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using Vanta to prove trust. Get started at Vanta.com slash calm. The North Atlantic wasn't

cooperating. It never cooperated. It swirling heaving waves sprawled to infinity in every direction.

An endless blue-gray highway tormenting the 102 men and women and children crammed into a tiny cargo ship that wasn't designed for passengers.

Sometimes the thunderous waves battering the timber hole would just let up long enough for the desperate or the foolish,

depending on who you ask, to scramble up to the main deck for a deep breath of fresh air.

For John Howland, a British man in his early 20s, the bracing wind and cold ocean spray against his face helped chase away the nausea, if only just for a few minutes.

He had to escape the windowless cramped belly of the ship where the stench of vomit hung in the stale air.

He wasn't a sailor. He was just a hired servant for one of the many dreamers

on board this rickety vessel. The ocean doesn't care about dreams. In a split second,

John Howland is plunged into a nightmare. A massive rogue wave smashes over the ship's railing,

sweeping John overboard into the frigid abyss.

He's gone, vanished into the deep.

And no one even notices it first.

In an era when most people can't swim and the ship can't just throw it in reverse. This is a death sentence. John thrashes in the

freezing water as lungs are burning with the ocean as the ship labors on without him. Then he glimpses

a rope in the water within reach. Instinctively, desperately, he snags it and clamps on with both fists.

The rope trailing behind the ship is one of the halyards, used to raise and lower the sail. It's his only hope. He clings for dear life, dragging through the pounding surf like a rag doll.

The saltwater scraping down his throat and burning his eyes, and finally, incredibly, crew members spot him, bobbing in the water.

...