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A listener note: Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. The Pacific Ocean shimmers under the morning sun. The surface of the water ripples blue and green, except for one spot which is red with blood: the blood of a massive sperm whale.
Forty-five minutes ago, the wounded whale rammed the small sailing yacht of Maurice and Marilyn Bailey. Then it swam off, leaving their yacht to sink. Now, below deck, Marilyn Bailey is up to her waist in water. Her heart is pounding in her throat. She can feel the ocean dragging their yacht, the Orlin, mercilessly into the depths.
As quickly as possible, Marilyn wades through the rapidly flooding cabin. She rips open various cabinets and drawers, throwing everything that seems useful into two large waterproof sea bags, cans of food, tools, a first aid kit,
She can't leave anything important behind. Her journal. Where did she have it last? There, up on the shelf. Marilyn manages to save the blue notebook from the rising water just in time. She presses it to her chest and then throws it into one of the white sea bags. Marilyn works in a daze. She still doesn't want to believe it. She and Maurice have to abandon ship.
And they're in the Pacific Ocean, hundreds of miles from land. Frantically, she looks over to the stairs. They're already submerged. Marilyn feels a surge of panic. Even though this sailing voyage was her idea, she can't swim. She has to get out of the cabin while she still can.
She takes a deep breath and sloshes forward through the water, which is now up to her neck. The pressure of it against her body is like a giant hand, trying to push her off her feet. For a moment, she slips, and her head plunges under. But she manages to hold her breath and find her footing again. Just two more steps. Finally, Marilyn climbs out of the flooded cabin, panting and soaking wet,
Her husband Maurice is also winded. Sweat runs down his forehead. He's been pumping air into their two inflatable emergency vessels, a circular life raft and a small rubber rowboat called a dinghy. They'll need both so they can bring along as many supplies as possible. Marilyn heaves the jam-packed sea bags into the life raft.
From the corner of her eye, she can see water sloshing up the stairs from the flooded cabin. The bow of the Orlin sinks deeper. She calls to Maurice. Do you have the binoculars and the flares? Yes, and the plastic jugs. And the bucket and the trash can to collect rainwater. Okay, good. Let's go.
Marilyn's legs tremble as she steps into the gray rubber dinghy. She turns and looks back at the sinking auraline and feels a pang of sadness. For the past eight months, that boat was their home, their sanctuary on the open sea. Now it's gone, replaced by a flimsy piece of rubber. Marilyn shudders. They are now entirely at the mercy of the sea.
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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Comparison rates not available in all states or situations. Prices vary based on how you buy. From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds. At dawn on March 4th, 1973, Marilyn and Maurice Bailey were crossing the Pacific in their yacht, the Oralin, when a sperm whale struck their boat. The creature slammed into the hull, creating a massive leak.
The Baileys found themselves shipwrecked in the middle of the world's largest ocean, hundreds of miles from the nearest land. Now, as they drifted with the current and their supplies slowly dwindled, they would have to use all their strength and resourcefulness to survive. This is episode two, Distress Signals. Nothing but ocean, blue as far as the eye can see.
It's just after 8 a.m., only one hour since the whale struck them. But to Maurice, it feels like a lifetime ago. He's sitting next to Marilyn in the rubber dinghy, which is filled with the supplies they managed to rescue from the yacht. He's wearing nothing but his underpants. The sun is beating down. Maurice squeezes his wife's hand. She's weeping, and her sobs cut him to the core.
He's never seen her like this before. She's usually so upbeat, so resilient. It's hard for him to bear. Through her tears, Marilyn is watching the auralin, which is sinking little by little into the ocean. Maurice feels responsible for the situation, even though he knows it's not his fault. He hangs his head at the thought of it.
His eyes land on the debris floating all around their dinghy. Is any of it worth saving? He's not sure, but he grabs the two paddles and begins rowing. Slowly, the gray rubber boat sets in motion with the life raft in tow. Every time they pass something, Maurice silently pulls it out of the water. A jar with coffee grounds, two pencils, four more water containers, then two canisters with fuel in them,
The bow of the yacht is long out of sight. Only the mainsail and the stern, the rear of the yacht, peek out of the water. After a few minutes, only half the mainsail is visible. Then, just a few inches of the mast. And then, with horrible finality, the sea swallows the last bit of the auralin. After a long silence, Marilyn turns to Maurice. "'Be honest.'
What do you think our chances of surviving are? Pretty good. After all, we're very close to a shipping route. I'm sure someone will find us soon. Do you think we'll be reported missing? Maurice stares out at the ocean and tries his best to sound confident. Well, your mother isn't expecting any new mail from us for another month.
But Sheila and Neville will notice when we don't show up, since we made specific plans to meet them in the Galapagos. And then they'll surely report it to the authorities. And then they'll send out a search party. That means we just have to hold out for one week, maybe two. Something about Marilyn's enthusiasm pains Maurice. He doesn't want to fill her with false optimism. Well, I think we have to be realistic.
Even if they do start searching for us in a couple of weeks, imagine what an impossible task they'll have. No one knows our exact location. They won't have any idea where to start. Maurice immediately regrets his words, but a glimmer of hope flickers in Marilyn's eyes. I'm just glad this happened to us and not Sheila and Neville with their two kids on board. True, but I wish it hadn't happened to us either.
It's about time we do an inventory, don't you think? You spread everything out on the dinghy, and I'll see what we've got on the life raft. Marilyn carefully climbs into the life raft, and Maurice is left on the dinghy by himself. He had been so excited to go on this journey with his wife, sailing all the way from England to New Zealand, starting a new life together.
Now, they're trapped on two puny rubber boats. And for the first time in his life, Maurice contemplates the possibility of his death. Marilyn climbs into the circular life raft. It's tiny, about the size of a two-person camping tent, with a funnel-shaped orange roof that hovers close overhead. ♪
There's only a small open lookout window to let in fresh air. It's insanely hot and stuffy. As she opens the sea bags and spreads their contents out in front of her, she lets out a loud sigh. Her world has suddenly become very small.
In a plastic container, she places the nautical charts and the sextant, an instrument used to determine their geographical location. Next, she takes all their canned goods and puts them back into one of the sea bags. In the other bag, she stuffs their clothes, then places their rain gear on top. Next to the bags is a plastic tray, where Marilyn carefully arranges their books, including Maurice's logbook and her journal.
In the tray is also the first aid kit, and there's six distress flares. As she's finishing up, Maurice pokes his head through the entrance of the life raft.
We barely have room for the essentials. And you packed books? We need them to keep busy. Look what I saved. Richard III and Voyaging Under Sail. And two dictionaries. Just think of them as the first books for our new library for when we get home. Now, what do you want for breakfast? Marilyn is starting to feel like she's regaining control of the situation. She picks up her journal and tells Maurice to start listing the provisions they've salvaged.
He reaches into the sea bag with the food, pulling things out one by one. Four cans of steak and kidney pudding. One can of pot roast. Two cans of ground beef. Three cans of sardines. One can of rice pudding. Six cans of spaghetti bolognese. Two cans of condensed milk. Marilyn neatly records everything in her journal.
There are 32 canned goods in all, plus four packages of cookies, two packets of nuts, half a package of dates, a cake wrapped in plastic, and a jar of vitamins. Next is their water supply. Maurice counts a total of 10 blue plastic bottles, each holding around a gallon of drinking water, plus whatever rainwater they can catch in the bucket and the trash can.
Marilyn runs down the list. With careful rationing, their provisions should last for about 20 days. 20 days will have to do. It's March 5th, 1973, day two. Maurice opens his eyes. His mouth feels fuzzy. His bones ache. Did he sleep at all? He's not sure. He lies in the little life raft, curled up like a cat. That's all the space there is.
They take turns doing three-hour shifts. One sleeps while the other stays on lookout for any passing ships. Maurice slowly gets up, stretches, and then massages his temples with his thumbs. The red glow of the morning sun ushers in another blazing hot day. They're in the tropics, not far from the equator, and daytime temperatures can regularly climb into the 90s.
Marilyn looks over at Maurice from the dinghy, her face already shiny with sweat. Maurice sluggishly pulls on the tether to bring the two boats closer, then climbs into the dinghy with Marilyn. He brought the sextant with him, as well as a nautical chart, which he spreads out across his knees. Then he calculates their geographic location, about 250 miles west of Ecuador and 300 miles northeast of the Galapagos Islands.
Maurice looks at the chart, pondering their options. If they just drift with the prevailing ocean currents, which flow westward, they'll miss the Galapagos. But could they row the hundred or so miles south to get on the same latitude as the islands? If they did that, they might be able to drift on the Humboldt Current and reach land within 12 days. But given their limited supplies, that would require them to row 10 miles a day.
Could they really manage that with the life raft in tow? It would be a huge risk. Right now, they're still close to a shipping lane, which vastly increases their chances of being spotted. If they start rowing south, they'll leave the lane behind. Maurice can't decide what to do, so he tells Marilyn about his idea.
She's immediately in favor of it. "I guess we'll have to row at night. It's just too hot for that during the day. And we can always navigate using the stars if it's too dark to see the compass. Two hours at a time, then we'll switch off." "How far do you think we'll get in two hours?" "I don't know, but we have to try." Maurice is glad that Marilyn makes the decision for them. He doesn't feel capable of it himself.
They agree to spend one more day in the shipping lane, still hoping for a quick rescue from a passing ship. But if that doesn't happen, they'll start rowing tomorrow. It's March 7th, 1973, day four, almost day five. Marilyn Bailey stares up at the clear starry sky. She can make out Orion, the Southern Cross, Ursa Major, and the North Star, which twinkles just above the horizon.
A slender crescent moon shines down on her. She glances down at the small compass she has wedged between two water canisters to confirm that it's still pointing south, and she keeps rowing. There are no breaks scheduled during her shift. She must keep going. Her arms feel numb and extremely heavy. Her hands are covered in blisters, including one that's right where she needs to press down on the paddle.
But Marilyn blocks out the pain. Instead, she thinks about her mother, Susan. Susan is expecting her next postcard from the Galapagos in three or four weeks at the latest. They absolutely must make it to the islands by then. She pictures her mother eagerly checking the mailbox in front of her little house in Derby every day. The thought of her opening it and finding no card each time is heart-wrenching.
Marilyn puts all her strength into the next stroke. The dinghy surges forward for a second, then stops short. The heavy life raft trailing behind it acts like an anchor, slowing their progress. Marilyn grunts with effort as she strokes the paddles again. It's all so arduous, but she can't stop. She must keep rowing onward towards land.
It's March 9th, day six. It's late afternoon. Maurice is in the dinghy with the nautical chart spread out on his knees and the sextant in his hands. His stomach turns. He has just come to realize that all their efforts have been in vain. They have spent three whole nights rowing until sunrise. But after all that, they've hardly moved from their starting point. How can he possibly tell that to Marilyn?
She was just telling him how the dense clouds gathering on the horizon were probably over the Galapagos Islands. She was certain they were getting close. Maurice is in charge of determining their location every day. But for the past few days, he hasn't had the heart to tell Marilyn the correct coordinates. He didn't exactly lie, but he kept it vague. And she didn't ask any more questions. But now there's no way around it.
Maurice takes a deep breath and asks Marilyn to come over to him. We've only moved about 10 miles south.
We'd still have to row at least 10 or 12 nights to reach the same latitude as the Galapagos. But the current is also pulling us west, faster than we can row to the south. In other words, no matter how hard we paddle, we'll drift too far past the Galapagos Islands. Yes. Marilyn looks at her palms. Her blisters have turned into open wounds at this point. Marie senses that she resents him for not telling her the truth right away.
But if she's upset, she doesn't let on. "Alright, no more paddling. So what do we do instead?" "Let the current take us. I think in another day or two, we'll drift back into the shipping lane." Marilyn's face brightens. Already, she's acting optimistic again, like she always does. "And then we'll be spotted." "This isn't the English Channel, Marilyn. It could be weeks before we see a ship. Or even months. But there's a chance."
Maurice genuinely admires his wife's positive attitude, but he has come to understand how unlikely it is that they'll be found. And the rowing has cost them a huge amount of energy. They had to eat and drink much more than planned. Maurice takes stock of the situation in his head and calculates the water rations. Their provisions will only last for five more days. They're about to drift further and further out into the North Pacific.
far from any coast, far from any human soul. As slim as the odds are, their only chance of survival is to be rescued by a passing ship, and soon.
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He is reading her a page from Richard III, slowly, line by line. But Marilyn is hardly listening to Maurice. Her thoughts wander, straining to find solutions to their plight.
The ocean is dead calm today, and even though Maurice says the currents are still pushing them towards the shipping lane, to Marilyn, it feels like they're standing still. They'll never cross paths with another ship at this rate, if only they had a motor for their puny rubber boats. She also finds it difficult to sit still. Painful pressure sores have formed on Marilyn's backside, and it's even worse for Maurice.
There's not enough room for them to move around, and it's reducing their blood flow. For the first time all day, a breeze picks up, rustling against the orange roof of the life raft. The sound of it gives Marilyn an idea. Excitedly, she climbs from the life raft into the dinghy. She can feel Maurice's skeptical gaze from behind her.
With great concentration, she puts up the two paddles, one on each side of the dinghy. Then she stretches an empty sea bag between them. Sure enough, the wind catches the improvised sail and inflates it. They're moving, sailing northwest, towards the shipping lane. Marilyn looks back at Maurice and grins. Her jury-rigged sail may not be much, but still, it feels good to be doing something.
It's March 12th, day nine. Marilyn and Maurice are crouched over their meager breakfast. Marilyn shoves half a date into her mouth and lets her eyes drift across the sea. Everything looks like it always does. The endless blue desert of water surrounds them on all sides. But then she spots something that makes her jump to her feet. Is that? Yes, it's a ship. A ship. Maurice, we're being rescued.
In the pale light of the early morning sun, the distant ship flickers against the water like a mirage. Can it really be? Is their nightmare over? Marilyn can hardly hold still. Her whole body is tingling with excitement. They're going to be saved. But first they have to draw attention to themselves. Maurice climbs over to the life raft and pulls out all of their distress signals, six in total.
Marilyn grabs the binoculars. Looks like a small fishing boat. Or a private yacht. That's even better than a container ship. They'll be able to see us much better. I knew it, Maurice. Tonight we toast to being saved. I think we can get within about a mile. I hope that's close enough for them to see us. Hello! Marilyn screams at the top of her lungs.
She waits impatiently until the ship is roughly parallel to them, then pushes one of the flares into Maurice's hand. Maurice tears the cap off the flare and flicks the fuse, but nothing happens. He tries again. Still, nothing. The two of them stare at the useless thing for what feels like an eternity.
until Maurice throws it into the water, screaming. A dud! A damn dud! Never mind. Light the next one. Come on! Maurice tries another, and this time, the flare ignites and shoots into the air. Marilyn stares up at the sky. There it is. The signal that they're alive and that they need help. Then she looks at the ship.
She can see it more clearly now. It's no more than a mile away, but it makes no effort to change course. She and Maurice scream at the top of their lungs, but the ship carries on as if they weren't there. "Why don't they see us? Quick, light the next one!" Marilyn holds the next flare up to Maurice. Again, he lights it and shoots it into the air. Again, they scream. Again, nothing.
Marilyn is about to light the next flare, but Maurice stops her. The ship is already too far. They stop shouting for help and watch it disappear, completely crestfallen. No one saw them. And now they only have three emergency flares left. After the ship left them stranded this morning, Maurice is having a hard time following Marilyn's usual advice and staying positive.
He's hungry. He's thirsty. And without that last bit of hope, both of those things are really getting to him right now. Their water supply is down to just a few gallons. They have hardly any canned food left, even though they haven't eaten enough in days to be remotely full. A sound snaps Maurice out of his gloomy thoughts. It's coming from the water, directly below them.
Maurice looks at Marilyn. She widens her eyes, just as startled. A moment later, something slams the bottom of the raft, hard enough to send the sextant case flying. The next bump hits Maurice, right under his backside. He cries out loudly. Marilyn sticks her head out of the lookout. "It's turtles! Three or four of them! They're trying to hunt us! Or just coming up for air."
Maurice doesn't like the idea of murdering turtles, but he knows she's right.
If they want to survive, they have no choice but to eat whatever comes their way. And the turtles are right there, just outside the entrance to their life raft. Their small, dark green heads keep peeking out of the water and then disappearing just as fast.
With lightning speed, Marilyn grabs one of the shells and, with a loud cry, hoists the frightened animal onto the inflatable boat next to them. Then she grabs the paddle and hands it to Maurice. You knock it out first, then I'll cut off its head. Cut off its head? How else are we supposed to kill it? Maurice knows she's right. The turtle's protective shell gives them no other option.
Maurice takes the paddle, braces himself, and swings. Again and again. Until the turtle loses consciousness. Then Marilyn lays the animal on the rowing bench, its head positioned over a bowl. Maurice grimaces. Any form of violence is abhorrent to him. But Marilyn doesn't hesitate. With a serious look, she gets to work, hacking away with a small, blunt pocket knife.
It's not exactly the right tool, but it serves its purpose. After they manage to pry off part of the turtle's shell, Marilyn cuts four steak-sized pieces of meat. Maurice throws the rest of the animal overboard, then washes his bloody hands in the ocean, relieved that the worst part is finally over. When he turns around again, Marilyn is handing him a bowl of finely chopped pieces of turtle.
Maurice reluctantly puts a piece of the raw meat in his mouth. As he chews, he tries to flash his wife an encouraging smile. It's a bit chewy, but not too bad. Marilyn smiles back and takes a bite, but she only manages a single piece before she bursts into tears. Maurice takes the bowl from her hand and squeezes it tightly. Then he also begins to cry.
Whether they like it or not, they have become hunters. It's March 21st, day 18. And in all those days, it still hasn't rained. Marilyn crouches in the dinghy, sucking on a dead fish. She slurps all the liquid out of the animal. It relieves her thirst, at least for a little bit. She throws the fish bones overboard and grabs their improvised fishing rod.
The day they killed the turtle, she realized something. Turtle meat made perfect fish bait. All they needed was a fishing hook, which Marilyn fashioned from a piece of string and a safety pin, which she broke off at one end. Learning how to fish took a little longer, but they'd both been getting better at it. Marilyn casts her line into the water and waits for a bite.
She's wearing an undershirt and shorts, with a checkered shirt thrown around her shoulders. She feels incredibly dirty. They have soap on board, but because they can only wash with salt water, they never really feel clean. Her lips stick to each other. She has a headache. Water, water, water. She can't think of anything else. They have less than a gallon left. It has to rain soon. Water.
All of a sudden, a powerful wind blows through Marilyn's matted hair. She turns and sees gray clouds on the horizon. They're swelling larger and larger, moving toward their rubber boats like wandering mountains. And then... Maurice! It's raining! Finally, it's raining! Quick, the buckets! They're next to you! Maurice immediately gets to work.
They have to collect as much as possible. Water flows into the life raft through the open lookout hole near the top of the tented roof. Maurice places a bucket under it. Meanwhile, Marilyn stays seated in the dinghy and leans back as far as she can. She sticks out her tongue. When Maurice comes over to her, they fall into each other's arms, rip off what little clothing they have on, and let the water run over their filthy bodies.
It's the best shower of their lives. A little later, the bucket under the lookout hole is almost full. They celebrate by toasting with mugs that are full to the brim. Yuck! It tastes like rubber. Then, Maurice remembers something. The roof of the life raft. It has a chemical waterproof coating. But it could be washing off. So we can't drink this. It could be toxic? I'm afraid so.
Reluctantly, they dump the bucket overboard, then move it to the open air of the dinghy. When the rain finally stops, they've collected just a quart of drinkable water. They decide to drink half and save the rest. This time, they don't toast before sucking down the precious liquid. They're no longer in a mood to celebrate.
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It has rained only once more since the last time. They were able to collect a few more quarts, but their supply of drinking water is already running out again. Marilyn sits crouched at the entrance to the life raft, while Maurice lies curled up in the middle, sleeping. As she always does during the night watch, Marilyn gazes up at all the twinkling stars in the sky. So many stars. Then she sees one of the stars move.
She squints her sleepy eyes. It's close to the horizon. It could be a ship. She glances at her sleeping husband. She doesn't want to wake him over a false alarm. She has to be sure. After a few minutes, their boats are lifted by a rising wave. Now she has a perfect view and can make out a flashing red navigation light in the distance. It's definitely a ship.
Excitedly, she shakes Maurice's leg. "Darling, wake up!" "Huh?"
What is it? A ship. A tanker, I think. And it's coming toward us. Maurice is instantly wide awake. He reaches into a waterproof sea bag for their last three distress flares. But before they can light any of them, they need to get as close to the ship as possible. A few minutes later, Marilyn can see lights flickering through the ship's circular portholes. She can hear the distant hum of its engines. Now, Maurice!
Maurice tries to light the first flare, but it doesn't work. Another dud. Without a word, he throws it into the water. Now they only have two flares left. Thankfully, the second-to-last one ignites, and they both let out a sigh of relief. Maurice aims it towards the tanker's bridge. The white flare lights up the night. Gradually, as if in slow motion, it moves across the dark sky.
its bright tail stretching out behind it. It's a foggy night, but even so, Marilyn feels certain the ship must have seen it. She grabs the binoculars and tries to see if anything is moving near the railing on the ship's deck. Then she starts shouting. Is anyone- Hello? Hello?
Maurice grabs the flashlight and begins flicking it on and off, trying to spell out SOS in Morse code. But the tanker doesn't respond. As it cruises away from them into the darkness, Maurice slumps down into the raft, defeated.
That's twice now we haven't been seen. And who knows when we'll pass another ship. But two ships in just 25 days. That's pretty lucky, right? And besides, all good things come in threes. We'll see another ship in no time. Marilyn Bailey, where do you get this unwavering optimism? I don't know. I just feel it. We're going to be saved. Trust me. Marilyn turns back in the direction of the tanker.
Already, she can barely make out its lights among all the stars on the horizon. Next time, she tells herself, they'll be spotted. They have to be, because now they only have one flare left. It's April 8th, day 36. The small life raft floats peacefully, a bright orange speck on the dark blue ocean. The gray dinghy bobs next to it.
Countless fish and turtles swim around them. Now and then, a curious school of dolphins appears and accompanies the little rubber islands for a while. Seabirds circle in the sky above. Maurice enjoys watching all the wildlife that flocks around their boats throughout the day. It's as if they've become their own little ecosystem out here in the middle of the Pacific. He lies on his back in the dinghy and stares up at the overcast gray sky.
His vision keeps going blurry. He has a fever and a pretty bad earache. Marilyn is sitting with her back to him. Her brown, wavy hair is soft and shiny and looks cleaner than it has in weeks. It's rained a lot in the past few days. So much so that Maurice started longing for the sun and heat again. But at least they've finally been able to quench their thirst. They've gone back to catching rainwater from the lookout hole in the life raft again.
Now that it's rained several times, it doesn't taste like chemicals anymore, and it's a much more efficient collection method. For food, they now subsist on raw fish and turtle meat alone. They still have a few canned goods left, but are saving them as a last resort. In the meantime, the turtle meat has actually started tasting quite good to them. It's like a cross between chicken and lobster, with a side of crab.
Marilyn turns to Maurice with a certain sparkle in her eye. She's had another of her clever ideas. Turtles have to go ashore to lay eggs. Yes, and? Do you think they can pull us?
Maurice thinks the idea is ridiculous, but is grateful for any distraction. Besides, it's worth a try. He helps Marilyn grab one of the turtles out of the water. Then they turn the kicking animal onto its shell and wrap two ropes around its hind flippers. Then they let it loose. To Maurice's amazement, it works.
The animal paddles vigorously westward, towards the Galapagos, dragging their boats behind it. They actually gain so much speed that the water ripples at the front of the dinghy. Marilyn giggles with delight. "Let's catch more. They can pull us like a team of horses."
But the next turtle they harness quickly shatters their dream. It swims in the opposite direction. The image of them proudly riding a turtle-drawn carriage to land was beautiful, but short-lived. Just then, a brown-feathered, blue-footed seabird swoops down and settles on the edge of the dinghy, its wings still flapping. Without giving it much thought, Maurice grabs the bird and abruptly twists its neck.
With that, their menu has expanded a bit. In addition to raw turtle and raw fish, they can now eat raw seabird. It's April 12th, day 40. The late afternoon sun is low on the horizon, giving the ocean surface an orange and red glow. A fresh southeast wind drives the clouds across the sky in long columns.
Using a felt-tip pen, Marilyn writes today's date on the inside of their protective roof. She does this every day and adds a plus sign next to the date when they see a ship. The day before yesterday was one of those days. And so was today. Two ships in three days. And yet, neither one stopped.
Marilyn's eyes are puffy. She cried a lot today. She was so hopeful that the ship they saw today would rescue them. It was so close, but they had already used up their last flare. Instead, in desperation, they stuffed some fuel-soaked rags into a hollowed-out turtle shell and lit them on fire. Maurice held the shell over his head and tried to make smoke signals the best he could.
It didn't really work until Marilyn thought of putting a damp towel over it, which produced thicker, whiter smoke. And then the ship actually stopped and turned around. Marilyn was certain they were saved at last. She waved her yellow rain pants like mad and screamed louder than she ever had in her life. But then the ship stopped moving.
And after a while, it turned again, a full 180 degrees, back on its original course. Maurice totally lost it. He was extremely angry at himself for not having put a signaling mirror in his emergency pack. Because even if the captain had seen their smoke signal, their raft was right where the evening sun met the ocean. The horizon had swallowed them up again.
It's April 28th, day 55. Maurice dozes in the life raft. Marilyn is in the dinghy, fishing. That's what she does most of the time now. When she's not journaling or getting lost in endless deep conversations with Maurice, he can hardly believe they're still alive. To him, it feels like death has been toying with them this whole time, as if it were dancing around them, just waiting for them to give up.
And when he looks into Marilyn's gaunt face and sunken eyes, he doesn't know how much longer they can hold out. Marilyn's once graceful body is now little more than a skeleton, and he doesn't look much different himself. Then something startles him awake. The floor beneath him is sagging, bulging, and buckling. He frantically reaches towards the two circular tubes that form the outside edge of their life raft, keeping it afloat.
To his horror, the lower one is completely limp. He feels rubber squeeze against rubber in his hands. Maurice calls out to Marilyn, who's in the process of picking apart a fish. "I think we've sprung another leak." "Not again." "Quick, help me find the hole." "Do we even have enough patching material left?"
Just four days ago, they had to patch another leak. It was Marilyn's 34th birthday, and to celebrate, Maurice really wanted to catch a big silvery milkfish, her favorite. But just when Maurice finally had one, it broke free and sent their safety pinfish hook flying. And the sharp tip of the hook plunged right into the dinghy. It was a scary moment. And now their life raft is leaking too. ♪
Maurice climbs over to Marilyn in the dinghy. They carefully examine the lower rubber tube of the collapsed life raft. Maurice spots the problem. It's not just one hole. There are several, and they're below the water line. Marilyn spreads the remaining patching materials out in front of them, while Maurice holds the lower part of the rubber tube out of the water until it's completely dry. Then, equipped with glue and rubber patches, they get to work.
But the patches keep coming loose as soon as they put the raft back down in the water. This is a new low. Maurice is certain this is it. They are finally finished. Maurice slumps back into the dinghy, feeling defeated. But Marilyn gets that familiar twinkle in her eye. Her optimism is still relentless. She rummages around in one of the white sea bags.
Don't bother. We don't have any more patching material. I checked. That's not what I'm looking for. I think we're in desperate need of a morale boost. We need more than that, Malin. Triumphantly, she holds up her prizes. Two cans of condensed milk, and not even rusty. Oh, why not? One each? Marilyn nods. The thick, sweet milk runs down their throats.
The calories soon have the desired effect, and Maurice feels his mood lifting. Once again, his wife has saved him from despair. But now she looks at him solemnly. "I think we have to face facts, Maurice. We can't give up the life raft because it's our only shape, and apparently we can't patch it either. So we'll just have to keep reinflating it. But how often will we have to do that? As often as it takes.
Everything in Maurice wants to give up. Why bother? They don't have a single emergency flare left or any decent way of signaling passing ships. And now their life raft is slowly deflating. Marilyn takes the first shift, pumping the leaky tube full of air. 15 minutes later, the raft has already started to sag. And now it's Maurice's turn. His arms move up and down mechanically as he works the pump.
♪♪ ♪♪
A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the book 117 Days Adrift by Maurice and Marilyn Bailey.
I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Kira Funk wrote this episode. Translated by Sharmila Cohen for Monk Studios. Sound design by Rob Shielaga. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Alita Rosansky and Emily Frost. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Andy Herman.
Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis. For Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store. Or maybe you're with your secret lover. Or maybe you're robbing a bank.
Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand-new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariously thrilling podcast that will leave you wondering, how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? ♪
You can binge incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.
