Author's Note: This is a oneshot story that I came up for a community writing challenge. I think I bruised all my knuckles and dented my solid oak bookcase while writing this. I pray to God and everything Holy that this never comes true. *knocks on wood again* Constructive criticsms and reviews are most welcome and appreciated.
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Pointing the bow into the raging storm, Captain Sig Hansen growled to himself as waves and wind tried to capsize the heavily laden fishing vessel. The weather forecasts had been beautiful and the Norwegian skipper decided to place his bets on luck and chance this King crab season and head out with a full load of pots. Now, in a mad scramble to collect the rest of his pots before the season officially closed, Sig was in a temper as foul as the weather.
"C'mon! Give me your best shot, I fucking dare you!" His crew worked non-stop in their foolhardy dash to avoid the steep fines the Fish and Game doled out to those unlucky enough to have gear still in the water after the deadline passed.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Sig noticed too late a wave sneaking up behind the vessel and laid heavily on the launch buzzer as the rouge wave reared up to engulf the Northwestern's stern. Cracking his head on the window next to him, he struggled to right his floundering boat and keep his crew alive. Alarms mingled with the ringing in his ears and worsened the headache already beginning to form behind his right temple.
Fighting against the heavy stack and pummeling waves, the skipper grabbed his radio and yelled the one word that haunted every skipper's dreams: "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is the fishing vessel Northwestern; we took a rouge wave over the port stern. We are heavy with crab and pots. We are taking on water. Immediate assistance required! I repeat this is the fishing vessel Northwestern! We are dead in the water and going down! There are six men aboard, I repeat, six men aboard!" Pulling himself away from the controls, he dug out a survival suit and pulled it on. Before he zipped it up completely, he yelled out through the loudhailer at the crew he prayed was still aboard.
"Get your survival suits on, meet me out on the wheelhouse deck, and get tied together. We're abandoning ship." Slamming the handset back up onto the overhead console, he looked around his wheelhouse with a breaking heart. He grabbed the picture of his wife and kids and, kissing their faces, he stuffed the picture into the front of his survival suit before zipping it the rest of the way and securing the hood and face flap. Turning as he heard footsteps coming up the wheelhouse stairs, his heart dropped when he saw that two of his men were missing and the agony of their loss echoed in the three remaining men's eyes further broke Sig down.
Pull it together, Sig. You can mourn Matt and Nick later, after you get yourself, Norman, Edgar, and Jake out of this mess you made, he thought bitterly to himself. Tying the remainder of his crew together, he led the way out onto the wheelhouse deck and the four men swam to put distance between their sinking home and themselves. Sig watched as the Northwestern's lights flickered and finally the ocean went dark; blackness surrounded the men, briefly illuminated by flashes of lighting in which Sig could see his fear and despair echoed in their faces.
Time seemed to drag on and eventually disappear, rapidly followed by the hope of rescue. Dawn's first light broke through the dying storm and the sounds of a rescue chopper hovering overhead pulled the hypothermic skipper from his semi-conscious doze. His eyes fluttered open as he felt the lifeline tying him to his three crewmen tugged against his waist and firm hands hauled him into a waiting basket.
Inside the helicopter's cabin, Sig limply allowed the Coast Guard crew pull the survival suit from his tired and battered body, clinging to the thick blanket draped over his shoulders tighter than his grip on life. He was barely aware of his brothers and Jake being hauled aboard; they were nearly to Dutch Harbor before he noticed the sad silence surrounding him and the three sheet covered bodies next to him.
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Kneeling in the icy snow at the foot of three fresh graves, he bowed his head and sobbed in anguish. The dark soil covering his two brothers and crewman were the cruel reminders of the frailty of life and the folly of man; the three graven headstones a cold reminder of an icy truth: one does not place a dare on the Bearing Sea without paying her a costly price, a price dear to a man's heart and soul. A debt Sig Hansen paid with life and blood.
Copyright Alissa Franko 2009