On 20 November 1820 the Nantucket whaleship Essex, under first-time captain George Pollard Jr., was rammed twice and sunk by a large sperm whale in the remote equatorial Pacific, roughly 2,000 nautical miles west of South America. The crew of twenty escaped into three small whaleboats with a meager salvage of bread and fresh water. Twelve of them would not survive. After about three months adrift, only eight men lived to be rescued; some endured by eating the bodies of shipmates who had died, and in one boat by killing a chosen man after the survivors drew lots.
The disaster turned on a single navigational decision. The Marquesas and Society Islands lay downwind, within reach. Pollard wished to run for them, but his officers, Owen Chase chief among them, feared the islanders were cannibals and argued instead for the far longer beat toward the coast of Chile and Peru, against wind and current. Pollard yielded. The choice condemned the men to a voyage of more than 2,500 nautical miles in open boats, and to the very starvation and cannibalism they had sailed to avoid. The islands they feared were, in fact, safe; traders had been calling at them without harm.
The Essex is remembered less for the whale than for what followed it: a clinical demonstration of how fear of the unknown can be deadlier than the unknown itself, and how command under starvation collapses into the drawing of lots. First mate Owen Chase published his Narrative in 1821; cabin boy Thomas Nickerson wrote his own account decades later. Together they reached a young Herman Melville, who built the ending of Moby-Dick upon a whale that turns on the ship that hunts it.
On 15 June 1972, about 200 nautical miles west of the Galápagos Islands, the wooden schooner Lucette was holed by a pod of orcas and sank within minutes, leaving the six people aboard adrift in the open Pacific. They were the Robertson family — Dougal Robertson, a Scottish former merchant-navy officer turned dairy farmer; his wife Lyn; their son Douglas, then about eighteen; the twin boys Neil and Sandy, about twelve — together with Robin Williams, a young Englishman taken on as crew at Panama. All six survived. After 38 days adrift, first in an inflatable life raft and then crammed into the Lucette‘s nine- to ten-foot fibreglass dinghy Ednamair, they were picked up alive by a Japanese fishing trawler.
The ordeal was a study in deliberate, disciplined survival rather than disaster. The raft and dinghy held only a few days’ water and rations. The inflatable raft deteriorated and failed after about sixteen days, forcing all six into the tiny dinghy. From there the family built a survival regime out of almost nothing: they caught turtles and dorado and flying fish, dried strips of meat in the sun, drank turtle blood and rainwater, and rigged the dinghy to catch every shower. Dougal, drawing on his seamanship, navigated by dead reckoning toward the shipping lanes off Central America rather than waiting passively to be found, and Lyn’s nursing knowledge and improvised remedies kept the weakening bodies functioning.
The Robertsons are remembered as one of the rare cases in which an entire group, including children, came through a long open-water ordeal alive and without resorting to harming one another. They had, the family later said, explicitly resolved that they would not eat one another to survive. Dougal Robertson recorded the experience in his 1973 book Survive the Savage Sea, and later distilled its hard lessons into a survival manual; his son Douglas told the fuller story decades afterward in The Last Voyage of the Lucette. The dinghy Ednamair survives in a maritime museum as the small, battered vessel that carried six people through five weeks of open ocean.