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Adrift in the Pacific, the Robertson family found themselves without a way to send an SOS, and no food or water in sight. They had only each other and their resourcefulness to rely on. “We didn’t know what the next step would be,” Douglas said—and he was right. What did they end up eating to survive? Let’s just say it wasn’t on any menu!
Douglas Robertson was born in Staffordshire, England, and raised on a hill farm. Their lives revolved around livestock, crops, and the quiet rhythms of rural life.
His father, Dougal, was a former sea captain. His mother, Lyn, had worked as a nurse in Hong Kong and the Middle East. Stories of faraway places filled their home.
In 1968, after hearing about a round-the-world yacht race, Douglas’s younger brother Neil casually asked, “Daddy’s a sailor—why don’t we sail around the world?” That question sparked an idea in Dougal’s head.
In 1971, Dougal sold his farm and purchased a 43-foot schooner, Lucette, with the aim of circumnavigating the globe with his family.
The crew comprised Dougal’s wife Lyn, their children Anne and Douglas, and twin sons Neil and Sandy. Their journey was both educational and adventurous, and they embraced life’s challenges at sea.
Departing from Falmouth, England, they navigated through the Atlantic, Caribbean, and Panama Canal, embracing the vastness of the ocean and its unpredictability.
Crossing the Atlantic took 33 days—identical to Columbus’s historic voyage. The family marveled at calm seas, warm winds, and the sense of sailing into something truly extraordinary.
During their travels, they rescued a local fisherman who’d drifted off course. Incredibly, they towed his boat—under sail power—all the way to Nassau, Bahamas.
As thanks, a local dive shop owner offered a gift. But more surprisingly, Anne fell in love with the man’s son and decided to stay behind, ending her voyage.
In Panama, the Robertsons welcomed Robin Williams (not that one!), a 22-year-old Welshman, aboard Lucette. He sought maritime experience and became an integral part of the crew.
Robin’s addition brought fresh energy and skills to the team. Together, they set sail towards the Galápagos Islands, unaware of the trials ahead.
Their camaraderie grew as they navigated the Pacific, sharing duties and stories, strengthening bonds that would be crucial in the coming days.
After cruising through the Caribbean, the Robertsons passed through the Panama Canal. “Once we got through the canal, there was no going back,” Douglas later recalled.
Their next destination was Australia and New Zealand. The open Pacific marked the longest and most isolated leg of their journey, an expanse with few safety nets.
“The wind was quite strong,” Douglas said, leaving the Galápagos. “But by then, we were seasoned. We could sail the boat in pitch black. We knew how to sail.”
On the morning of June 15, they were 200 miles west of Cape Espinosa, Galápagos. Dougal was plotting their position, casually placing coffee on the stove to brew.
“I think Dougal recorded it as 10 o’clock,” Douglas later said. “But it was probably quarter past. He never drank that coffee. That moment changed everything.”
Douglas was in the cockpit with Sandy. “Suddenly there was an ear-splintering crash… bang, bang, bang!” Three impacts shook the boat. Robin, off-watch, had just gone to bed.
The boat jolted violently. “It felt like we’d gone aground at high speed,” Douglas recalled. Lucette lifted out of the water, then slammed down, already taking on water.
Douglas looked below deck. “My dad was up to his ankles in water.” He assumed a valve had opened. “Didn’t he know that was dangerous?” he asked, confused.
Then came a sound behind him. “Three killer whales appeared… a big daddy one, a baby in the middle, and a mommy.” The large whale’s head was bleeding heavily.
Weeks earlier, a baleen whale had mistaken Lucette for a mate. “He rubbed himself alongside,” Douglas recalled. That memory shaped a chilling theory about why the killer whales attacked.
“I poked my head back down,” Douglas said. “My dad was up to his waist in water.” He assumed a valve was leaking. “You have ridiculous thoughts—we’re going to sink.”
Then came the words: “Abandon ship.” Douglas protested, “To where, Dou? We’re not in Miami Marina now.” That was the moment he knew things had gone horribly wrong and this wasn’t supposed to be happening.
“I started to take the sails down,” Douglas recalled. “And Dougal appeared and said, ‘What are you doing? Get the life raft over the side.”
That’s when the urgency struck. “I thought, ‘My God, I’m not gonna wake up from this. This is really happening. I’ve got to get moving now.”
He launched the dinghy, tied it off, and pulled the cord on the life raft. “There was a loud bang… I thought, thank the Lord. Then I was washed overboard.”
“I was very frightened the whales were going to get us,” Douglas remembered. “I kept feeling for my legs to see if I still had them.”
He swam to the raft. “Everyone was sitting there yellow, very yellow,” he said, describing the canopy overhead. “They thought I’d been lost. My mom and dad were relieved.”
As the family gathered themselves, emotions surfaced. The twins cried. Lyn reassured them. “Don’t be frightened,” she said. “We’re not crying ‘cause we’re frightened, Mom,” they answered. “We’re crying because Lucette’s gone.”
“Lucette had been our home for two years,” Douglas said. “She’d been the source of many adventures, and now she was gone.” The raft became their new world.
“We hadn’t got an SOS off,” Douglas explained. “We were 200 miles west of the Galápagos. We had no water and no food—at least, as we thought then.”
“My mom said we should say the Lord’s Prayer,” he recalled. “My dad said, ‘I don’t believe in God.’ I told him, ‘We might be meeting him very soon.’”
“The raft was quickly blown clear of the wreck site,” Douglas recalled. “Then we were on our own—truly on our own, with nothing but sea in every direction.”
A frigatebird swooped down and caught a flying fish mid-air. “It was like it was mocking us,” Douglas said. “They’ve got millions of years on us.”
Dougal responded calmly: “Yes, Douglas, but we’ve got brains. And with brains we can make tools. And with tools, we can survive.” It became their survival philosophy.
“The raft was a 10-man raft,” Douglas explained, “but that’s for 10 sitting people, not living people.” Space was tight. They had to rotate positions to stay balanced.
The dinghy, designed for three, had three thwarts. Together, the two vessels became their floating world—barely big enough, constantly soaked, and completely exposed to the elements.
Inside the raft was a survival pack: 18 tins of water, glucose tablets, and biscuits. “I grabbed my mom’s sewing basket,” Douglas said. “It was a treasure trove—tools, basically.”
The raft and dinghy were tied together. Each took turns to manage weight and avoid overloading. The raft began leaking almost immediately, worsening daily.
They collected rainwater using canvas and plastic sheeting. Turtles were caught and used for meat and blood. Every drop of liquid became a precious commodity.
Each day was marked by the sun’s rising and setting. No ships appeared. No planes flew close enough. Their journey had shifted from sailing to pure survival.
Their supplies included a tin of biscuits, survival rations, a knife, fishing line, flares, and a bag of onions. However, the sinking of Lucette ruined most of their food.
They caught rainwater using canvas and makeshift sails. When it didn’t rain, they relied on turtle blood (yes, it’s true!) and moisture from fish to avoid dehydration.
The fishing gear yielded little. Meals consisted of raw turtle meat, small fish, and the occasional flying fish that landed in the dinghy. Hunger was constant and unforgiving.
After two weeks, the raft began to deflate, and seawater leaked in. They bailed constantly, using buckets, hands, and anything else to keep afloat while the Pacific continued testing their limits.
Their clothes rotted from salt and constant dampness. Skin blistered. Salt sores developed. Sunburns, especially on the children, became dangerous as the days passed.
Despite Dougal’s experience, they couldn’t outmaneuver the sea. Waves drenched them daily. Nights were cold, days scorching. Every moment required attention, resilience, and painful physical endurance.
By day 17, the raft was no longer usable. It had become too damaged and waterlogged to continue. They transferred entirely into the 9-foot fiberglass dinghy, Ednamair.
Ednamair offered no shelter. The six survivors now shared an open boat exposed to the sun, salt, and ocean spray. They sat in shifts, often soaked and exhausted.
From that point, their survival depended entirely on maintaining balance in the dinghy and managing their remaining rations with extreme caution and grim discipline.
The dinghy’s interior constantly held seawater, requiring regular bailing. There was no cover. They created a canvas tarp, offering minimal relief from the sun and night chill.
The family established routines: one person bailed water, another fished, and others rested. It became a rhythm of necessity, not choice. Every task meant staying alive.
With nothing but the horizon in every direction, they measured time by hunger pangs, sunburns, and who last attempted to catch a flying fish for breakfast.
Despite the trauma, they never gave in to despair. Dougal kept a logbook, writing daily to maintain a sense of order. He documented weather, rations, and morale.
They comforted one another with conversation and memories. Lyn, the mother, remained calm, often soothing the younger twins when conditions became overwhelming or food ran low.
They discussed escape strategies, told stories, and made light jokes. Even small victories, like a turtle catch, sparked celebration. Optimism became their quiet weapon against hopelessness.
Water was measured in sips. Six people divided it equally, recording each ration. Rainfall was rare, and the sun evaporated their reserves faster than they could replenish them.
The food situation was more dire. Biscuits ran out early. Turtle meat was eaten raw and stretched over days. Bones were saved to suck for the remaining nutrients.
Every item was inventoried in Dougal’s log. Nothing was wasted—not even turtle blood, which they drank to avoid dehydration. Extreme measures became their daily routine for survival.
Turtles were their primary food source. They caught them by hand when the animals surfaced near the dinghy. Robin played a key role in capturing several during the ordeal.
They would butcher the turtles onboard, using a single knife. The meat was eaten raw. They even consumed organ tissue to gain extra nutrients and hydration.
Fish were difficult to catch. Occasionally, flying fish landed in the dinghy. Those rare moments provided excitement and protein, small victories in a bleak routine.
The lack of nutrition took a toll. The children lost significant weight, their muscles atrophied, and cuts and sores became infected due to the salt and exposure to the elements.
Skin blisters burst from repeated sun exposure. They made makeshift covers from clothing scraps, but their garments disintegrated from constant exposure to saltwater and sunlight.
All six were visibly deteriorating. But they continued. Pain, hunger, and thirst were daily battles. Still, no one gave up. Their unity was their strongest asset.
With no compass or chart, Dougal used celestial navigation to estimate their drift. He relied on experience to guess wind direction, current strength, and possible landfall locations.
He aimed for shipping lanes, believing their best chance for rescue was interception by a passing vessel. The dinghy lacked propulsion—movement came only from paddles or drift.
Each morning, Dougal observed the sun’s position. At night, he read the stars. He recorded bearings in the logbook, maintaining a sense of direction through pure seamanship.
“Then one night, probably the 20th day,” Douglas said, “I saw the North Star in the sky.” He immediately woke his father: “Dougal, look—that’s the North Star.”
You can only see the North Star north of the equator. “We had sunk two degrees south,” Douglas explained. “So this meant we’d traveled 420 miles north.”
“Suddenly,” he said, “the bits were coming together to realize that we might just survive this thing.” It was their first celestial sign of progress—and hope.
Sharks often circled the dinghy, especially after turtle butchering. They posed a real threat, though no direct attacks occurred. The family stayed alert, avoiding dangling limbs overboard.
The constant presence of sharks added psychological pressure. Sleep was difficult, and even resting became risky as the boat shifted and the ocean stirred below.
Jellyfish stings and sudden waves caused injuries. The sea was unpredictable. Each day brought new dangers—from above, below, and within their own weakening bodies.
To maintain stability, the family established roles: Lyn comforted the children, Robin assisted with fishing, and Dougal managed records and steering. Routine provided structure in their drifting isolation.
Dougal’s logbook became essential, documenting location estimates, water use, and health updates. Writing helped preserve sanity and provided a mental anchor amid chaos.
Tasks were repeated daily: check for rain, ration food, adjust tarp shade, and maintain vigilance. Predictability helped combat the helplessness of being adrift in the open sea.
Prolonged exposure led to hallucinations, confusion, and emotional withdrawal. Robin described seeing objects on the horizon that vanished upon approach—mirages fueled by dehydration and desperation.
They battled boredom as much as starvation. Conversation dwindled, and silence often took over. Sometimes, they simply stared across the sea, saving energy and bracing for the unknown.
They made pledges to each other. “One was that we would not eat each other. We would die quietly if that’s what it came to, and we would look for a rescue ship. That would be our best chance to get out of this,” Douglas later recalled.
Each day, they scanned the horizon for ships. Any speck could be salvation. They prepared flares, knowing they only had a few chances to signal a passing vessel.
They saw distant ships more than once. None were close enough. Firing a flare too early risked wasting it; waiting too long meant being missed again.
Eventually, they decided to save the final flares for a guaranteed sighting. It was a dangerous gamble—but the only one they had left.
“We were talking about Dougal’s Kitchen,” Douglas recalled—a made-up café used to distract from hunger. Then, at 4 p.m., Dougal saw something on the horizon: a ship.
They scrambled—lowered the sail, cleared the deck. “We had one last hand flare left,” Douglas said. “We steadied the dinghy as Dougal held up the flare.”
“There was no wind. The flare flux dropped onto his hand, burning it,” Douglas recalled. “But he held it. Threw it. The Japanese helmsman saw it—and altered course.”
The Japanese crew quickly responded. Ropes were lowered, and the survivors, barely able to stand, were lifted aboard. After 38 days, they were finally safe on solid footing.
The fishermen fed them, gave them water, and dry clothing. They treated wounds and cared for the children. Language barriers didn’t matter—compassion spoke clearly enough.
Lyn later said the sight of that rope ladder was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It meant the ordeal was truly over.
“Dougal said to the Japanese, ‘Can you save the dinghy?’” Douglas recalled. “It wasn’t for the dinghy. We wanted the food. We’d saved that food. That was valuable.”
The Toka Maru II captain replied, “We’ve got food on this ship.” But the Robertsons didn’t trust that yet. They insisted. The dinghy and its precious supplies came aboard.
“You wouldn’t believe how small that dinghy is,” Douglas said. “A little cockleshell. But it had been our home for 38 days.” They couldn’t leave it behind.
The crew offered rice, fish, and broth. The survivors ate slowly—too quickly could have caused harm. Even modest portions overwhelmed their shrunken, starved bodies.
Lyn wept quietly while eating. Robin, silent throughout the meal, simply nodded. The children, especially the twins, ate carefully and leaned on their mother for comfort.
It wasn’t just food—it was restoration. Warm broth and human kindness filled the space that hunger had dominated. Every bite tasted like return, survival, and belonging again.
The Toka Maru II transported them to Panama. From there, arrangements were made to fly them back to England, where reporters awaited. Their story had reached international headlines.
Photos of their return show gaunt faces, sun-darkened skin, and weary smiles. They were alive, but the weight of the ordeal lingered visibly on each person.
Their reunion with loved ones was emotional. They spoke softly, answered questions sparingly, and began the slow process of reintegrating into a world that hadn’t stopped.
Douglas never blamed his parents for what happened. He called it an incredible adventure that simply “didn’t turn out right”—but never something unforgivable. Quite the opposite.
On the raft, he wrote a poem. His mother helped finish it aboard the rescue ship. Overcome with guilt, she broke down. Douglas reminded her, “Nobody died. We got home.”
Survival, he later reflected, was its own triumph. His mother cared for them tirelessly. The twins always had extra food. “Life is never so joyous,” he said, “as when you know you can lose it.”
Returning to life without Lucette meant starting over. “We were not insured,” Douglas noted. They lost their boat, their possessions—everything but their lives and the bond they shared.
What they accomplished was extraordinary. “We were 25 miles off in latitude, 100 in longitude—with no navigational instruments. What happened out there was fairly unique,” he reflected.
Even 50 years later, the memories endure. “You make your own luck,” he said. “But we were all so lucky.” Survival didn’t just change their lives—it defined them.
Back in England, the Robertsons underwent medical evaluations. They were severely underweight, dehydrated, and emotionally drained. But remarkably, all six survivors had no permanent physical injuries.
Recovery took time. They experienced fatigue, recurring nightmares, and food sensitivity after weeks without proper nutrition. Reacclimating to regular life wasn’t immediate or easy.
Despite media attention, they prioritized privacy. Dougal and Lyn focused on helping the children return to school and reestablish a sense of normalcy within a world that had moved on.
The story made global headlines. A family of six, plus Robin Williams, surviving 38 days adrift in the Pacific, captured imaginations and stunned maritime experts worldwide.
They appeared on television, in magazines, and on radio. People wanted every detail—what they ate, how they survived, and what it felt like to watch their boat sink.
While the attention was overwhelming, they used it to share lessons in survival, leadership, and resilience. Their story became more than news—it became inspiration.
Anne became a nurse. Douglas pursued a quiet life, away from publicity. Neil and Sandy, still young during the ordeal, grew up with a perspective shaped by survival.
Robin Williams returned to Wales, declining interviews. He stayed in contact with the family for a time, but preferred life away from the spotlight.
Dougal returned to sailing later, including another Pacific voyage. He believed in confronting fear directly, though no trip could compare to 38 days in a fiberglass dinghy.
Survive the Savage Sea, published in 1973, remains a definitive survival account. It has been translated into multiple languages and adapted into a 1992 television movie.
The story has been retold in articles, documentaries, and interviews. Unlike fictional sea stories, this one resonated for its honesty, clarity, and complete absence of exaggeration.
Dougal’s meticulous logbook, preserved during the ordeal, formed the foundation for the book. Its precision helped ensure the accuracy and longevity of their account.
Their story endures because it teaches real lessons: stay calm, stay together, use everything wisely, and never give up—even when all signs suggest the end is near.
Modern survivalists still refer to the Robertsons. They didn’t have GPS, radio, or high-tech gear—just grit, discipline, and ingenuity. And somehow, that was enough.
Nearly fifty years later, their journey remains a benchmark of human endurance. It is not romantic or glamorous, but real and deeply, powerfully unforgettable.
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