As the Bertha Mae passed the breakwater into the open sea, the placid waters of the harbor turned turbulent. But for twelve-year old Ryan Crabtree, who clung to the rail at the bow of the fishing boat, the heavy seas only added to the thrill. He had never been deep sea fishing before and looked forward to reeling in a large Bonita or Yellow Tail.
“All passengers below,” bellowed the captain of the boat.
His father came up beside him. “This is a two-day trip, Ryan. I want us to have a good time, but I also want us to be safe. The captain’s word is law. Let’s get below. It’s dark now and if you were to fall overboard, we might never find you.”
Ryan followed his father down the stairway to the bunkroom. “Try to get some sleep,” his father told him. “It will be a long day tomorrow.”
In his excitement Ryan found sleep elusive. But in time the steady drone of the boat’s engine helped accomplish the task and he was gone to the world.
Before he knew it the engine conspicuously stopped. Awakened by the quiet, he rolled from his bunk and clamored up the stairway. The sun just rising above the waters in the eastern sky as he came topside. He sucked in great gulps of the sweet, salty sea air and scanned the horizon full circle. No land was visible in any direction.
“Good morning, son,” called his father. “Let’s do some fishing.”
He showed Ryan how to attach the bait to the hook and how to sling his fishing line into the water. Almost immediately Ryan felt the tug of a fish. Refusing all offers of help, he clung to his fishing pole and laboriously reeled in his struggling prey. As his quarry was brought nearer, he caught glimpses of the fish lashing crazily back and forth in the water, trying to escape the hook. Finally, he landed a beautiful Bonita. The other fishermen cheered as the fish flopped on the deck, the first catch of the day. Ryan found himself unable to suppress the huge smile that came across his face.
“Congratulations, son,” said his father. This will be some good eating.”
Stopping only to eat in snatches, Ryan fished the entire day, catching three more Bonita and a Barracuda, the best haul of anyone on the ship. “You’ve got the magic touch, young man,” said one of the other fishermen.
As dusk descended, the wind and the surf began to kick up. A biting chill crept into the air. Worried eyes peered northward at gathering nimbus clouds, behind which the waning sun was hidden. As the ominous dark clouds approached, the seas grew increasingly agitated.
“Everyone below-decks,” ordered the captain. “I am sorry people, but we’re going to have to cut short our fishing trip. The Bertha Mae is heading for port.”
It was time for dinner anyway, and Ryan was both worn-out and hungry from fishing all day. After a fine fish dinner, he remained for a time in the galley, listening to tall tales from the other fishermen until his eyes began to droop. He climbed into his bunk.
“Good job today,” said his father. “I am proud of you. Please understand something. This is a big storm and the captain gave strict orders that everyone is to remain below. You must stay here in your bunk. Do you understand?”
“But why can’t I go up and see the storm?”
“Because it’s too dangerous.” His father looked at him sternly. “Can I trust you?”
Ryan nodded. With that his father climbed into his own bunk.
Even in his weariness Ryan again found it difficult to sleep. The boat was pitching violently from bow to stern, and from starboard to port. The engine made a terrible racket and the boat shook when the propellers leaped out of the water at the crest of a swell. Then too, there was the enticement of the forbidden. Something inside made him want to do the forbidden. Why can’t I go up and see the storm?
Despite the recurrent jarring roar of the motor and the pitching of the boat, Ryan finally drifted off. Hours passed. The seas became increasingly rough until finally a great pitch heaved him from his bunk. As he struggled to his feet, he suddenly felt sick from the stifling air below-decks. Some of the men had lost their dinner during the night, causing his stomach to wretch. He felt like he too might throw up if he didn’t get fresh air immediately.
And just like that Ryan forgot his promise to his father. Stealthily he crept up the stairway and opened the hatch, closing it quickly behind him. Immediately he felt a huge sense of relief in the fresh air. He peered up to the bridge to see a worried captain at the helm in the dim light. Rain was pounding relentlessly in sheets, mixing with the ocean water that constantly crashed over the deck. Taking pains to remain out of the captain’s view, he made his way to the stern of the boat. His hands clung hard to the rail as the boat pitched in the furious seas. This is so cool, he thought.
Suddenly, the bow tilted upward above a mountainous swell. As it plunged a huge wall of water cascaded from bow to stern, slamming into Ryan from behind. In an instant he was swept overboard.
Down he sank into the depths, turning underwater somersaults until he had no idea which way was up in the murky blackness. He remembered something he had been taught when he was learning to swim. If you are disoriented under water, follow the bubbles to the surface. Or if you cannot see bubbles in the darkness, then allow your body to naturally float to the surface. Fighting panic, he forced himself to wait.
Finally, when he thought his lungs were about to burst, he broke the surface. He gasped for air and then went full circle, looking for the Bertha Mae.
“Help! Help!” he cried, but his shouts were muffled by the howl of the winds. The sound of the engine, which had been deafening in the bunkroom, faded into the distance as the dim light of the bridge disappeared into the swirling frenzy. Ryan found himself alone in the cold dark waters of the tempestuous sea. He knew that he was a good swimmer. The boat was heading for land. He wished for the dawn. Maybe with the coming of dawn I will sight land, hopefully near enough for me to reach.
For what seemed hours Ryan treaded water in gradually lessening swells as the storm abated. The moon emerged silvery from behind the receding clouds, shining shimmery on the waters below. But the cold was taking its toll, sapping his strength. He wondered how much longer he would last.
The first hint of dawn finally emerged in the eastern sky. Knowing that east was the direction of land, he gazed toward the faint light for any hint of hope. Nothing.
His throat cried for water. He remembered the long poem Mrs. Jenkins had made the students read in his seventh-grade classroom at school.
Water, water, everywhere,
And
all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.*
His stomach growled for food. His arms and his legs were numb, both from fatigue and from the relentless cold. Again, he scanned the horizon in every direction. No land, no ship, no plane, no life preserver, no hope of rescue anywhere in sight.
He began to despair, wondering how much longer he could tread water. His arms were so tired. All feeling in his legs was lost—except for the cold. Even if he did spot land, at this point he knew that he had no strength to reach it. Soon he would surrender. Soon he would submit to the inevitable and have done with his misery.
If only I had obeyed my father. I would be home by now. I would be warm and safe. I would be eating hot food and showing my family the fish I caught.
Despite his twelve years he began to cry. For him there would be no more cheers from the stands when he ran for a touchdown. There would be no more Thanksgivings, with all his family. No more stories from grandpa Clyde, no more Christmases; no tree, no gifts, no Christmas vacation; no carols. Neither did he think that he would go to heaven—for he was in his dismal situation because he had disobeyed.
He cried out to his mother. She had always cared for him when he was sick. She had always cleaned and bandaged his skinned knees. She had always comforted him after he had fumbled the football or struck out. But this time he had “fumbled” big time—and his mother wasn’t coming. He was alone—so very alone in the cold, cruel sea.
A faint sound came to his ears. He trained his salt burned eyes to the east, from where he perceived to have heard it. There in the distance was a faint speck in the sky. Gradually the speck enlarged. His hopes soared. Maybe he would live after all. Maybe he would return home to his family. Maybe there would still be Christmas. The speck continued to loom larger until the identification was unmistakable. It was a helicopter!
Suddenly, to his horror he saw the tale-tell fins of two sharks circling nearby! Panic seized him. He tried to lift his leaden limbs to wave to the helicopter, but they would not respond. Yet miraculously the helicopter came straight toward him until it hovered some forty feet above. A line was thrown down to him with a flotation ring on the end of it. Two men from above motioned for him to place his two arms and head through the ring, but his strength was too far spent. One of the men plunged into the water. Bobbing quickly to the surface, he placed Ryan’s arms and head through the ring and tied the rope around his chest.
“Hang on tight, kid,” he said. With that he motioned for the men in the helicopter to lift them to safety. Up Ryan ascended from the cold waters toward his salvation. Finally, he was pulled aboard. For several minutes the aircraft lingered before heading for land. Ryan lay sprawled on the floor of the chopper, panting and shivering uncontrollably. He could not feel his arms or legs. He tried to speak, but only slurred gibberish came out. A man pulled off his wet pajamas and wrapped him in blankets.
Before Ryan knew it, the helicopter landed. He was placed on a gurney and rushed by ambulance to a military hospital on the base. There a nurse held a bottle filled with warm cocoa to his mouth. As Ryan sucked on the straw, he could feel the fluid trickling down his throat to his stomach. He could not get enough of the warming, thirst quenching liquid.
Gradually his shivering dissipated as his body temperature began to rise. It felt so good to be warm again. And then, overcome by exhaustion, his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.
“Ryan, can you hear me? Ryan?”
Ryan opened his eyes. There above him leaned the concerned face of his father.
“Dad!” he exclaimed.
His father nodded. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. You’ve been asleep for twelve hours. We were nearly back to the harbor before I discovered that you were missing. We called the coast guard and they sent a helicopter to retrace the route of our fishing boat. It’s a miracle they found you.”
A nurse brought in a tray of hot food and set it before Ryan on his bed. Hungrily he devoured the roast turkey, with dressing, gravy, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Even the string beans tasted heavenly. And the pumpkin pie!
Finally satisfied, he looked again at his father. “I thought I was going to die. There were sharks. A man jumped into the water to save me, but I didn’t see him after that. Where is he? I want to thank him.”
His father’s face clouded. For long moments he remained silent. “I wish you could thank him, son. But you can’t. The sharks got him.”
An iron shroud of deep shame and guilt descended upon Ryan. He had disobeyed the captain of the ship and his father. Miraculously he had survived, but only because another had given his life to save him. Tears forced their way to his eyes.
“What do I do now, dad?”
His father looked down at him, his face a mixture of sadness and compassion. “You live the rest of your life in gratefulness, son. You live today only because of another’s sacrifice.”
Ne began to sob uncontrollably. “A man died to save me from my foolishness. I don’t deserve to live!”
His father allowed him to cry for a while before speaking again. “The man who died would want to know that you lived your life well from this point on—a life worthy of his sacrifice. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for him.”
Sadly, Ryan nodded.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
Two hospital workers pulled back the blankets on the bed and swung Ryan’s legs to the side until they dangled above the floor. From there they gently placed him into a wheelchair.
“Just like it took you awhile to get your sea-legs,” said his father, “so now it will take you some time to get back your land-legs.”
Outside the hospital, the two workers lifted him into the front passenger seat of the family car. The car sped homeward through forest roads and rolling hills, behind which rose majestic, snow-capped mountains. He traveled gazed silently at the changing scenery, deep in his thoughts. An enormous sense of guilt encompassed him. He had no right to see what he was seeing, knowing full well that because of him another person would never again see such sights.
Yet there was nothing he could do but live, always grateful for the sacrifice of another, whose name he didn’t even know. As he continued homeward toward his mother’s waiting arms, the final lines of the same poem he had thought about on the high seas entered his thoughts.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.
*The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
