A survivor's story
This is a moving story written by my daughter’s friend Bob Firlock. Here is his eyewitness account of the sinking of the Greek Ship Sea Diamond. Click to view video
By Bob Figlock
This is my story, chronologically, exactly as I remember it. It contains only what I saw with my own eyes. I could make it fantastically more interesting with second-hand accounts of lost wedding rings, exploding jacuzzis, soaring lifeboats, reunited families, etc., but it would fill tomes. Besides, I can't deny others the chance to tell their own tales!
I woke up. It was my 21st birthday. I'd been taking a nap, and it was mid-afternoon. My mother, Linda, was at the door to our cabin, which was a tiny room on the port side of the second deck, the lowest passenger deck, (even before the incident, waves crashed well above our porthole.) There had just been a terrible rending sound, about 5 seconds in duration. The ship seemed to be slightly tilting, but not much more than it would in a sharp turn. “Bobby, get up, I think we're sinking.”
My mother opened the door. It burst inwards to reveal a roaring wind-tunnel rushing past to the left, towards the front of the boat, with little bits of paper or plaster flying past. The only analogy I can give is that of a depressurizing airplane. There were two distinct explosions, a fraction of a second apart, each with its respective hot pressure-wave. My mind did not go to my cell phone, PSP, camera, or even glasses. It went to my sweatshirt, on the shelf above my bed. I grabbed it, pulled my shoes on, and leaped to the door.
We each snatched our life vests from the closet, dashed towards the ornate staircase, and began climbing to the third deck. My life vest was tucked in my elbow, and my mother's was in her hand. We were both body-checked on the first half-flight of stairs, I'm not sure by whom. My mom's life jacket was knocked from her hand, she tipped forward, but ran with her momentum to keep from falling. We left it behind. As we turned around to climb the second flight, she called a warning to a paralyzed group of students that there was water rushing down the hallway.
There could not have been a greater disparity between the second and third decks. It was just like waking up from a bad dream. While there was a general murmuring about the tilt of the ship, people were continuing to drink, smoke, play cards, and chat. One of the several high-school groups on board was walking towards the downwards staircase, and staring at my life vest. I shouted at them not to go down because that the second deck was flooding, and continued dashing upwards. Aside from our urgent warnings to the few staff and passengers that we encountered, the climb to the 8th deck (the evacuation deck,) was uneventful, though increasingly difficult due to the ever-listing ship.
We were the very first people to either of the muster stations on the port (uphill) side. We recalled being instructed during our emergency drill more than three days earlier that there were additional life jackets at the muster stations. We lifted and kicked off the seats to every bench starting from the stern side, only to find almost all of them vacant. The only one with contents was full of child-sized vests. The main throughway was extremely slippery at the point where the outdoor pool had spilled over, so for quite a long while we remained there to caution and help people who were running past and often falling.
The angle of the deck was strong enough that even their small slips knocked them down. Using our modest Spanish, we warned the Spanish-only speaking passengers as well.
It was at this point, roughly 20 minutes after the initial collision, that the first three announcements came over the public address system, in English only. This was significant, as prior announcements during the cruise had been in English, Spanish, and French. The announcements were a warning that the water doors on decks 2 and 3 would be closing, and an admonition to stand clear. It was also stated that we should not return to our cabins, that we should move to the life boats, and that the situation was “under control.” The third commanded all crew to report to the second and third decks for a search.
The boat was slowly rotating in circles, and appeared to be moving towards the island. Several large barrels from our ship were in the water. I saw one open barrel that was surrounded by floating life jackets. Nonetheless, at this point everybody seemed to have life vests, which were thankfully in sudden abundance. The increasingly large crowd on the port deck pressed us away from the slippery bench are and towards the rail. Unable to move well, we began taking pictures and sending text messages to family members.
By this point, a small flotilla of at least 12 small duty-free and fishing boats had neared the ship, along with two cruise ships, a ferry, and a large barge just a bit farther away. The first news helicopters had arrived. Shortly thereafter, roughly 4 military helicopters were visible. Ropes were tied from our ship to tugboats, and quickly became taut. I wondered about their purpose in moving our vessel while passengers were still on it. The crowd on the deck thinned slightly, and I moved towards the rear of the ship, to see the other side. I was shocked to find our starboard side roughly three meters from the volcanic island, at the height of the 8th deck. Others were taking notice of this as well, and we presumed that we were actively being towed away from a potentially catastrophic collision. The distance to the sheer rock face became steady, but I returned to the port side nonetheless.
Mothers with young children were painstakingly shepherded towards lifeboats, but then there was a distinct lull in noticeable activity. After quite some time, the remaining women and children were led to the front stairway down to the inclined portion of the third deck. My mother went with them, and I stayed on the eighth deck with people whom staff selected for (relative) agility, though not exclusively males, as there were several teenage girls among us. Eventually, we were told to wet the electronic leads of our vests to turn their emergency lights on. Many of us were left with only spitting as a means of doing so. Over the course of more than half an hour, we slowly walked single file down five decks with only the lights of our vests lighting the way through darkness.
When I reached the hatch on the upwards side, military personnel firmly but carefully pushed me down a rope ladder, and I found myself in a duty-free boat. The atmosphere was defiantly upbeat, as at the time we were unaware of any casualties. I noticed the distinctive dreadlocks of a wonderful pair of Argentinian sisters that I'd met days earlier, and went to sit with one of them and her mother. The first thing they did was get the entire boat to sing me “happy birthday.” I could only grin like an idiot.
I am tremendously thankful for and amazed with the effective assistance of the Greek military, the cruise personnel, the crews of the other boats, and all of the other people who saw us out safely. My thoughts are--and will continue to be--with the Allain family.
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