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The book began not with the Baileys but with a pandemic research detour. In 2020, while reporting a piece about people escaping land to live on water, Elmhirst found a website devoted to castaway stories. Nearly every image on it showed a lone man. One did not.
Among all these photographs of grizzled-looking men, there was a picture of a man and a woman, and she caught my eye. I wanted to know what happened to them.
The Baileys’ 1973 rescue had generated real press coverage at the time. Finding almost no trace of them in popular memory fifty years later was, for Elmhirst, the first sign she had a book rather than a feature.
I couldn’t believe, when I came across the story, that it wasn’t in common legend or the collective consciousness. It just seems strange to me that their story had been so forgotten.
The survival facts were already on the record: the couple had published their own memoir in 1974. What the memoir could not answer, and what kept pulling Elmhirst forward, was the relational pressure the crisis put on two people who had chosen to be alone together in the middle of the Pacific.
I immediately started thinking: what would it be like not just to go through that, but to go through it with your partner, with your spouse? That was my way in — wanting to understand that.
The archive had one unexpected piece that changed the scale of what she could write. Maurice Bailey had self-published letters in old age, after Maralyn died. Almost no one had read them. They gave Elmhirst something rare in narrative nonfiction: a subject’s own ruthless accounting of his failures.
I felt like he gave me huge access to the inside of his mind and his assessment of himself — a damning assessment, quite a lot of the time. So I felt like I did have a lot to go on, as well as the memories of people who knew them and traveled with them.
Maralyn Bailey kept a diary on the raft. Elmhirst had access to it, but it did not behave like a confessional document. Its value turned out to lie elsewhere, in details that were not clearly about survival at all.
They don’t necessarily give you what you hope diaries will give you, which is that great insight into the sort of heart and soul and mind of someone. But their limitations were also their strength. I loved all of the extraneous stuff that was in them that I felt like was very reflective of Maralyn as a person — the drawings that she does, the menus that she writes out, the plans that she’s always making, the references she makes, things she misses. I guess it’s seeing a mind at work, actually.
Working with historical fragments meant accepting that the archive would never be complete. Elmhirst compiled everything she had into a single long document and wrote around it, but the shape of the book depended on what she chose to leave out.
A lot of that was omission; not including things and trying not to be distracted by too many things.
She describes the process of reconstruction this way: “You don’t find it as a perfect crystal vase. You find shards, and you have to fit them together.” The fitting, she says, happened in revision.
The most consequential decision was whether to write Maurice and Maralyn’s inner lives directly, without hedging qualifiers. Elmhirst reads more fiction than nonfiction and wanted the book to work the way good fiction works. Her editor gave her permission to commit to that choice fully, and she did, knowing it would draw objections from purists.
This was a stylistic choice. It was being given the confidence by my editor to do it in a certain way — to write that interiority... You’re not saying anything that didn’t happen, but you’re doing it in a mode where you’re seeing it through the characters’ eyes. I’m sure there would be purists who would say that I pushed that maybe a bit too far, but I felt like I had enough to go on.
Committing to interior point-of-view meant crossing a line she had not crossed before. She had been a reader of narrative nonfiction for years, but writing it herself, and writing it this way, felt genuinely disorienting at first.
I knew it would require a leap of faith for me as a writer even though the nonfiction novel, or narrative nonfiction, or whatever you want it to call it, is hardly a new form. I’m a longtime fan of it as a reader, but new to it as a writer, and it felt distinctly odd at first and dangerously (and thrillingly) close to that wavering boundary between fiction and nonfiction.
Maurice refused to bring a radio on the voyage. He wanted the ocean entirely to himself and his wife, uncontacted by the rest of the world. Elmhirst tracks the logic of that choice through to its consequences and finds a structural irony at the center of the whole story.
What prompted their journey, at least for Maurice in large part, was a kind of isolationism, of wanting to be separate and away from people. But then, ironically, what saved them were people coming to their aid — being connected to other people and to each other. There is a deep and intrinsic value to those human relationships, those connections and dependencies. You leave those or loosen those at your peril.
Maralyn’s survival on the raft did not depend on physical toughness alone. Elmhirst watched her write dinner party menus, plan elaborate baking, and draft pages of cakes she intended to make when she got home. What looked like fantasy was, in Elmhirst’s reading, a psychological technology for staying alive.
I think what struck me about her so much was the force of her imagination, what she had to conjure in order to sort of believe in the possibility of a future beyond floating around the Pacific on this life raft.
The raft is the extreme version. But Elmhirst is also interested in the ordinary version, the version every couple recognises, even if no whale has ever struck their boat.
The best stories are ones that are highly specific and, in this case, very extreme, but that have some universal resonance. We all know what it is to hit crunch points or to have to face crises with a partner, or with a friend, or a significant other, and what that does to a relationship, what that does to you as an individual, what it reveals to you about yourself, but also about that other person.
The book ends, but the question it asks does not. Elmhirst has spent years with two people who chose each other and then were stripped of every other choice. What she wants readers to carry out of that experience is not admiration for the Baileys’ toughness but something more uncomfortable: a reckoning with their own dependencies.
There is a deep and intrinsic value to those human relationships, those connections and dependencies. You leave those or loosen those at your peril.
Maralyn’s raft diary is full of menus for meals she had not eaten in months. At one level this reads as desperate longing. Elmhirst reads it as something more active: a deliberate construction of a future self who would one day sit at a table and eat again.
I think what struck me about her so much was the force of her imagination, what she had to conjure in order to sort of believe in the possibility of a future beyond floating around the Pacific on this life raft.
Elmhirst wrote a book about an extreme event, but she is not interested in extremity as spectacle. The Baileys’ four months on a life raft in the Pacific mattered to her because of what that pressure made visible about two ordinary people who had decided to stake their lives on each other.
The best stories are ones that are highly specific and, in this case, very extreme, but that have some universal resonance. We all know what it is to hit crunch points or to have to face crises with a partner, or with a friend, or a significant other, and what that does to a relationship, what that does to you as an individual, what it reveals to you about yourself, but also about that other person.