It's September the 22nd, 2018.

Hurricane Force winds churned the cold, wild waters of the southern Indian Ocean.

Slate grey swirls, streaked with icy veins of white foam,

heap up 30 feet and collapse in blasts of freezing spray.

Sailors call these confused seas, when the wind blows from different directions, causing the waves to slam together, creating a frenzied mass of water.

Amid the maelstrom, a sailboat plunges into the deep trough behind a breaking wave.

She is a tiny, turquoise speck against the ocean's dark expanse, a scrap of flotsam, twisting in the surf.

As water engulfs the deck, only the mizzenmast is very clear. A scrap of flotsam twisting in the surf.

As water engulfs the deck, only the mizzen mast is visible, a vertical 30-foot spar,

bobbing and swaying above the turmoil.

And clinging to the very top of the mizzen, desperately holding on is 39-year-old Abelash Tome.

We had waves of 10, 15 meters from the northwest.

Waves of 10, 15 meters from the southwest.

It was very crazy.

It looked like God was trying to invent the Earth all over again.

Abelash hugs the mast and squints down through the lashing spray.

An enormous drop separates him from the deck.

Suffering an injury out here in one of the most remote stretches of ocean on the planet would be catastrophic.

The wind screams in Abelash's ears as he tries to adjust his feet, the mast flexes and bends.

With trembling hands, he gingerly begins to lower himself, which is when his foot slips, his grip

is lost, and he falls.

And that's how it happened.

...