2300 Hours
January – 1975
Seven Miles off the Oregon
Coast
South of the
Umpqua River Bar
The
gray afternoon passed into night with hardly a difference in hue as the clouds
and rolling ocean blended into one homogenous solution. The intensity of the swells
rose as the evening grew darker and the tired and battered hull of the Marc
Eagle slow rolled over the top of each wave plunging deep, in a helpless act of
desperation, into the trough beyond throwing out an explosion of foam and spray
that engulfed the wheelhouse. Again, and again, and again, the same motion
repeated itself. She moaned with each plunge, yet in spite of her age, in spite
of the ferocity nature chose to serve this day, she held her own against the
wind and the anger of a black sea.
Defiant, unaware of her own frailty, she
pressed on into the night towards the one haven she knew as home going on forty-five
years. Loaded in her hull was the best catch she had seen in years, enough to
actually pull a profit and tend to the more pressing concerns of her agedness. Heavy
laden, her distress magnified with each pounding of the heavy swells. With each
roll, she faltered ever so slightly and shipped more water. She held on against
the inevitable and carved her hull through the black surface defiantly deflecting
each blow the ocean threw at her like a bruised boxer during the final moments
of a fight- already defeated, but refusing to go down, spent with nothing left
in the legs, defiantly throwing a blind jab, unwilling to give up, unable to go
on against odds that were certain of defeat, she doggedly continued.
Jack Adair loved his Marc Eagle.
The life at sea she provided was the only life known to him, the only one he ever
wanted to know. His Marc Eagle served
him well. He married his bride on her deck some forty years past only to watch her
beauty devoured by cancer, what was it now, going on fifteen years. He raised a
daughter and a son, a good family, a good life, by himself mostly, but the Marc
Eagle was tired and so was he. Strong all his life, his body moved slower now
and he took much longer to recover from even routine workloads. The stamina
just wasn’t there no matter how hard he denied it.
Something was wrong, he had known for several
months now, but he refused to face what it might be, more afraid to know what
it was. It was as though his health and the Marc Eagle’s health blended into
one life, both of them feeling the effects of too many years of neglect and
hard work. Still a stout man standing five feet seven inches tall with broad but
sagging shoulders and arthritic, but still powerful callused hands, not only
was much of his once powerful physical prowess gone, his will to continue waned.
His wind and sunburned face, was etched with lines of fatigue and age, his piercing
brown eyes now hollow from lack of sleep, and his salt and pepper hair appeared
tossed and unkempt. He looked like the Marc Eagle.
Yet he pressed on. One more run,
one more good catch and they both could retire. Just one more was all they
needed. His Marc Eagle would not let him down, he knew her too well, been
through too much with her. She’d make it through the night, she’d seen worse
storms than this one, endured worse, and so had he. Never a religious man
himself he glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary secured to the console, a
remnant of the wishes of his late wife, and he said a silent prayer, crossing
himself for good measure just for insurance.
“Just one more time old girl, we’re almost
home, just one more…please just one,” he prayed half aloud as he gently patted
the statue.
The Marc Eagle shuttered for the
countless time under the onslaught of another brutal swell, one that pressed
hard across the port bow causing a sharp roll to starboard. She strained to
respond and the undeterred black sea flooded around the deck and into the
wheelhouse. Jack struggled to work the now heavy wheel and tried to edge the
throttles forward a bit to squeeze more power from the tired engines. There was
nothing extra for them to give. After hanging on the edge of capsizing, she
rolled ever so slowly back to port and settled low in the trough waiting for
the next swell, her engines and hull groaned as he straightened her course to
setup for the next swell which was already upon them.
The hatch to the wheelhouse burst
open and a man long and slim scurried inside fighting the wind to shove the
reluctant hatch closed. His time-darkened rain gear did little to keep him dry and
he was soaked to his sun browned skin and he shook his head of long gray hair wiping
the moisture from his troubled face.
“Ouch!” Bill grunted as he
bumped his head on the top of the hatch entrance.
“What’s
the verdict?” Jack quizzed him before he
could get fully settled.
“Jack I’ve known you for twenty
years and know you too well. You don’t really want to hear the verdict.”
“Humor me.”
“Okay then, here it is. We’ve
lost half the pods off the stern, the engine room is shipping water, both stabilizers
are bent, both engines are near collapse, and the refrigeration unit broke down
two days ago. The verdict is the Marc Eagle is not long for this world, and
neither are we if we stay out here much longer. The main bearings on the number
two engine are shot, they’re knocking as bad as your knees are and won’t last
another hour under this strain and number one, a wrist pin…ah, hell…don’t even
ask me about that…it’s even worse. You’re going to have to shut it down or lose
it. They’re both shot Jack, the Marc
Eagle is done. I told you we should have headed back in two days ago. She can’t
handle this load, not in this kind of weather.”
Before Jack could respond the wheel-house
door flew open again. Half blown inside, their crewman Pedro, stumbled inside and
half slipped with Bill grabbing him before he fell all the way down.
“Senior Jack…the Marc Eagle…not so good. It’s
bad, very bad.”
“No…not yet. Bill you are the
best mechanic in these parts, you know this boat better than anyone. She’ll
make it. She won’t let us down, we’ll be alright, those engines will hold.”
Bill shook his head not wanting to
argue with his good friend, but the lines of fatigue on his face were laced
with worry. Pedro cast another worried glance toward Bill then toward the
statue of Mary on the dash, crossing himself in the process.
“Jack, there ain’t nobody that knows more
about the sea and this old tub than you. We’ve been through more than any two
people ought to have survived, but we were younger, then. My heart’s not in it
no more. If we get through the night and some how make it home, I’m done, this
is my last run. You know as well as I do, this storm is gonna get worse, a lot
worse, and the odds of us making it through this…”
“We’ll layout to deeper water
and set an anchor line and ride out the storm before we lose the engines,” Jack
said with a swipe of his hand.
“Hell
Jack. You know as well as I do that no line is going to hold in this kind of
slop. It’ll pull lose or worse, snap clean off and we could roll upside down when
one of these nasty swells takes hold of us. We’ll never maintain our position out
here.”
“This may be the first time you were ever
right.” Jack said before pausing. “We’ll be outside the Umpqua River bar in about
an hour. We’re almost home. She’ll hold together for that long. We’ll be okay.”
"Tide is running out Jack…There’s
gotta be thirty-foot breakers busting across the bar by now with this storm. We’ll
never make it inside, not in this, not in the dark, you know that.”
“The engines will hold. We’ll
just ride the swells outside till light and the tide changes, then we’ll make
it across after it starts to settle down on the slack tide.”
Bill shook his head, “I hope
you’re right Jack, I hope you’re right.” He lifted the radio microphone from
the clip and handed to Jack. “Do us both a favor and call the Coast Guard Station
at Winchester Bay and let them know what’s going on. If not for me or yourself,
do it for Sharon and Nate.”
Jack hesitated casting his gaze
through the night and back toward Bill. He looked around the cabin of the
wheelhouse and could feel every groan and sensed every moan his once fine vessel
made. For the first time through many storms and trials he detected fear in Bill’s
eyes, and even worse, there was a fear inside of him as well like he had not felt
since the doctor told him his wife had cancer. It was a fear he never wanted to
experience again, but now it churned at his gut and he felt oh so tired, oh so
feeble. He cast his glace to the Mary
statue just before his vessel lunged to starboard again forcing him to fight
the wheel to keep her in line.
“Just one more time old girl, just
one more”, he whispered to her.
With a trembling hand he turned
the transmitter dial to a frequency monitored by the Coast Guard station. He
raised the microphone and pressed the transmit button.
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2330 Hours
U.S. Coast Guard
Station
Umpqua River
Winchester Bay,
Oregon
The darkened confines of the
COMM room at Station Umpqua River was illuminated with a mixture of soft orange
and pale green from the lights and dials glowing across the switchboard. Seaman
Mike Cunningham leaned back in his roller chair thumbing through the latest
edition of Popular Mechanics when the call came in causing him to almost flip
his chair over backwards when the speaker broke through the muffled hum. Not
expecting, not wanting to hear any kind of distress call on a night like this,
he reacted too quickly and pulled his legs forward too fast causing him to lose
his balance and with a disturbing crunch, he fell over backwards. After a loud
curse, he scrambled to his feet and fumbled for the microphone.
“Station Umpqua River this is the Marc Eag….”
Cunningham
dropped the microphone and turned up the volume all in one rehearsed motion. He took a few seconds to compose himself before
pressing the transmit switch.
“Vessel calling Umpqua River
Station comeback please.”
“Station Umpqua River…this… Marc Eagle…how… read.”
“Ah roger, I have you
now Marc Eagle. Jack is that you? What is the nature of your call?”
“Is Matthew Jacobs on duty? I need to talk to Ma…”
“Ah roger that Jack. Stand-by one.”
Before he could make the page
across the intercom system, Matthew Jacobs stepped into the COMM room. His stood
better than six foot two inches and carried his one hundred and ninety pounds
on an athletic frame. His longer than regulation dark brown hair was dripping
wet after he stepped in from the storm while checking out the mooring lines on
the stations two 44foot motor lifeboats. He was a strong, young man who carried
himself with confidence.
“What have we got, Cunny.”
“Sure glad you’re here. Not
sure…something is up though. It’s the Marc Eagle. It’s Jack Adair.”
Matt nodded with one motion and
reached for the microphone with another.
“Ah, Marc Eagle, station Umpqua
River. Is that you Jack?”
“Yeah, hey Matt. We’ve got a little problem out here.”
“What’s going on? Are you in any
kind of immediate danger?”
“No, no not just yet. We’re about an hour or so south of the bar and
both engines are struggling to stay up with this storm. We’re heavy laden and we need to…static…. across the bar…”
“He knows he can’t cross the bar
in this kind of weather.” Matt said to Cunny.
“Jack. A bar crossing is not going to be possible
tonight. The last report was Thirty-foot breakers running five layers deep
across the middle ground and south channel. Visibility is virtually zero. The
bar’s all locked up. You’ll have to ride it out or maybe set an anchor and ride
it out in deeper water until daylight?”
“Negative Matt. These engines aren’t going to make it that long. They’re
done, and an anchor line won’t hold out here, not in this, not with this wind
and swells.”
“All right Jack, roger that…stand-by
one.”
“Cunny, get Chief Adams on the
line and tell him what is going on. We may need him before this is over”.
Matt picked up the intercom mic
and broadcast across the station,
“Light off the 303, EN Dan Keane,
and Seaman Allen Brooks to the COMM room”.
There was a flurry of activity as crewmen stumbled
out of their quarters and began to mingle toward the COMM room, some still
dressed in skivvies, others tucking shirttails in or pulling boots on while they
walked. EN Dan Keane, a freckled faced, sandy haired mechanical genius stepped
in behind Matt.
“This better be good bud, because
I was five minutes away from dream heaven.”
“Forget your dream world for
tonight and light off the 303. Full survival gear. I’m right behind you. The
Marc Eagle needs to cross the bar.”
“You’re kidding, now, tonight in
this butt kicking storm!”
“I’ll explain it on the way out,
just go.”
Matt lifted the most current
weather report off the main desk. “Not good.” He mumbled. Behind him he heard
the outer door open and as he turned a husky built man wearing a too large ball
cap and heavy raincoat dripping wet step inside the office.
“Nathan. Hold up.”
“I was hoping to catch you Matt.
Dad’s overdue.”
“Yeah Nate I know, looks like they
are in for a rough ride, they are an hour south of the bar as we speak”.
“I told him not to go out. The
Marc Eagle isn’t fit to take on a storm like this one. That old man sometimes
is his own worst enemy. How bad is it.”
Matt paused before speaking. “Well, Nate, I won’t sugar coat it for you. You
know the score out there. We got thirty-foot breakers across the bar. The Marc Eagle
is floundering and it’s not good. It’s going to be rough, very rough…but…Jack’s
been there before. He’ll make in.”
Nathan removed his cap and shook
his wet hair. “I wish that old man would listen to me sometimes, he’s so bullheaded.”
“Maybe so, but I can’t talk now Nate.
Gotta get underway.”
Nathan replaced his cap and
placed his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Matt, be careful out there.”
Seaman Allen Brooks
trotted up to the COMM room as Dan came out.
“How long you been stationed
here Allen?” Dan asked him.
“What? I don’t know, two years I
guess.”
“Well buddy, you’re gonna earn
your keep tonight. Let’s go…we gotta go out.”
Allen grumbled as he fell in behind
Dan. When he stepped into the cold rain and wind, he rolled his collar higher
around his neck, “They never say anything about coming back though.”
Dan and Allen trotted across the
walkway leading to the boathouse where the stations two 44foot motor lifeboats,
the 44303 and the 44331, were housed. The wind and rain stung their faces as
they vainly tried to block the forces with their arms.
As Matt started to exit the COMM
room Chief Adams, who was shaking the rain off his coat, yelled at him from
down the hallway.
“What have we got Matt?”
“It’s the Marc Eagle. They’re
approaching the bar from the south with both engines in bad shape and they are
taking on water. Looks like they’ll need to make a crossing.”
“The Bar?”
“The tower last reported twenty
to thirty footers across the middle ground and south channel, five maybe six
layers deep, but that was a few hours ago.
It’s been socked in since and he can’t see anything now.”
“Tide?”
“Outbound…”
“Alright, give me an update once
you get on site. Bad timing for the 331 to be down. You’ll be on your own out
there.”
Matt nodded as he turned to
leave, then, stopped as the Chief grabbed his shoulder, “This is what we train
for Matt, no mistakes.”
He shot the Chief a half grin
and half nod before speaking. ”Piece of cake Chief.”
As Matt headed for the exit, a
large man dripping excess water off his jacket, stepped into the station.
“Hoke. I see you’re all wet as
usual,” Matt said looking up at him.
Hoke stared down with dark
piercing eyes and wiped excess moisture from
his beard and flipped his hand forward just enough to sling water into Matt’s
face. “Step aside.”
“I don’t have time to argue
Hoke. You step aside.”
Hoke expanded his massive chest
and glanced toward Nathan who flipped his head to one side silently telling
Hoke to move. He slowly twisted to his right barely making enough room for Matt
to pass. They brushed shoulders.
Chief Adams in a low voice asked
Nate, “What’s his problem?”
Nate snickered under his breath.
“He’s Hoke.”
"Why did you hire that guy and keep him around? He's nothing but trouble."
Nate shrugged his shoulders, "Don't know...seemed like a good thing to do at the time."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The twin Cummins diesels spoke
with their characteristic staccato rumble as Dan one by one fired them into
life. The starboard engine hesitated then stalled. He tried to restart it, but
it stalled again.
“Crap. What’s wrong with this
thing. It’s always lit off before.”
He pumped the primer, reset the
throttle, and tried again. Reluctantly, it fired to life and continued to run. “That’s
my girl…”
Allen disconnected all the mooring lines
except the bow line waiting for Matt to step aboard then he threw it on the
dock. Dan climbed out of the forward hold carrying two neoprene survival suits
for his crewmates, having climbed part way into his with the front full open.
Matt eased the throttles forward and a blast of wind-blown rain raked across the
bow and forward windshield and he switched on the wipers to full as he lifted
the microphone.
“Station Umpqua River…CG44303…underway.” Cunny marked it in the stations log.
The
bar was over a mile away and even though they were still within the confines of
the harbor they could feel the severity of the storm. Matt motioned to Dan to
take the wheel while he stepped into his survival suit. By the time they were
fully suited the 303 had turned south out of the harbor entrance and headed at
full throttle down the Umpqua River channel.
Under him the finest rescue boat in the world
rolled with the swells that migrated up river from the bar. His confidence in
the 44’s was resolute. They were indeed the best heavy water boats ever designed
capable of surviving a 360degree roll in heavy surf and still complete their mission.
They were tough, they were strong, and they were powerful, but they were not particularly
fast. The 44’s were a marvelous piece of engineering. In the hands of a trained
operator, they could plow their way through any surf conditions along this coastline
they were likely to meet, most likely anyway. Matt had been an instructor at the Heavy Water
A-school up at Cape Disappointment instructing younger less experienced crewmen
in the proper way of handling a surfboat. He had hundreds of SAR calls under
his belt, most routine, many difficult, some downright dangerous. In the back
of his mind he logged this one as ‘very
difficult.’
Within ten minutes the 303
entered the backside of the bar bracketed by three jetties: The North jetty
which curved outward a good 600 yards served to block the force of the northerly
seas and stabilize the north spit of sand dunes that lined the mouth of the
Umpqua River to create a relatively calm area on the shallow lee side.
The Training jetty forced the flow of the Umpqua
River toward the open ocean but only ran a few hundred yards before ending
about half way into the bar area. The South jetty angled across the south edge
of the mouth of the Umpqua for a good 500 yards and created a deep-water protected
area for the main entrance channel. The
end of the South jetty took the full brunt of what the Pacific threw against
the continent. Together they formed a
triangle fortress approximately a quarter mile across the outer ends. At its best it provided a marginal level of
safety. At its worst, it became a
hellish hole filled with unpredictable surges and breakers that would take the
soul from any unwary sailor who dared to defy its domain.
Even in the darkness, enough ambient
light filtered through as to highlight the crest of the breakers that were now
exploding across the full width of the bar.
Matt allowed the 303 to creep toward the middle ground. This close to the bar under these conditions
even the protected cove they hovered in was a grumbling mess of tossed swells
and wind. The 44’s even as the best
surfboats in the world, because of their rollover design, retained the floating
characteristics of a bathtub and they tended to roll and snap with the least
provocation. After a few hours, any crew returning to the harbor felt like they
had gone one round too many with the current heavy weight champion.
The forward windshield was
flooded with rain even with the wipers at full sweep. Matt cut back on the engines allowing them to
come to idle and the 303 snapped rolled left and right from the surge before he
turned the wheel to bring the bow into the swells. He switched on the spot light and pointed it
toward the bar its beam penetrating through the rain. What he saw dropped a lead
ball of fear into his gut. Never in all
of his tenure had the bar been so violent. The breakers rose in slow motion vomiting
foam from their crests before curling over and exploding with tons of force as
they collapsed with their characteristic “whoomph”. Behind the first layer of breakers rolled at
least five more layers one row collapsing into the other like a rolling
artillery barrage marching against an invisible enemy. The roar of the surf
drowned the howling wind which whipped from the tops of each breaker a veil of
blood red foam as the dark run off of the Umpqua River mixed with the deeper,
colder waters of the Pacific.
Matt shifted the beam toward the
black rocks of the south jetty maybe one hundred yards away. It barely cut into the night but he could see
explosions of swells rolling against it and over the top. The channel was all but closed as breakers rolled
in sequence to attack the end of the jetty.
At this tide level, the top of the jetty down to the water line was close
to fifteen feet. The breakers mugging the
black rocks on the end were a good ten to twelve feet higher as they broke
across the top to cover them with white wash.
“Marc Eagle…this is Coast Guard
44303…comeback.”
2350 Hours
Outside the Umpqua
River Bar
Jack Adair’s fatigue was greater
than anytime he could remember. Every bone, every joint, every muscle ached. The
weariness in his eyes threatened to rebel against him and his vision blurred.
In spite of the cold, sweat rolled down his face and the back of his shirt was damp
with perspiration. The Marc Eagle was still fighting, still trudging against
the meanness of an angry ocean. He glanced toward the helm and tried to focus
on the engine gauges but all he could see were blurred images of needles
inching toward the red lines. That was all he needed to know his engines were
reaching for their last gasp of life. He could feel their strain. He could hear
their agony. He could not allow them to rest, and the Marc Eagle was tossed
about on every swell like a broken stick. He turned toward Bill whose eyes were
closed. He had seen Bill sleep standing before, but how could he sleep now? Pedro
was huddled next to Bill eyes searching back and forth.
“Go ahead Matt…”
“Jack…what’s your location.”
“Just outside the number 2 buoy…two
hundred yards or so south…we’re on the edge of the break line…maybe two hundred
yards farther out. It's really nasty out here.”
“Okay Jack…now listen up…there’s no way to get across this bar. You’re
going to have set an anchor and ride it out. ”
“No, can do, Matt, we lost the
anchor ten minutes ago. Tried already. It didn’t hold, pulled loose, the line
broke when it snagged again, we almost capsized, and Matt, my engines are done
for. They won’t hold much longer. We’re taking on water. You either have to
come get us, or we’re going to have to make a run for it inside. If we don’t, we’ll
be on the bottom or worse on the jetty.”
“Ah roger…stand-by one.”
He switched the frequency and called
the Umpqua River lookout tower situated on the ridge that overlooked the bar
about a half mile behind them.
“Tower…303…can you see the bar.”
“Negative Matt. I’m socked in up here. But I did notice earlier
that the south channel tended to lay down for one or two series after each tenth
or so line of breakers came through, but that was a few hours ago. I can’t tell
what it’s doing now with the tide peaking. It was bad last time I could tell
anything.”
Matt doubled clicked the microphone
to acknowledge the transmission, then switched back to the civilian frequency.
This was a common event on this bar. Even when things got really bad, sometimes
the bar would lie down for a brief period before it started building again. The
commercial skippers were aware of this and used it regularly to sneak across
when the conditions were bad.
“Right now, I’d take bad over
this.” Matt mumbled under his breath. “Jack…this is the 303. We might have a
window. The channel might lay down just long enough for you to get across, and
it might not. We’ll standby inside and watch it. If there is a lay down pattern
it will be your only chance to get through. It will be risky at best, but it’s
your only chance to slip across so your timing will have to be right on.”
“We’ll take what ever we can get Matt.”
“Alright, stand-by one, we’ll
keep an eye on the channel and let you know.”
At half throttle the 303 inched forward
closer to the first layer of breakers and about a hundred feet from the south
jetty. The surge was so strong that the Dan and Allen had to hang on with both
hands to keep from being thrown across the cramped confines of the coxswains
flat.
“Good grief Matt, think you might
be close enough,” Dan jousted after one particular powerful surge threw him
against the bulkhead.
“You just keep an eye on that
channel.”
When large breakers form on the
bar and then collapse a distinctive explosive whoomph reverberated from
the force generated almost like the muffled sound of a distant explosion. Breaker
after breaker exploded against the south jetty and rolled across the channel
opening, six, seven, eight times with no lay down, nine, ten…then twelve. Matt desperately wanted to see a gap in the
series. The tide was at full peak by this hour and the bar simply would not lay
down.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jack’s fatigue was more than he
could take. His chest heavy with pain filled his mind with delusions. His arms
ached and legs could no longer support his weight. It was like his life and the
life of the Marc Eagle became as one and the storm sapped what soul remained.
He dropped to one knee and moaned, and the Marc Eagle began to flounder even more,
her bow shifting against the swells. Bill leaped from his corner where his
first instinct was to grab Jack and help him to his feet, but Jack pushed
against him, “You take her, just let me lie here.”
The Marc Eagle moaned and engine
number one, the starboard engine, sputtered, coughed, then seized as the water
level rose and flooded the area. Bill grabbed the wheel and tried to keep her
bow into the swells. The port engine began to clatter as the main bearings started
to fail and subsequent loss of oil pressure threatened a shut down as the
temperature gauge jumped across the red line. He reached for the radio. Pedro,
knelt beside Jack holding his head off the deck.
“Matt, this is Bill, we’ve had
it. We have to come across now. Jack is done half passed out and I’ve lost one
engine, I have no other choice.”
He didn’t wait for Matt’s reply.
With what was left of the port engine, he jammed the throttle full forward and
it protested with a sickening clattering shutter, but continued to run. He spun
the wheel to starboard and said a silent prayer…’No more after this...this is
the last time’.
“Bill, don’t try it. We’ll come to you…do you read…we’ll come to you.”
“No can do.” Bill said to himself. The swells
grew in intensity as the Marc Eagle approached the bar and she began to broach
as a trailing swell rolled under her from behind, but Bill corrected. Jack and
Pedro shot across the deck on their backs and slammed into the rear bulkhead as
the trawler rolled. Bill could do nothing to help.
“Stand firm, this could get ugly," Matt instructed his crew. "She’s not going to make it across. When
we go, we gotta work fast, no flinching, no hesitation. We can do this…we can do
this. Allen, look at me, we’ll never get a line on her once she’s in that slop.
We’ll have to pull them over to the 303. You are the man to do that. Dan will secure
you don’t worry about anything except getting those guy’s over here. I’ll worry
about the breakers. You guy’s do your job. I’ll do mine…got it. We’ll only have
a few seconds at best…maybe one or two tries, before we’re both on the rocks…”
They nodded and Matt moved the
303 to within fifty yards of the first line of breakers to a point where he
could view the path where the Marc Eagle would come across.
What do think Matt?” Dan shouted
above the roar of the surf.
“If anyone can pull this off, they
can. If they time it right and not get blind sided, they just might slip
through.”
Jack tried to hold onto the edge
of the bulkhead to keep from being tossed around but the fatigue and pain that
gripped his chest caused him to groan out loud. Pedro clung to a brass bar that
connected to the bulkhead. Bill swiveled
his head and the wheel in a choreographed motion trying to gauge the swells
while keeping the sluggish hull pointed toward the sliver of a chance they had
to get through.
He could see the end of the south jetty now just
50 yards off his starboard bow. They were right in the channel, right where they
needed to be. Then, for an instant, the bar flattened as if a hand simply pressed it down calming the surge and he saw the white hull
of the 303 on the other side riding close to the break line.
“Thank God, we’re going to make
it Bill, look, we’re almost through. There’s Matt…we’re going to mak….”
A wall of water rose from the black
depths and rolled toward them from the port side, one that reared its ugliness
as though a giant hand lifted it from the bowels of a liquid hell. The Marc
Eagle again broached as the stern sped up faster than the bow. Bill knew
instantly what would happen next and the air exited his lungs in a mournful sigh.
“Nooo.” The speed and power of the swell overtook them in seconds and there was
nothing he could do. Jack tucked his head and raised his arm to shield his face
from the collision. Bill looked at his good friend and spun the wheel in a vain
attempt to turn the Marc Eagle’s bow into the breaker. She would not respond
caught in the grip of the surge that doomed her. The breaker rolled to a crest thirty
feet above them lifting the rear of the hull half way up its face as it rolled over
the top. It hit with such force every window
on the bridge exploded inward their shattered remnants slicing into Bill’s forehead
and arms. The force threw him into the bulkhead and Jack along with Pedro
disappeared and spun around under the tons of water that boiled thru the
bridge. The Marc Eagle rolled onto her side. Her one remaining engine flooded, stalled.
The mast split and deck gear already loosened by the pounding broke free and
scattered across the surface and hung over the starboard side and she began to
flounder.
“Get out of there!” Matt yelled trying
to warn them with every ounce of his being to stop the inevitable. Everything happened in slow motion, the swell
rising, the hull rising on the face of the breaker, the collapse. Then the
force of the collision broke the Marc Eagle’s will to live and for a moment
Matt stared in disbelief as the floundering hull of his friend’s vessel began
to settle lower.
Dan yelled, “Come on man…We
gotta go Matt!”
“Stay with me guys…we’ve only got one chance
at this…”
At that Matt jammed both throttles
full forward and the 303 dug into the depths with its bulldog power. Within
seconds the first line of breakers was upon them and he cut back on the throttles,
turned the wheel to set up the bow, then jammed the throttles full forward
again. The 303’s bow climbed the breaking wall and punched through the top
becoming airborne arching forward like a dolphin. For two seconds they were weightless
until the bow plowed into the trough slamming the 303 like it had collided with
a solid wall. The impact knocked both Dan and Allen off their feet, but they staggered
back to stand.
“Where is she Dan…keep your eye’s on her…don’t
lose her…”
“She’s a hundred yards off the port bow…she
just took another breaker…she floundering Matt…almost on the rocks.”
“I can see that…Blast, I wish this boat had
more speed.”
Matt spun the wheel of the 303
and set up another breaker that was bearing down on them. Using throttles and
rudder, he allowed the 303 to roll across the top, but the breaker broke too
soon and collapsed across their starboard bow. The 303 rolled sharply a full 90
degrees entombed in a boiling icy grave. The cold water took the crew’s breath
away and created a chaotic sense of vertigo as the 303 tipped over past 90
degrees pushed back carried by the force of the breaker, then snapped rolled
upright again. He spun the wheel to starboard and jammed the throttles forward
to apply power to avoid being rolled. She spun on her own axis like a quarter
horse working cattle.
Another breaker raced toward
them and he had to cancel his intended move toward the Marc Eagle. With instinctive
precision born from years of training, he spun the 303 using the torque of the
engines, then, powered over the thirty-foot swell before it broke on top of
them. Their momentum caused them to become airborne again and the bow plunged
into the trough, the impact throwing tons of water to either side and taking
the breath from Matt as his head snapped forward. His helmet came loose and he
had to lift it off his forehead so he could once again see.
“Stand-by! One more turn! I’ll
pull along side…one chance is all we got…hold…hold…NOW!”
Matt spun the wheel to port rolling
over the top of a lesser swell and with perfect timing the stern of the 303 and
her starboard side fishtailed, exchanging white paint for rust against the floundering
hull of the Marc Eagle which sat low in the water only inches from flooding
under. Allen was already in the lower hull with Dan hanging onto his belt line
with one arm and the hand rail with the other. They could see the three men
inside the wheelhouse. Both were yelling
for Jack, Bill, and Pedro to climb aboard. The end of the south jetty was just thirty
yards from the Marc Eagle. Another breaker and both of them would be on the
rocks.
Bill lifted himself from the
tilting deck that was almost completely awash and tried to lift his friend, but
they both fell. Pedro, gripped with fear, would not let go of his hand hold. Jack stared into Bills face. “I can’t do it
Bill…I’ve got nothing left…”
“Old man, you know I can’t
leave you here. We have to go now! Matt is right there! Now get off your butt.”
Allen yelled at Matt, “They’ve
had it Matt, they’re not going to make it! I’ve got to cross over to help them!”
“NO!....You do not leave this
boat! You hear me! Hold on to him Dan.”
“No time to argue!” At those words he broke free from Dan’s hold
and leaped across the narrow gap onto the flooding deck of the Marc Eagle. Half
crawling half rolling he collided with Bill, then stood, fell again, stood a third
time and together they lifted Jack to his feet. Pedro crawled out from the
wheelhouse on all fours trying to gain his feet. Twelve feet was all that
separated them from the safety of the 303, twelve feet.
All of them shot a terror filled
glance upward as Matt yelled, “Breaker!” Another grotesque swell close to thirty feet
high rose from the depths and began to collapse toward them. Now Matt had no
choice. He had to pull away or risk putting the 303 on the rocks. He jammed the
throttles full reverse and spun the wheel to pivot backwards toward the approaching
breaker and away from the end of the jetty. This bought a few seconds of time
but positioned the 303 south of the jetty slightly outside the bar. He jammed
the throttles full forward and spun the wheel in the opposite direction to
swing into the swell. A loud clanging pierced the roar of the surf and the red
engine warning light on the dash screamed in protest.
The starboard engine stalled. Matt shoved the
throttles into neutral, and pressed the engine restart button, the engine fired
then sputtered again. There was no more time.
He jammed the port engine throttle full forward trying to use its torque
to turn into the breaker. It was not enough power by itself. The thirty-foot
swell caught the 303 and lifted her up the face of the wall then broke across the
port bow shoving them along with it. She began to lose her grip and broached to
one side then with the combined force of the breaker and gravity, she pitch-poled,
flipping end over end, slamming her superstructure upside down hard onto the surface
of the exploding bar.
Dan, exposed in the lower well, never had a
chance and was forcibly exploded clear into the black waters, his neck broken
and his body twisted. Everything went black…and Matt lost all points of
reference as the concussion from the impact blew out his ear drum and slammed
him forward into the panel his seatbelt snapping off its secured pins.
The Marc Eagle, lifted by the
same breaker, staggered as it jolted and tilted to a stop on the deadly pile of
rocks at the end of the jetty and the retching sound of broken spars and
shattered dreams were drowned by the exploding surf. The screams of Jack, Bill,
Pedro and Allen went unheard then silent as the remnants of a once noble
trawler collapsed into kindling and was dispersed as so much debris amongst the
rocks.
