Stranded On Santa | Astarta

By Day 5, Vasquez was showing early signs of hyponatremia: confusion, muscle cramps, a swollen tongue. She began recording voice notes into a dead phone, just to hear a human voice. On Day 8, a storm from the southeast threw debris onto the northern reef. Among the flotsam: a section of fiberglass hull, a shattered wooden pallet, and—miraculously—a 50-liter plastic water jug, unopened. It was from a Japanese long-liner, lost years ago. The water was brackish but potable after boiling and filtering through a cloth.

Vasquez wrote: "Day 19. I hallucinated a plane. Kai saw it too, but he's lying to keep me sane. We held hands and watched it for 20 minutes. Then it faded. There was never a plane. That's when I knew: the ocean is gaslighting us."

More hauntingly, the rescue team later discovered another set of remains on the far side of the island: a skeleton in a weathered life jacket, dated to 1987, with a water bottle and a notebook filled with indecipherable scrawl. The notebook's cover read "Capt. R. Alvarez, MV Santa Helena." stranded on santa astarta

Using the pallet wood and fiberglass shards, Kai built a fish trap in a tidal pool. They caught their first fish on Day 12: a small parrotfish. Raw. Gilled. They sobbed while eating it. Modern survival stories often focus on mechanics: water, fire, shelter. But the journals recovered from Santa Astarta reveal something more harrowing—the slow unraveling of the mind.

For two days, they drifted. Satellite phone? Destroyed by impact. EPIRB? Submerged in a flooded locker. On April 17, a rising swell pushed them toward a wall of jagged basalt. Vasquez made the call: abandon ship. They launched a 10-foot inflatable tender with a single paddle, 12 liters of water, a fishing kit, a waterproof bag of journals, and a broken VHF radio. Four hours later, they crawled onto a black sand beach on the leeward side of Santa Astarta. By Day 5, Vasquez was showing early signs

"We weren't tourists," Vasquez later wrote in her journal, recovered by a passing freighter. "We were scientists. That made the hubris cut deeper."

They developed rituals. Every morning, they would walk the length of the beach (exactly 847 paces) and carve a mark into a basalt pillar. Every evening, they would light a signal fire using dried ironwood and the ferro rod—a spark that could be seen for 30 miles, if anyone were looking. Among the flotsam: a section of fiberglass hull,

The disaster struck on the night of April 14. A rogue wave—estimated at 14 meters—broadsided the vessel 30 miles southwest of the island. The impact sheared the rudder post, cracked the fuel tank, and flooded the engine room. Within hours, Siren’s Call was a dead hulk adrift in the Humboldt Current.