Stimpson doesn't know it, but Bylander tapes her passport to her stomach so her body can be identified. Both women, at this point, are prepared to die. After Stimpson finishes writing her goodbyes, she tells Leonard that it's time to issue a mayday. Mayday comes from the French venez m'aider— come help me!—and essentially means that those on board have given up all hope. It's up to someone else to save them. Leonard is motionless on his berth. Okay, he says. Stimpson forces her way out to the cockpit and Bylander sits down at the nav table to see if she can coax the VHF back to life.
At 11:15 PM, October 29th, a freighter off Long Island picks up a woman's terrified voice on the VHF: This is the Satori, the Satori, 39:49 north and 69:52 west, we are three people, this is a mayday. If anyone can hear us, please pass our position on to the Coast Guard. Repeat, this is a mayday, if anyone can hear us, pass our position on to the Coast Guard. . .
The freighter, the Gold Bond Conveyor, relays the message to Coast Guard operations in Boston, which in turn contacts the Coast Guard cutter Tamaroa in Provincetown Harbor. The Tamaroa has just come off Georges Bank, where she was conducting spot checks on the fishing fleet, and now she's waiting out the weather inside Cape Cod's huge flexed arm. A small Falcon jet scrambles from Air Station Cape Cod and the Tamaroa, 1,600 tons and 205 feet, weighs anchor at midnight and heads down the throat of the storm.
The crew of the Satori have no way of knowing whether the radio is working, they just have to keep repeating the mayday and hope for the best. And even if the radio is working, they still have to be within two or three miles of another vessel for the signal to be heard. That's a lot to ask for on a night like this. Bylander, wedged behind the nav table, broadcasts their name and position intermittently for half an hour without any response at all; they're alone out there, as far as she can tell. She keeps trying—what else is there to do?—and Stimpson goes back on deck to try to keep the Satori pointed into the seas. She's not there long when she hears the sound of an airplane fading in and out through the roar of the storm. She looks around frantically in the darkness, and a minute later a Falcon jet, flying low under the cloud cover, shrieks overhead and raises Bylander on the VHF. "Sue was so excited she was giddy," Stimpson says, "but I wasn't. I remember not feeling elated or relieved so much as like, instantly, I'd rejoined the world of the living."
The Falcon pilot circles just below cloud level and discusses what to do next over the VHF with Bylander. The Tamaroa won't be there for another twelve hours, and they've got to keep the boat afloat until then, even if that means burning out the engine. They can't afford to risk any more knockdowns. Bylander, against Leonard's wishes, finally toggles the starter switch, and to her amazement it turns over. With the storm jib up and the prop turning away they can now get a few degrees to the weather. It's not a lot, but it's enough to keep from getting broached by the seas.
Throughout the night the Falcon pilot flies over them, reassuring Bylander that they're going to come out of this alive. Stimpson stays at the helm and Leonard lies on his bunk contemplating the impending loss of his boat. When the Tamaroa arrives he'll have to abandon ship, which is an almost unthinkable act for a captain. The Satori is his home, his life, and if he allows himself to be taken off by the Coast Guard he'll probably never see her again. Not intact, anyway. At some point that night, lying on his bunk waiting for dawn, Ray Leonard decides he won't get off the boat. The women can leave if they want to, but he'll see the vessel into port.