It was a dark and stormy night -- well actually it was a star-filled balmy night, and that was probably what saved us.

I have always been nervous on the water. I can swim but I hate the idea of all that unknown stuff underneath the surface. Give me a pool or a bathtub if I have to get wet. Nevertheless, my urge to see the Galapagos proved to be stronger than my fear of the sea and while in Quito, a late stop in my six month tour of Latin America, I purchased an 8-day "Economy Galapagos Cruise." I was concerned that the "economy" aspect might be reflected in the seaworthiness of the vessel that would also be my hotel. The Baronesa was a pleasant surprise - she was only 5 months old, comfortably spacious and sophisticatedly equipped.

The first day of the cruise, our guide shepherded all 20 passengers on an afternoon visit to North Seymour Island where I managed to use up a quarter of the film I had brought with me. The sea lions, iguanas and incredibly Blue-footed Boobies were so close and so fearless you had to watch not to step on them. Later that evening we set off on the 8 hour crossing to Puerta Villamil on Isabela Island.

After convincing myself I was not going to be seasick like some of my shipmates, and that the rocking of the waves was soothing - not cause for alarm, I managed to drift into a semblance of sleep. Gradually, a nagging awareness that something had changed forced its way into my consciousness. My cabin door had slammed open. There was a horrible grinding screech and a violent rocking of the boat. Noises and motions that implied two very solid objects were colliding and rubbing up against each other. "Could we have hit the dock at Isabela," I wondered, hoping I was still dreaming. I couldn't start to let my mind wander to where else our yacht might be driving against something at least as hard as she was.

Confused and in denial, I lurched my way down from the upper bunk as the Baronesa continued her jolts and shutters. I grabbed a pair of pants and headed into the hallway. No one was about. A few doors to other below-decks cabins were swinging open. Everything was on a 20° angle leaning left. The place felt deserted - was deserted. I climbed up the few stairs to the dining area in time to see a wave of water rush in through one of the side doors. A crew member was running out the opposite door. I called after him "Qué pasa?" He didn't respond. Panic surged through my body but my head was telling me "this is not IT, my time isn't up."

I needed to find some other people. I could not entertain for a second the idea of sinking in the ocean. The Galapagos Islands are out in the middle of nowhere. A map emphasizing just how remote they are flashed in front of my eyes and jump-started my legs into action. Out the door and up the wet, slippery ladder, the adrenaline rush propelled me. "This can't be happening to me," was pounding in my head like a mantra.

On the top deck I felt I had entered a surreal set for a movie action scene, with blindingly bright lights accentuating the surrounding darkness. Our guide handed me a life jacket (Personal Flotation Device or PFD in the current jargon). The rest of the passengers seemed to all be on this deck, several hustling back from their upper cabins with camera bags and money belts. Most of the 7 member crew were struggling to get the life boats free from their stowed positions. I zipped up my PFD and sat down beside other passengers on cushions at the back of the deck. Each of us in turn was shaking our head and saying "I don't believe this is happening." The crew finally lowered one inflatable boat into the water and started to saw at the ropes that held the other one in place, since whatever mechanism was supposed to let the boat swing out and down into the water wasn't cooperating. The first lifeboat was brought around to the back of the ship. My companions and I exchanged quick looks then got up and climbed down the stairs, onto the platform at the rear of the yacht and into the little inflatable raft. Earlier, we had used this same "panga" to visit the Blue-footed Boobies, back when the equatorial sun was shining, the water was sparkling, and the wild-life was non-threatening. I had been nervous in the panga then. Now I was terrified. I needed to focus all my concentration just to keep breathing so I wouldn't succumb to complete panic.

Once down at sea level and shaded from the lights of the Baronesa, the sight of the black, jagged rocks of the reef we had "parked" on gave me a sinking feeling. The sea was very choppy and several inches of slippery oil-mixed water sloshed around my bare feet in the bottom of the dinghy. Someone was yelling to start bailing. Two small cups and a felt hat were put into action. The one young crew member who was to navigate our boat couldn't get the motor to start and we drifted closer and closer to the serrated outcroppings of the reef. People were quickly distracted from the bailing effort as we watched in disbelief and with rising terror. Nearby, the other inflatable was being loaded with the remaining passengers and, if anything, was contributing to our movement towards the rocks. In a voice straining with tension and fear, a woman warned everyone, "Hold on tight - we're going to hit the rocks and it'll be a big bump." A bump I could handle. The real fear was that our little rubber raft would be ripped apart by the sharp lava that stuck up like fat, black fingers. Our crewman used the one and only oar in the dinghy to push against the rocks and keep us from getting "bumped" -or deflated.

Another crewman dove off the Baronesa and took the rope from our lifeboat to tie it to the floating survival tents which had just been dropped into the water (these could provide shelter from the burning glare of daylight, but with no motor they would be useless in the reef without the motorized pangas). This quick thinking individual also went back into the Baronesa and came out with an extra tank of gasoline. After we were also linked to the other panga, where the captain was at the helm, we had to negotiate back to the Baronesa's deck to pick up a fellow who had gone back inside the boat to retrieve his video camera. I had not been the slightest bit tempted to risk another trip below decks to salvage any of my possessions. I was already thinking I was lucky I hadn't fallen out of the top bunk and hit my head. Would anyone have come to rescue me?

There were 2 or 3 crew members still onboard the Baronesa as the lead inflatable, with the solitary working motor (a healthy 8.5 horsepower) pulled away from the ship, towing our raft as well as the two survival tents. The guide finally convinced the captain to return for the remaining crew members. Just as we were heading back, the Baronesa shifted abruptly and the crewmen waiting on the platform were over their knees in water.

I wanted to stay near the Baronesa with her bright lights and size. I was sure she would be easier to spot and so we would have a better chance of being rescued than if we took off in the middle of the night into the reef-filled ocean in 2 little rubber dinghies. Several passengers had been on the upper deck and had heard the captain make successful radio contact two or three times before we evacuated. Comforting news. The guide told us it was not usual for wooden ships like the Baronesa to sink completely, providing another reason we should stay close by and wait to be rescued. However, that was not to be. Instead, like a string of children's bathtub toys, we turned and bobbed our way into complete darkness and a vast ocean crowded, in my mind, with sharks and reefs.

We had just started off in our little convoy when one of the crewmen in the first survival tent shot off a flare - right into the water. The unexpected gun shot reverberated through our bones and already jangled nerves. I wondered about the hearts of some of the older passengers. If mine was doing such belly flops against my ribcage, an older model might go into seizure. There were only four flares so they had to be used judiciously. A woman claimed that the flare's light in the water would attract the sharks. I wished she'd keep her thoughts to herself.

Another woman I had become friends with on the plane to the Galapagos had been seasick earlier, and was now very sick again. At first I tried to comfort her by rubbing her back as she leaned over into the sea, then I realized I'd be doing her more of a favour if I got a solid hold on her PFD to make sure she stayed in the boat. Two others were also feeling seasick. I was amazed. How could anyone feel queasy when their insides were all tensed up like a rock? The crew decided my friend might be better off in one of the survival tents and so she was ignominiously handed from crew member to crew member, over the water separating our inflatable from the tent. She was wearing only a T-shirt and underwear but was too sick to care. Like me, all her other belongings were left on the Baronesa, who's namesake, incidentally, was a Baroness who lived in the Galapagos Islands in the 1930's and mysteriously disappeared, believed murdered by her former lover and employee.

Our little panga suddenly jerked over a couple of high, heaving waves and I was terrified. My hands gripped the rope along the side of the inflatable and my body shifted instinctively into the bottom of the boat, searching for a safer place. I hated the idea of heading out into the waves, being towed along willy-nilly. I was panicked at the thought of being dumped into the black sea. Luckily there were only the two initial big waves and gradually I relaxed enough to notice my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the clear night sky was filled with stars and the regular gentle swells of the ocean were almost enjoyable. One of the bailing cups had come to rest by my greasy, wet feet and I was glad to pick it up and continue the bailing process. It gave me something to focus on and I continued in a steady rhythm until I couldn't get anymore water in the scoop.

Conversation was minimal. I was grateful no one was inclined to sing songs or give us pep talks. Everyone preferred being alone with their thoughts, perhaps just concentrating on keeping it together. No one panicked or screamed or cried and I believe this helped everyone else stay calm, too. The man sitting beside me, prefaced anything he did say with "if we get out of this,..." I ignored the first part, afraid of tempting fate by insisting out loud that we would "get out of this." His wife sat across from us. She said, "I've never seen him so afraid. He keeps telling me how worried he is our 18 month old daughter won't have parents."

The quiet was punctuated with brief exclamations of hopeful sightings of rescue boats on the horizon. These inevitably turned out to be white waves in the darkness breaking on the reef, the light at the entrance to the port of Villamil or the light of the Baronesa herself. We became very disoriented and the lights, not always visible on the horizon, shifted as we travelled in a large spiral out of the reef and around it. I entertained vivid rescue fantasies of a large welcoming boat coming up along side us, a uniformed crew ushering us aboard to warm blankets and hot chocolate. The wind had picked up a bit and I was chilly, grateful for the bit of warmth and wind protection offered by my PFD.

Time passed surprisingly quickly. We evacuated the Baronesa at 12:45 AM. By 3:30 AM we had given up on the idea that we would be rescued in response to the radio contact. I realized the captain was right to lead us away from the Baronesa. No one was going to bring their ship into this dangerous reef to rescue us in the middle of the night. By this time a second and third flare had been fired, each time without warning and each time shocking us out of whatever calm we had managed to find, setting our hearts racing off into the darkness once more.

As we crept towards the port of Villamil a mist rose off the blackened sea, blocking my view of the stars. I was afraid the captain wouldn't be able to see his way safely into the harbour. The extra tank of gasoline was needed and while they filled up the one motor, our crewman managed to get our own motor working. The darkness gradually faded and at dawn we were making our way into the port, with waves crashing on the exposed reef to either side of us. In the light it was easier to appreciate just what a feat of navigation the captain had achieved - after he'd parked on the reef. All along the horizon were waves and rocks which we passengers had been blessedly unaware of in our night blindness. Our guide, with 14 years of experience in the Galapagos, wisely chose to wait to inform us that she had felt we only had a 10% chance of making it to port.

Five hours after leaving the Baronesa I set my bare feet on land.

The crew turned right around after delivering us to shore and charged back out to begin the salvage operation. There had been talk of divers but these never materialized and the wreck was deemed too dangerous for extensive salvaging for personal possessions. Nevertheless, many passengers were reunited with their packs and bags, jackets and even money belts. A bathing suit was the only effect of mine to drift out and up from my cabin and be reclaimed from the ocean. Although it reeked of diesel fuel and was stuffed with tiny wood chips (souvenirs of the Baronesa), I was delighted to have it back.

After spending the night in a cozy hotel, we boarded a new yacht, albeit with some trepidation, to return to Puerta Ayora, the centre of commerce in the Galapagos. The crossing took eight nervous hours. I tried to distract my taut nerves by watching dolphins playing in the waves at the ship's bow. From a safe distance we witnessed the remains of the Baronesa, part of her angled, upper deck still visible. Some passengers opted to leave the Galapagos on the next available plane. Four of us decided to continue on the original tour with a new ship.

Besides experiencing the extraordinary Galapagos wildlife and austere beauty of the islands (without being distracted by trying to capture it all on film), the big benefit of continuing the trip with other "survivors" was the therapeutic support that came from talking over our experience. I will forever be indebted to my fellow travellers for helping me get over this ordeal. Others helped too, with loans and donations of cash, clothes and sympathy.

Of course, I'm more nervous on the water than ever now. I cringe when I think of the scene I almost made in a boat on Lake Titicaca when other passengers wouldn't follow the captain's direction to distribute themselves more evenly on port and starboard sides (we docked just in time). And now back home, even the Schwartz Bay ferry can make me tense if there's the slightest list. Still, I have no regrets. I learned a great deal in this small test of my survival skills. I quickly discovered what is important to me and what I can live without. I was pleased to find I could let go of my personal possessions so easily - with no second thoughts about risking another trip below decks. I formed a few "forever" friendships and learned to gratefully, and gracefully, accept the charity of others. And I got a gentle reminder of the value of each new day.