"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters..." Psalms 107:23
44 N, 56.4 W - The Andrea Gail's last known coordinates..
The Andrea Gail was taking on water like a kid's bathtub play boat when a child holds the toy under. The final wave, towering a staggering fifty feet, or more, had done her in. She hurtled down to the sea's black, roiling depths, a one way trip. The ship and what was left of her crew, about to be lost, never to be seen nor heard from again.
Sobbing like a baby, Sully, with his back molded to the hold of the ship, stared into death's merciless face. Crippling sadness battered him as he faced the inevitable. His end was near after having lived through a summer, barely surviving financially. A roustabout in need of cash, Sully was always searching. His was a never-ending story of trying to find a good job that would make him some real money instead of working for peanuts. He was a man who spent money no sooner had he earned it. Repairing fishing nets, filling in as a handyman at various spots around town, working as a part-time car mechanic in the shop of a friend had paid chicken feed. It had all been grunt work.
But this, this payback was oh, so unfair! In the end, he was just another sucker never catching a break. Instead of that 'slammer,' he was getting slammed, about to become one of so many millions lost at sea.
Relentlessly, seawater swirled higher and higher, terrifying him. There'd be no proper grave for him. Who'd mourn him? If he had it to do over again, he'd know better. There would have been no sailing out of Gloucester Harbor for this landlubber, who should've stayed ashore where he belonged.
He'd be alive, but now...his life would soon be over.
There'd been another reason why he'd chosen to go with Billy. Had it been he'd wanted to get under Murph's skin? Rub Dale Murphy's nose in Debra's leaving her husband for Sully? Deb and Scully, the on-again, off-again subject of town gossip. Murph had constantly seen red, never missing an opportunity to call Sully out on it. Yes, getting Murph's goat had played a part in Sully's motivation for coming aboard the Andrea Gail once he'd learned Murph had kept his site.
Billy hadn't told him Murph's business; Bugsy had spilled the beans.
No lover of the sea, Sully hated the smell of fish; drove him up the wall. A 'slammer' meant there'd be plenty of money, enough to last him at least into December. On this charter, he'd learned even more about the tough, dangerous work that sword fishing entailed. It was no work for wimps.
Dreading the inevitable, Sully glanced above where he stood, shuddering. No more did the shrieking wind howl. There was only the unrelenting sound of rushing water, hastening to snuff out his life. He was in a box, up to his nostrils in oily, fishy water. Suffocation was moments away.
The temptest-tossed waters of the Atlantic mirrored Sully's tempestuous life. His briny eyes, filled with tears rounded in horror as death closed in. His final moments were upon him and he reflected a last time. He'd never been the pride of his family. He'd left home young; had never looked back. Had never wanted a family of his own, preferring to be a man who lived life on his own terms.
Again, he thought how cruel this was! They'd made a killing in the Flemish Cap, after they'd fished the life out of the Grand Banks. Billy had wanted that 'slammer' so much, he could taste it. Their dreams ruined, they only had untimely deaths to show for all they'd gone through.
Water inched higher, ever higher. His last thoughts clouded. Oddly, he recalled the day he and Murph had made peace on deck. How Murph had called him, "tough guy." Sully had given the beefy, stubborn man, with a heart of gold,' a goofy smile. It had been his own brand of burying the hatchet, and not in Murph's back. What if they might have made peace earlier in the turnaround? That would have made life aboard the Andrea Gale a lot easier for themselves and the rest of the crew. Billy would have rejoiced since both men were his good friends. Those times he'd had to get in-between them before they killed each other, he'd hated it.
Time, running out quickly for him, Sully pondered. How many of them were still alive? Was Murphy dead? Alfred Pierre? Bugsy? Bobby?
Had Billy already drowned? Sully's own fateful words came back to haunt him. His gutsy sentiments meant nothing now...
"We're Gloucester men..."
Which had implied what? They were indestructible? Tougher than nails, and stronger than an angry sea? That it was unthinkable their names should ever be added to that infamous wall of pain in the Fishermen's Memorial museum in town, where the Man At The Wheel reminded visitors of all those unfortunate sailors swallowed up by monstrous tides?
He'd crumpled up the weather report Billy had handed him on deck, had tossed it over the side. One and all, they'd basked in the bright, warm sunshine that day before they'd sailed into the 'belly of the monster' not long after.
Did the perfect storm care where they'd come from? The 'storm of the century,' a meteorologist's wonder of wonders, was this sailor's nightmare.
His thoughts tangled...he couldn't die like this, not like this. Many, so many, fishermen had died just like this. He wasn't a true fisherman, not like they once had been. No. He was just some cocky landlubber. He wasn't even much of a swimmer, born and raised in this part of Massachusetts where the fishing industry thrived.
He was a big-talking loser, his future canceled, whimpering in the dark in the wrong place, at the worst time possible.
His unborn child would never know his, or her father. At the Crow's Nest, Debra had called. She didn't know why she hadn't told him at her house, perhaps dreading his reaction. But, she'd made the choice and had told him over the phone, right before he shipped out. She'd had a bad feeling that she might never get the chance to if she hadn't told him then. She was pregnant. The baby was Scully's. Dale Jr., her and Murph's beloved son, was going to be a stepbrother.
Feeling gut-punched, Sully broke down, thinking what he'd never have. Deb would likely show the kid a photo. That would be that. The child would never know his dad's pussycat smile, his easy laughter, his quirky sense of humor. Or, how much he loved his Star Wars.
The Force isn't with me today, he sadly thought, sighing his last few breaths.
From the moment she'd told him, Sully wanted their baby. He would have made a grand dad, the grandest for...
His baby, his legacy...
"Debra, Debra..." he sobbed, wincing, the end so near. "I really loved you. I was crazy, like you said, but I never lied. You are the woman for me." She had never minded his shortcomings, as he'd brazenly told Murph. Debra saw him for what he was, and what he told her he would be, for her...a man deeply in love with her.
Frenzied, Sully gasped. Icy, inky, water rushed in, smothering him like a blanket. Only a few seconds remained before the ocean killed him. He stared into black nothingness, then slammed his eyes shut. Deprived of air, he breathed in the salty Atlantic as it claimed its woebegone victim.
The Andrea Gail and her crew, alas, was no more.