Deadliest Sea (10 page)

J
ULIO
M
ORALES WAS ON THE NARROW DECK
in front of the wheelhouse, holding tight to the ship’s rail. He’d been scanning the ship for his cousins, Byron and Marco. Byron was assigned to a bunk room one deck lower than the one Marco and Julio shared with six other men. He hadn’t seen his cousin when he was in the wheelhouse, getting on his survival suit. But he spotted him now, about fifteen feet away, with a group of men leaning against the wheelhouse windows on the ship’s port side. He recognized him because of his hair. Byron had the hood up on his survival suit, but his shoulder-length hair was all over his face.

“Byron!” Julio yelled across the deck. “Put your hair in. Under the hood!”

Julio motioned along the seam of his own survival suit. If Byron went in the water, he wouldn’t be able to see.

“Tuck it in!” Julio yelled again.

Byron wasn’t listening. He looked scared. Julio was scared, too. They’d been shown how to put on the strange suits, but that was it. Now what were they supposed to do? They didn’t know
how to get off the boat or what to do once they were in the water. He didn’t want to let go of the boat to go help Byron. It wasn’t safe; the deck was too icy. He’d been told he should stay with his muster group on the starboard side of the upper deck.

B
ACK INSIDE THE WHEELHOUSE
, David Silveira was still locked on the radio, updating the Coast Guard and other FCA ships in the area, including the trawlers
Spirit
and
Warrior
. The
Warrior
was the closest—less than four hours away.

At 3:06
A.M
., Kodiak watchstander David Seidl radioed the foundering vessel again.

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA. Request you confirm that you have set off your EPIRB, over.”

“Roger,” Silveira answered, the EPIRB was transmitting. “We lost a rudder,” the first mate told Seidl. “That’s where the water was coming in.”

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA,” Seidl replied. “Understand you have set your EPIRB off, you lost your rudder, that’s where the flooding is coming in. Also be advised, the Coast Guard cutter
Munro
is en route with an ETA unknown at this time, over.”

“Roger, roger,” Silveira answered.

C
OAST
G
UARD
L
IEUTENANT
T
OMMY
W
ALLIN
was asleep in military billeting at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage when the phone rang, at exactly 3:00
A.M
. The operations center in Kodiak reported that a fishing boat was in trouble 140 miles west of Dutch Harbor. A 60 Jayhawk crew predeployed to St. Paul Island would be launching soon. The C-130 crew was needed to provide backup for that aircraft.

Wallin wrote down the position.

First introduced in the mid-1950s, the ninety-seven-foot-long Lockheed C-130 is a versatile aircraft that’s popular among militaries worldwide; the four-engine turboprop has been used as a gunship, for troop and supply transport, medical evacuation, and aerial firefighting. In 2008 the Coast Guard had thirty-three C-130s in service, five of them in Kodiak. The back of the plane is designed to adapt to the needs of the moment. Commercial-airplane-style seats can be installed to transport staff or the occasional television crew up for an Arctic awareness trip to check out the decaying state of the sea ice and report on the Coast Guard’s plans to expand into the ever-growing northern seas. A removable computer bank with high-powered cameras makes it possible for technicians on the plane to study vessels or debris in the water below on TV screens on board. It comes in handy for fisheries patrols, when the air crew are often trying to read the name on a ship’s stern, or to identify the gear on deck.

The rear of the plane opens up in a ramp to the ground, allowing the aircraft to fly a full-size SUV out to St. Paul, Attu, Cold Bay, or any of the more remote stations. Even the 65 Dolphin helicopter can be disassembled and transported in the Herc’s bay, though reassembling the little bird is a multiday chore that many mechanics dread. During search and rescue cases, the rear opening also allows the plane to drop rescue supplies to vessels—and people—in distress. The crew can “punch” a dewatering pump, a life raft, medical supplies, or a data marker buoy, an arrow-shaped orange float that broadcasts GPS coordinates and allows a rescue team to relocate an emergency site and to track the flow of debris with winds and currents.

The Herc is the Coast Guard’s workhorse for the “search” part of search and rescue. But despite all the plane’s capabilities, it can’t actually lift anyone out of the water. That’s a job for the
helicopters. When a casualty site is known, the C-130’s most important role is often flying cover for a helo crew. Usually the helicopter will be doing the work of dropping rafts, pumps, and supplies, and lifting any victims from a ship or from the ocean. The C-130 is there in case the helicopter gets into trouble. If the helo goes down, the plane will pinpoint the location and drop a raft.

It took just minutes for the seven-man C-130 crew to pack their bags and load into the van for the half-mile ride back to the aircraft. The plane’s engines were still warm from the flight from Kodiak, and the aircraft was already fueled. But with the rescue site almost a thousand miles away, the crew decided to add another several thousand pounds of fuel.

The Herc crew knew the Jayhawk helicopter should reach the scene close to an hour before they did. It sounded like a fairly standard case. Most likely the helo crew would be dropping the ship a pump. That was usually how this type of thing would go.

E
RIC
H
AYNES COULD HEAR THE
A
LASKA
R
ANGER
’
S
engines struggling. He was moving in and out of the wheelhouse, trying to help make room for more men to rotate through. “What’s going on?” “Are we going to be all right?” the crew was asking Eric.

“The Coast Guard knows our location,” Eric said, trying to reassure them.

Based on what he’d overheard, Eric said, it sounded like they’d be able to hold out. “The Coast Guard is on the way,” he told his crewmates. “And the
Alaska Warrior
is coming, too.”

The engines sounded like they were fully underwater. Someone said they’d lost steering. But there was still power. Eric could hear the ship’s officers talking about whether to shut down the
engines. It seemed like Captain Pete was against it. The captain was consulting mostly with the ship’s assistant engineer, Rodney Lundy. Rodney had been on the
Ranger
for more than a decade. The other two engineers, including Chief Dan Cook, were in their first season on the ship. Dan was still advocating for an immediate abandon ship. Eric got the impression that everyone was listening to Rodney instead.

At 3:11
A.M
., watchstander David Seidl radioed the ship once again. “
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA. Request to know how much fuel and what type of fuel you have aboard, over.”

In any marine casualty, the Coast Guard works with state and federal environmental authorities to document and monitor any environmental damage. Already, the Coasties were thinking ahead to the worst-case scenario.

“We have…roughly one hundred forty-five thousand gallons….” Silveira responded.

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA. Confirm one hundred forty-five thousand pounds of diesel, over.”

“One hundred forty-five thousand
gallons,
okay?” the first mate clarified.

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA. Understand. Nothing further. Talk to you in five mikes, over.” (The substitution of “mikes” for “minutes” is common in radio communication.)

A few minutes later, the ship’s lights began to flutter. “We’re going to lose them,” Eric heard one of the ship’s officers say. He stepped back out onto deck. The stern looked like it was completely underwater.

“We’re about to lose power,” Eric yelled to the men clustered around the rail. “The lights are going to go out. Don’t panic!”

It was 3:23
A.M
. when Silveira relayed the outage to COMMSTA Kodiak.

“COMMSTA Kodiak,
Alaska Ranger
.”

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA Kodiak, over.”

“Yeah, COMMSTA Kodiak,
Alaska Ranger.
We just lost all the lights.”

“
Alaska Ranger,
this is COMMSTA. Understand you have lost all your lights at this time, over.”

“Roger that,” Silveira answered. “We just got the emergency lights on right now, whatever flashlights we have.”

A few minutes later, the
Alaska Ranger
got an ETA to their position from the
Warrior:
6:30
A.M
.

O
UTSIDE, THE DECK WAS SLICK WITH ICE
, and waves were beginning to crest over the stern. It was spitting snow and blowing hard. The temperature was no more than 15°F and the black water that waited for the men a couple of stories down was guaranteed to feel much, much colder.

Processor David Hull was leaning against the wheelhouse window, the bow of the ship directly in front of him, when the
Alaska Ranger
went dark.

Oddly, the boat seemed to shift into reverse.

There was a stench of diesel smoke coming from the stern, where the Atka fishing gear was piled in massive mounds. Several men watched as a formidable wave crashed over the rear of the ship and retreated with the
Ranger
’s trawl net in its grasp.

“There goes our million-dollar net!” someone yelled as the huge woven mass spread like a puddle on the surface of the water, and started drifting up the ship’s starboard side.

Within seconds, the thirty-five-year-old trawler took a sudden, violent list to starboard. David felt the ground drop out from under him. He lunged for a rail and held tight as crew
members clinging to the metal beneath him gazed up in horror. Twenty-two-year-old steward Jeremy Freitag was right below David.

“Don’t let go, David! Don’t let go!” Jeremy yelled as two men slid straight down the narrow deck, through the open rails—and into the ocean. If David lost his grip, he would hurtle down the rail like a bowling ball, knocking Jeremy and half a dozen more men right off the edge.

Jeremy ground his feet into the metal floor and locked his arms to the rail.

“Hold on!” he yelled again at David.

It was pitch-black, the wind whipping across the exposed deck. After a few more seconds the boat seemed to shift upright a bit. Still, the list was at least 30 degrees. People were yelling, “Man in the water! Man in the water!”

Jesus, those guys went straight through the rail, Jeremy thought.

Everyone was talking at the same time. There was a plume of diesel smoke wafting forward from the stern deck. Jeremy heard someone yell, “Abandon ship.” He started thinking about a TV program he’d seen, about how people could get sucked down with a ship. If you were right next to the boat—or on deck—when it sank, the force might pull you under, too. I’ve got to get away from the boat, Jeremy thought. I need to get far away, as fast as possible.

David had his arms wrapped around the metal rail. He still had his computer bag slung around his body. Around him were several newer guys, among them thirty-one-year-old processor Alex Olivarez. David and Alex had been working together in the freezer all winter. Both men were from Washington State. A couple years before, Alex’s little brother had been murdered. It was a gang killing, still unsolved.

After his brother’s death, Alex had become deeply depressed. He was fired from his mill job. His mother was suffering, distraught over the loss of her son. For a couple years, Alex had been watching the reality show
Deadliest Catch.
Fishing would be a good way to make some fast cash, he thought. He could help his mother and maybe hire an investigator to find his brother’s killer.

“I don’t know how to swim!” Alex was yelling across the deck.

David saw the newer processor clinging to the rail. He looked terrified. The ship was still listed hard to starboard and draped in darkness.

“Alex, let’s pray together,” David said.

He knew Alex was religious.

“Yeah,” Alex said. He bowed his head. David and several other men nearby did the same. “Will you help us with this tragedy?” Alex said aloud. “We’re scared. We know some of us might die. Will you help us, God? Help us, and let the majority live.”

T
HE SUDDEN LIST HAD ALSO STARTLED
everyone inside the wheelhouse. Evan Holmes saw Captain Pete fall down against the carpeted floor as the ship took the sharp fall to starboard. The factory manager pulled him up, then helped the captain zip up the survival suit that was down around his waist.

“All right, Captain, we’re going now?” he asked Pete.

“Yeah. We’re going,” the captain answered.

Evan raced out to the starboard side of the wheelhouse deck to his assigned life raft, number three. Eric Haynes was right behind him. The raft was stored inside a white, barrel-like container mounted right up against the rail on the ship’s deck. The
Ranger
’s bow was elevated high above the water, as though a
huge weight was pressing down against the stern trawl deck. Tiny balls of icy snow stung Evan’s cheeks.

It felt like the ship could capsize at any moment.

First, he needed to tie the ninety-two-foot-long painter line that was attached to the raft to the ship’s rail, above where he’d earlier tied the Jacob’s Ladder. The list was so bad that Evan felt like he was being pushed up against the metal bars.

The full moon was breaking in and out of the clouds, but Evan could barely see anything.

Meanwhile, Eric Haynes felt along the metal strap holding the raft’s container shut. Eric couldn’t see anything either; his eyes were still adjusting from the sudden loss of the
Ranger
’s bright lights. Years ago, they had regularly reviewed how to launch the rafts, but now as Eric squinted at the ice-encrusted raft nestled in its cradle, he was drawing a blank.