Robert Buyck served in the U.S. Coast Guard, following in the footsteps of his grandfather, Peter Buyck Sr., who had bunked alongside Buddy Ebsen back when the Coast Guard hunted submarines with depth charges.
Robert’s 180-foot ship was an old sub chaser, retrofitted to tend buoys.
Like many children of the 1970s, Robert harbored an unhealthy fear of the ocean, traumatized by the movie Jaws. Certain grim realities of life at sea stoked this fear. When the ship would stop for a swim break, an armed sentry stood watch, tasked with shooting the victims of any shark attacks.
Determined to conquer his fear once and for all, Robert decided to swim the keel of the ship. He wanted to experience the horror ancient sailors endured when executed by keel-hauling. Like those sailors, he would have to hold his breath. Unlike them, his hands would be free to control his pace and to avoid the razor sharp barnacles.
Knowing his plan would be forbidden upfront, but likely be undiscovered or forgiven afterward, Robert told no one.
As he approached the bow, Robert hesitated to ponder a rack of flippers. Nobody ever used them on swim breaks. The ship was anchored in the open ocean, with its engine idling (propeller disengaged), which automatically oriented the bow into the waves. Robert figured the current would carry him naturally toward the stern. In an abundance of caution, he decided a set of flippers might be helpful in reenacting a form of capital punishment.
He jumped off the bow — a 40-foot drop.
Immediately, an invisible river swept him along the hull of the ship. Carefully, he pushed himself back from the barnacles as he moved. He could feel the rumbling of the engines as he touched the hull.
One hundred eighty feet later, Robert reached the propeller. He grasped one of the eight foot blades with his right hand, suspended in the brisk current. In that moment, he felt an exhilarating sense of triumph — his ultimate victory over fear.
His confidence peaked. Nothing left to do now but release his grip and let himself gently float to the surface.
Four hundred yards behind the ship! Robert realized that, although the ship was anchored, the Atlantic was not.
In a split second, Robert had gone from Hall of Fame contender to Darwin Awards finalist. No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one would notice his absence until morning. He had only one option: outswim the Gulf Stream.
The flippers he had nearly dismissed were now his best bet to avoid the world’s most ironic demise.
Robert swam furiously toward the ship. When he reached the stern, he clawed at a greasy array of fluid lines, trying to pull himself up to the rope ladder height. Just then, a four-inch discharge pipe erupted, blasting him in the face with putrid greywater.
Choking and sputtering, Robert finally raised his head above the deck rail, seeing his crewmates casually working, oblivious to his flirt with destiny.
They nonchalantly extended a hand to help him aboard.
He never said a word.
This story proves yet again that, not only does God want us to stay humble, He has a sense of humor.
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