a tack, and it takes me almost 180° around due to the tide.

I’ve missed the tide and will have to sit it out till midnight when I can head to shore. It’s going to be slow, but I know I can do it.

I’ve already lost my engine and most of my battery power.

I’m only using battery to power my navigation lights, but luckily there’s not a boat in sight, so I’m not too worried.

I’m back to old-school navigation so I head down below to fill in the log and mark my position on the chart, and that’s when it happens.

I feel something, and the boat starts to tip. I make a desperate dash for the tiller.

I’m too late; the force of the knockdown throws me across the boat, and I hit my head on the bulkhead by the window.

I scream in pain, but no one hears. I’m alone on a boat miles out to sea.

I fall as Pink Delta rights herself, landing painfully.

For a moment, my whole world is pain, and then I’m sick. I take a moment and check my head—no blood, that’s good. I get up and go on deck; everything is the same like nothing even happened.

Pink Delta is sailing along beautifully, 50° to the wind. I sit still, marvelling at her incredible resilience.

I turn on my handheld radio but as soon as I start to transmit, the screen loses power.

Okay, the ship’s radio next. It turns on, and I transmit a Mayday message.

After a few minutes, I hear nothing back. I try again… nothing. I think it must not be getting enough power.

My head is foggy, and I know I should be calling for help. So I clip in and climb back on deck, and then I’m sick again.

I know I need to set off my personal locator beacon (PLB), but I don’t want to. I wanted to do this trip alone.

I think I can make it back to shore, and I don’t want to worry everyone back home.

I know that if I do this, people will judge me. I’m only a few days into my trip, and I feel like I’ve already failed.

But I know I need to put my safety first, so I do the adult thing, the thing I’ve always avoided doing—I ask for help.

I set off the PLB and then I cry. I’ve overcome so much already on this short journey. I was proud of myself, but this… this I can’t deal with alone.

The journey before the boat knockdown

Some background and how I ended up in this situation. I’m 21 and I grew up on the water.

I first learned to sail at Fishguard Bay Yacht Club in a Topper when I was 12, then I moved up to a Feva and a 420.

I’ve raced and trained extensively, even representing Wales.

I’ve worked as a dingy instructor for five years and, last year, I bought my beloved Sparkman and Stephens She 31 from Aberystwyth.

I spent months refurbishing her, including painting her bright pink inspired by Jessica Watson.

I re-named her Pink Delta and spent the summer sailing her from Aberystwyth down to Neyland, exploring along the way.

We spent the winter in Neyland marina, where I dreamed of big adventures. I was determined and set my sights on sailing around Great Britain and Ireland.

As a young person this seemed financially impossible, but I set up a GoFundMe and started seeking sponsors (I’m still looking), I aimed to raise awareness for mental health issues, and I began speaking openly and honestly for the first time about the extreme mental health difficulties I faced from a young age.

As funds came in, I bought essential safety kit and prepared the boat. I set an ambitious launch date of 11 May 2024 to give me all summer sailing.

My voyage isn’t about speed; I’m intentionally embracing a slower pace, engaging with communities and sparking vital conversations about mental health.

Things were a little chaotic in the run-up to the launch, but I had everything under control. I’d serviced the engine and had it up and running.

The electronics had been checked by an electrician the day before I left. It was busy but mostly final touches.

All in all, I was happy that the boat and I were ready.

The conditions were stunning  on launch day– clear blue skies, sunshine, and about 15 knots of wind, not the usual Welsh weather.

Loads of my friends and family came to wave me off and wish me good luck. It was heartwarming and emotional but at 1015 my lines slipped and I was off.

Once out past St Ann’s Head, I was comfortably sailing at 7 knots and with the tide behind me, I made the best course to wind. I made some food and settled in, but by mid-afternoon, the wind dropped to 5-8 knots and began shifting a lot.

I hand-steered and tried to keep my speed up. To try and arrive before dark I switched the engine on, but that wasn’t meant to be.

After an hour, the engine ground to a halt.

I suspected a fuel problem, so I changed the filter and connected it to a jerry can of fresh diesel. I bled the engine and eventually, she started up again.

I congratulated myself and carried on, but an hour later, the same thing happened.

I went below, adjusted some things, and the engine started once more.

But after 40 minutes, it cut out yet again. I was a few miles from the island. I started swearing at the engine, I was so close; couldn’t it have kept going just a little longer?

Almost as if they heard me, three dolphins appeared to reassure me I’d be okay.

I kept an eye on my position and spent nearly an hour trying to get the engine going – nothing worked. I realized I was going to have to sail to Lundy.

As it got dark the wind dropped completely, barely propelling me forward at around 1 knot.

I finally anchored safely by 0300 and I turned on my anchor lights before going to sleep. Poor weather meant I stayed at anchor for two days,

I tried everything I knew to do to start the engine without success.

Then, on the evening of 13 May, I started having battery problems,

Despite a voltage reading of 12.1V before bed, I awoke four hours later to a flashing warning light at 6.5V which I didn’t understand.

The next morning, I checked again – my leisure battery was dead. I still had some power in my engine battery but it was low from all the time cranking and trying to fix the engine.

On 14 May, while there was a good wind, I set sail for Padstow as I’d planned. I didn’t want to be stuck in Lundy Island with no power, and knew once I arrived in Padstow I could get things fixed.

I had a portable battery for my phone and I updated my family and the RYA SafeTrx app to my passage plan.

It took me a while to get the anchor up and sail away from the island, so by the time I was on course for Padstow, I knew I’d likely missed the tide window but chose to sail on.

I left a message for the harbour master to let him know I’d probably be arriving the next day instead and tried to update my SafeTrx, but I was already out of signal.

I knew it would likely be a late night, and I planned to find somewhere along the way to anchor for a little while.

Though fighting the tide, the strong wind gave me good speed but its angle prevented a direct course to Padstow.

Down on power, I was running my nav light from the engine battery. I was back to using Imray paper charts for navigation, a difficult feat alone in a Force 6.

RNLI rescue after the boat knockdown

But I was coping. I’m a sailor, and I was simply sailing my boat. I had nav lights so other boats could see me. I had charts to navigate.

I didn’t need anything else –fancy chart plotters, radios, AIS, even engines – are all luxuries we don’t actually need to sail.

I knew it was going to be another late night, but once the tide turned, I’d sail into an anchorage.

Unbeknown to me (as I had no communication), the harbour master didn’t receive my message and contacted the coastguard about my overdue estimated time of arrival.

Falmouth Coastguard, noting my SafeTrx, sent the Padstow lifeboat to look for me at my last known location, 20 miles away from where I now was.

Their search was stood down at nightfall.

I was simply dealing with the conditions at hand.

Later, at around 2200, was when I was knocked down. I hit my head and, believing I had a concussion, I activated my PLB.

It took the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI) crew nearly an hour to get to me, and for a while, I wasn’t sure if the PLB had even worked.

I can’t say what I felt at the time; my brain was a little foggy. I was running on autopilot, just doing what I knew I needed to.

Positive vibes

I didn’t know if the lifeboat was coming out to me, but if not I knew the tide would change around midnight and then I’d be able to sail to shore.

All the same, seeing the coastguard helicopter and then the lifeboat was such a relief. I knew I needed them. I wasn’t alone anymore, and I knew I’d be safe.

I have to thank the amazing team in Padstow – the harbour master, everyone on the lifeboat, and those in Falmouth co-ordinating my rescue.

Since this incident, I’ve experienced such incredible kindness, support and encouragement.

And since beginning this journey I’m more connected to family, friends, followers, and even strangers than I have ever been.

I have faced criticism and judgment at every step.

But before judging me too harshly, remember I’m a young person struggling with mental health issues.

Please be kind; words do hurt.

Things go wrong at sea, and good seamanship is how you handle them.

Despite my preparation and experience, my boat was knocked down, causing a head injury and concussion.

That is a Mayday call, regardless of age, experience, preparations or crew size.

I’m confident I did everything I could to keep myself as safe as possible but there are always lessons to be learned.

I’m glad to know that even when I was experiencing communication problems, the systems I’d put in place worked.

I’m so grateful to everyone involved in the search, and to Falmouth Coastguard and Padstow RNLI for their support.

Lessons Learned from the boat knockdown

1. Remember that this is sailing: You can survive without electronics, engines, or radios.
2. Have paper charts and know how to use them: I use Imray charts on Pink Delta.
3. Keep your emergency contact informed of your passage plan. If it’s a difficult passage, inform the Coastguard.
4. RYA SafeTrx and emergency beacons can save your life but make sure they are registered and updated regularly. The more detail you provide, the better.
5. Practice using your VHF radio and PLB so it’s second nature.
6. Things will go wrong at sea – it’s how you deal with them that counts.
7. Don’t be scared to ask for help. If you need help, that’s what the lifeboats are there for.

RNLI incident report on Freya’s boat knockdown

At 1927 on Tuesday, 14 May 2024, Padstow lifeboat launched to look for an overdue yacht, Pink Delta.

Pink Delta was not at her last known location, 27 miles north of Trevose, so the lifeboat crew began a search.

Meanwhile, Falmouth Coastguard discovered that the yacht was in fact not due into Padstow Harbour until 15 May, so the lifeboat crew was stood down.

At 2220, just as the crew were returning to the station, they were tasked again because a Personal Locator Beacon (PLB) alert had been received from Pink Delta – 16.5 miles north-west of Stepper Point.

Coastguard Helicopter 924, also tasked, was first at the scene. The air crew confirmed it was the Pink Delta with one person on board and were stood down.

Two Padstow lifeboat crew went aboard the yacht to assess the casualty who had fallen and hit her head. Due to the conditions, the two RNLI crew stayed on board Pink Delta, while Padstow RNLI lifeboat towed the yacht into a Camel Estuary mooring, arriving at 0333.

The casualty was transferred to the lifeboat and taken to the station at Trevose, where paramedics took her to the Royal Cornwall Hospital (Treliske) for observation.

Padstow Coxswain Richard Pitman said: “It was great to see the skipper had the means to call for help and we were glad we could be there. We don’t see many bright pink yachts. We wish her all the best with the rest of her solo sail around the UK.”

Expert response

Richard Falk, RYA director of training and qualifications, responds: “Hindsight is a powerful tool, and a willingness to share experiences (good and bad) and to reflect on what might have been done differently is equally as powerful, both for the person involved and for readers.

“Freya is an experienced sailor who has clearly put much time and effort into preparing both herself and Pink Delta for her challenging voyage. She had carried out extensive maintenance, had planned her voyage, had all the sensible safety equipment on board and most importantly, she knew how to use it, and when.

“Without knowing the cause of Freya’s engine woes, it is difficult to comment on that, other than to say that after any period of maintenance, it is always advisable to spend some time running all relevant equipment and sea trialling it before an extended passage.

“It’s interesting to note that despite the engine and subsequent power supply issues Freya encountered, she was not daunted by this. She took those setbacks in her stride and was content to navigate her way to a safe haven using pencil and paper, something many people are ill-equipped to do in this day and age. Freya’s real problems began with the knockdown which resulted in a head injury.

“Put simply, that could have happened to anyone. It could just as easily have occurred by slipping down the companionway steps while at anchor. However, despite the impact of that injury Freya was not panicked, and made the wise decision to seek assistance by activating her PLB. Head injuries are unpredictable and while she was conscious, she was aware that her condition had the potential to deteriorate. Having the right equipment on board, knowing how to use it and, importantly, exercising good judgement in when to use it is something all skippers should aspire to.

“Thank you Freya for sharing your experience and we wish you well in your exciting undertaking.”

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