‘It quickly becomes clear that things are not good. What follows is a blur of suppressed panic and a mad fumbled search of the boat…’

A terrifying medical episode in a remote anchorage tests liveaboards Miranda Baker and Elliot Russo – but reveals the strength of the cruising community

Friday evening, 21 February, 2025, and we are anchored inside a reef lagoon in a remote part of Raja Ampat, West Papua, Indonesia. The entrance to the lagoon is narrow, and uncharted. It’s the type of approach that needs daylight and two people to navigate: one on the bow directing the course, the other steering.

This isn’t new to us. Elliot and I have been living aboard our 1985 Mason 48, Fortaleza, for four years and in that time we’ve wiggled our way in and out of some tight spots. Through trial, and a couple of unmentionable errors that have left us grateful Fortaleza is steel hulled, we’ve developed our own reef navigation signals to communicate from the bow to the cockpit, as well as a capacity to forgive each other’s swearing.

Elliot’s Kiwi/Aussie. I am British/Kiwi. We met in New Zealand, and Covid lockdown had us move in together on our third date. Quite quickly we bought Fortaleza before spending nine long, filthy months living aboard in a boatyard, refitting her with the capacity to be self-reliant for long periods of time. We rewired, replumbed, re-rigged. We added solar, a watermaker and a sail plan for almost every eventuality.

The ambition was to spend 5-10 years exploring the world in a westerly direction until we ran out of money. We had no real plan, except to live off-grid, avoid marinas, find remote beauty and do a lot of diving. We left New Zealand in June 2023 and, sailed through Niue, Tonga, Fiji, New Caledonia, Australia, Tasmania and up into Indonesia, clocking up over 14,500 life-changing miles and hooking our home into hundreds of anchorages. This one, in Raja Ampat, like many we’ve spent time in, is extremely isolated.

Unexpected events

We are about 125km from the nearest town, Sorong, and the nearest boats showing on our instruments are around 70km away. Weeim, the nearby island, is essentially just thick jungle with a small longboat fishing village at the furthest end.

We are only here for a night, a stopover on our way south, back to the towering karst rock formations and magic of Misool, after three months exploring northern Raja Ampat. We left our previous anchorage early so we could arrive with good daylight and intend to leave again as soon as there’s enough light to be able to navigate our way through the reef.

We anchor. We snorkel. We eat dinner. We play Uno. We go to bed. It’s hot in Indonesia, and muggy – even at night it can be 30°C inside the boat, so Elliot decides to sleep in the saloon. Life is good, normal – for us.

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Until, at around 1230, Elliot wakes up and can’t move his right side. His leg and his arm are unresponsive. It crosses his mind he may be having a stroke. Because he’s an idiot, he doesn’t wake me up. But after a while, when he regains some movement, he makes his way to the bathroom to find aspirin – you know, for the secret stroke he thinks he’s having.

At around 0130 I wake up, annoyed by his rummaging around. But it quickly becomes clear that things are not good. What follows is a blur of suppressed panic and a mad fumbled search of the boat for aspirin.

We have an extensive medical kit, everything from OxyContin to injectable morphine and antibiotics. But it’s aspirin that saves stroke victim’s lives and the only medicine we are not carrying is aspirin. Accepting this, surrounded by cartons of every other drug we could carry, is, to put it mildly, devastating.

Calm in a crisis

Knowing nothing medical can be done, we turn our attention to finding help. Eventually we find an email address for our insurance company but then Elliot begins to have a second episode. This one is worse. His mouth falls slanted sideways and he looks utterly confused and terrified as he tries to speak but can’t form words.

Elliot is my rock. He is the calm one of the two of us, sensible, unflappable. The only person I need in any crisis is Elliot. But it is Elliot who is in crisis. There’s a horrific dawning that from this moment what I do matters and I need to hold it together.

Elliot and I have sailed thousands of miles. Like most cruisers we’ve moved pretty slowly, picking our moments to avoid the worst of predictable weather, but we’ve still hit our share of drama and made our share of bad decisions. My first proper multi-day passage along New Zealand’s north island gave us an unforecasted 40 knots on the nose for 12 hours of washing machine hell that had me Googling the price of llama farms as an alternative life plan.

Elliot, who had previously crewed a boat from Hobart to Picton through the Roaring Forties without a bimini or autopilot, was only bothered by our slowed SOG. Despite the sea state, he could still eat, and sing along badly to Tracy Chapman. He almost seemed happy. I just wondered if I was really cut out for this life.

Earlier in the same trip, under leaden skies on a fast broad reach, we’d T-boned a massive, submerged tree at 8 knots. We thought we’d hit a whale. Elliot was typically unfazed. At that evening’s anchorage he jumped in the water to swim on the hull and, grinning, reported back that he was glad we were steel, we’d only lost a little paint.

Elliot grew up in Sydney around water, messing around on Hobie Cats, but was late to yachting, completing his Offshore Yachtmaster in his late 40s and crewing on other people’s boats all around the world. There is nothing he can’t turn his hand to. Fortaleza is the first boat he’s owned and he knows every inch of her. Every wire, nut, bolt, splice, spare part, valve and hose clip.

I can be anxious. Twice, sleep deprived, I’ve woken Elliot up, mid-ocean, convinced we are about to sail into another boat, only to be gently reassured that what I imagined to be a looming mast light is in fact a star.

But despite this we are a good team. We’ve managed to successfully sail our tiny home across oceans. Being out of sight of land, flying our enormous turquoise gennaker, with just a good breeze and each other for company, is a supremely happy experience for us. But in this remote lagoon in the dead of night, half the team is in serious trouble, and I need to focus.

Out of range

We are out of range of mobile coverage so I can’t call anyone, but Starlink connects us to the internet. I begin messaging our insurance company’s emergency team on Whatsapp. A medic helps me assess Elliot, and we agree he is having a stroke.

I give them our co-ordinates. They say they are organising a helicopter and reassure me I’m not on my own, but neither thing feels true, and it occurs to me that the person I am texting at their desk probably doesn’t grasp the remoteness of where we are. It also occurs to me that in the three months we’ve been in Raja Ampat I haven’t seen a single helicopter. The situation feels like a whirling, terrifying fairground ride I can’t get off.

I realise that if help does arrive we’d need to be ready, so I start packing up the boat. I bring valuable things in from the cockpit, grab fishing gear from on deck. Outside the darkness feels suffocating. The air is still and oppressively hot, thick and gluey. There is not a single light, anywhere. I whisper quiet prayers to the sky.

I take a deep breath and go back downstairs. Elliot seems horribly broken. He looks up and his new face mouths ‘Sorry’ at me repeatedly. I wonder if he might die. Bizarrely, he is trying to do admin, moving money between accounts on his phone, jabbing at the screen with his left hand. I wonder if he thinks he might die too. He is clearly desperate for me to be OK if things get worse.

Reaching out

At 0345 the insurance company texts to tell me there is no helicopter. Despite already knowing this, I feel my stomach lurch with nausea. The advisor tells me to Mayday for help. I grab the radio, take a deep breath and say as calmly and clearly as I can “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is sailing vessel Fortaleza, sailing vessel Fortaleza”. My words seem to echo into a void.

Elliot and I wait, eyes locked on each other, but there’s no response. I try again, willing the silence to be broken. But there’s nothing. No one is listening. And this is the moment that almost breaks me. I have a sensation of freefalling through a weightless, airless space. There is no one out there.

At around 0400 Elliot begins to regain some sensation in his limbs and his face begins to morph slowly back to normal. His right side is weakened but very slowly he is able to move. He shifts from the sofa to bed and tries to rest. Alarmingly, I am told by text to wake him every 30 minutes to make sure he is breathing and coherent. Instead, for the next few hours, I check every 10 minutes, sitting on the bed beside him, holding my breath, desperate to hear his.

The insurance company texts to say they are trying hard to raise the local search and rescue in Sorong. Perhaps as a response to feeling so utterly alone, I start talking aloud to myself “Shut the hatches”. “Pack a bag”. “Toothbrushes”.

“Padlock the lockers”. “Passports”. “Make sure the gas is off.” “It’ll be OK, it’ll be OK, it’ll be OK.” I’m not sure it will be.

I send a panicked text message to the only local person I know in the region, Wick, the owner of the marina in Sorong, 125km away. I briefly hesitate before I press send, concerned it might be rude to wake him up at such an hour, then actually laugh out loud at my Britishness. My text says: “Wick. Miranda here. I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to reach out to. Elliot seems to have had a stroke. I am alone and I don’t know what to do. Please help.” and I attach our location.

Securing the boat

The day starts to dawn at 0600 and the light brings comfort. The blackness of night had been intensifying the feeling of isolation. I’m told contact has been made with search and rescue. They are going to come by boat from Sorong. They will be with us… in nine hours. They need a few hours to get their team together and then they estimate that the journey will take six more.

Crying with relief, I wake Elliot to tell him help is coming. It’s nine hours away but it’s something. It’s hope. Elliot gets up and starts trying to get the boat organised, and I find myself shouting angrily at him to lie down.

Without speaking we both know we have several serious problems. There’s Elliot’s health, obviously. But there’s also our home, Fortaleza. Our entire life’s possessions are here with us on this boat. She has safely carried us across oceans to some of the most beautiful places on earth.

She is more than a boat to us, she is the third member of our little team. Even if we get rescued, the idea of leaving Fortaleza inside this reef without any idea of how, or when, we can get back to her, or whether she’ll still be floating or functional when we do, is a massive source of additional anxiety. So many scenarios run through our heads, none of them good.

At 0700 Wick calls. He’s woken to see my text message . “Miranda, I am going to try and help you. What do you need?” I bite my cheek and try not to blub.

I’ve had an idea. I ask Wick if he could go to the marina and see if anyone there would be prepared to join the search and rescue boat out to where we are, and then sail Fortaleza back to Sorong.

What seems like moments later Wick calls me again and says he has two volunteers, Josh (already a good friend from another boat) and Albert (who we had met just once in passing). Without a moment’s second thought, they are coming to save Fortaleza for us.

When I tell Elliot this we both, finally, allow ourselves to burst into sobbing, ugly tears of relief. It changes everything. Our precious home, and everything we own, is going to be safe. Now we can just focus on Elliot.

Help on scene

The SAR team leaves Sorong with Josh and Albert at 0900. Help is actually coming. I silently thank the deities I pleaded with during the night.

Elliot starts Googling his symptoms and we diagnose him with a TIA. By now he is pretty much back to physical normality but there is a serious possibility an actual stroke could follow. He needs aspirin urgently. I get a text from Josh telling me the SAR boat isn’t carrying any.

I start recording short operational videos for Josh and Albert who will be taking care of our home. Every boat is unique, Fortaleza has her secrets and quirks. I guide them through how to start the engine, the switchboard, composting loo, bilge pumps, Starlink, fuel, power.

Around 1100 I see two guys approaching in a dugout fishing boat. One is wearing what looks like a hastily homemade police shirt. Initially – tired, overwhelmed, and frankly just a little bit busy – I am suspicious. They start to board Fortaleza uninvited and I wonder if, on top of everything else, I am now dealing with pirates.

The policeman’s teeth are beetlejuice red, he speaks no English but smiles a lot. Eventually, we establish that they are from the nearest village and have been sent by the regional chief of police to wait with us until the SAR arrives. It is incredibly touching. I thank them but send them away – there’s really nothing that they can do.

At 1500 I get a text from Josh saying the rescue crew is 20 minutes away. I feel myself starting to shake. Half an hour later the SAR boat is in sight. It can’t come through the reef into the lagoon but sets down a red inflatable and we watch people clamber into it. Soon afterwards we are being boarded by a team of medics and SAR staff as well as Josh and Albert. Never in my life have I been happier to see other humans. I can’t stop hugging them. I am no longer the only person responsible for it all.

The medics assess Elliot while I give Josh and Albert a whistlestop tour of Fortaleza. They are positive and confident and calm and kind and wonderful. I know what they are doing for us is enormous. They have a 20-hour overnight sail ahead of them on a boat they don’t know. It is a moment of generosity we can never repay.

Within 10 minutes we are waving goodbye from the inflatable, on our way out of the reef to the SAR boat and a six-hour voyage to Sorong. We have been rescued.

On board, Elliot is laid on a gurney and put on oxygen.

I make my way to the back of the boat as the engines start roaring, and watch Fortaleza behind us, anchor already up, making her way slowly out of the reef.

Post script

Weeks later, Elliot is miraculously well; physically fully restored. He was diagnosed as having had a stroke from a previously undiagnosed hole in his heart. Specialists are baffled by his recovery, given he didn’t get any aspirin for almost 36 hours. Ultimately it was the sailing community in Sorong who dug through their medical kits to find us some – delivered to the hospital, with hugs, by Wick.

Fortaleza is still in Indonesia’s tropical deluges, being brilliantly well cared for in Tampa Garam, Wick’s marina. We aim to regroup soon; get our little team back together, and continue on with our adventure.

Lessons learned

There are many lessons from our experience. Some for us but also, I hope, that the wider sailing community might benefit from.

• Starlink – Without it I would have had to set off our EPIRB. Being able to communicate with humans by text was vital. We are also going to invest in a Garmin inReach.
• Aspirin – Since hearing our story many cruisers have messaged telling us they have bought aspirin to have on board. But aspirin should NEVER be administered to a person suffering a suspected stroke without medical advice. If the stroke is actually not a blood clot but a brain bleed, with very similar symptoms, aspirin can make things much worse and could even kill your patient (I only learned this after our incident).
• Insurance – Get it: no excuse. Not only are we covered for an eye-watering bill upwards of AU$140,000, the emergency response was immediate and outstanding.
• Mayday – In a lot of people’s minds a Mayday is a cure-all, a certainty of help. It isn’t. Have ways of alerting your emergency to land.
• Channel 16 – Even if we had other boats anchored around us, I likely wouldn’t have been able to raise them on VHF. Cruisers, as a rule, don’t sleep with their radios on. In Indonesia Ch16 is often a rowdy channel – we’ve even heard karaoke over it. We want to work with other cruisers to open unused channels in different regions, which we can all leave on overnight. I’d love to hear from anyone keen to help us develop this idea.
• Contact numbers – Have emergency contact numbers noted somewhere obvious. I had to scroll through endless emails to find our insurance company’s contact details and it was incredibly stressful.
• Medical kit – We have a thorough medical kit, based on NZ’s Cat 1 Offshore requirements. There is a lot in there, with a lot of unpronounceable labels. One day, bored in the middle of the Pacific, I wrote the uses of each medication on the visible facing edge of each box. While I didn’t find what I needed, I did save a massive amount of time by not having to work out what each medicine was for.
• Humans are awesome – Kindness seems to come as an equal and opposite force to terrible events. The sailing community in particular is extraordinary. The love, support and help we received from total strangers, as well as friends, has been truly humbling.

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