Port Bliss

By Faye Passanisi and Captain Bill Allen

Six months after her husband dies at sea, Brandy Rogers unexpectedly requests to join the crew of the Sea Quest ~ the same vessel that led her husband to his watery grave... With NO body nor any trace of him, Brandy seeks some sort of closure and relief from the pain of losing the love of her life. Mysteriously drawn to the docks, she convinces Captain Bill to let her join the crew as galley cook. But, what Brandy does not know is that this decision just sealed her fate.

Captain Bill is betting it all on this one trip to save his boat and livelihood. But, when he decides to change course for the shrimping trip, the Sea Quest comes face to face with Hurricane Faye... A decade later, aging old salt Cappy Dupree has lots of stories to tell about the past that include Dave Rogers' demise and the fateful journey of the Sea Quest just six months later. ~ Whilst Cappy reveals his tales to Pastor Jackson Montgomery, shocking truths are unveiled about the lives of several men and one woman as they learn to trust God and embrace His blessings.

In this captivating novel, a group of characters, both on water and land, search for answers within a sea that holds her secrets deep within her soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480864658

Faye Passanisi

Faye Passanisi grew up in the oldest seaport in America ~ Gloucester, MA. Because Bill Allen was drawn to her inspirational writing and love of the Lord, he invited her to co-write PORT BLISS. Captain Bill Allen was a commercial shrimper until a paralyzing injury at the age of 22 curtailed his career captain of a commercial shrimping vessel. PORT BLISS is the writing debut for both Faye Passanisi and Captain Bill Allen

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Copyright © 2018 Faye Passanisi and Captain Bill Allen.

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Edited by K.J. Nally

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THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6466-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6467-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6465-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018909645

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/11/2018

Contents

The Sea

Cast of Characters

Prologue: The Sea Quest, Bayou Pascal, Alabama, 1972

Part One

Chapter 1     Bayou Pascale, 1982, Cappy

Chapter 2     Cappy Remembers

Chapter 3     Brandy’s Story

Chapter 4     Brandy’s Surprise

Chapter 5     Captain Bill’s Story

Chapter 6     The Sea Quest

Chapter 7     The Vision, Cappy’s Dream

Chapter 8     Cappy and Pastor Jack

Chapter 9     The Story Begins

Chapter 10   ~ 1972 ~ Ten Years Earlier

Chapter 11   Roy Becomes a Fisherman

Chapter 12   Captain Bill and Moby

Chapter 13   Brandy and Captain Bill

Chapter 14   Brandy Prepares for the Sea

Chapter 15   Jim Allen’s Story

Chapter 16   Albert Lee Jones Bart

Chapter 17   The Courtroom

Chapter 18   A Stroll through Town

Chapter 19   Food Shopping Trip

Chapter 20   Final Moments on Dry Land

Chapter 21   The Bar Fight

Chapter 22   Boarding the Sea Quest

Part Two

Chapter 23   Cappy’s Vision

Chapter 24   Relationships on the Sea Quest

Chapter 25   The Greenhorn Pranks

Chapter 26   Brandy, Ms. Ginny, and Jim

Chapter 27   The Mood on Board

Chapter 28   The Mother Lode

Chapter 29   Brandy and Captain Bill

Chapter 30   Ruby-Lee Jones

Chapter 31   Roy and Brandy

Chapter 32   Brandy talks to Bart about Jim

Chapter 33   Dinner and the Blue Box

Chapter 34   Cappy Goes to Church

Chapter 35   The Fuel Injector Problem

Chapter 36   Scupper’s Last Days

Chapter 37   Cappy’s Net Shop

Chapter 38   The Storm

Chapter 39   Roy’s Rescue

Chapter 40   Welcome to Port Bliss

Author’s Notes

For TONY PASSANISI, SR - The man of my dreams

For anyone who has ever asked, Why me?

For all the fishermen captivated by the sea.

And for all those who have gone down to the sea in ships…

Fair winds and following seas.

All my Love for Mom ~ Janice M. Burgess ~ arrived at PORT BLISS,

Heaven’s Shores

on February 24, 2017

The Sea

by Faye Passanisi

~ The Sea… she welcomes… she seeks… she beckons… she claims. She yields, and she also comforts… Having lived in the oldest Seaport in America for most of my life thus far, it is only lately that I have come to understand and truly appreciate the raw beauty, the magnificence, the splendor of the ocean and just how blessed I truly am to have lived in such a beautiful seaside community.

~ From the vast expanse of the immense ocean deep, to the very crest of each wave depositing a layer of white foam as it laps the sandy shoreline, and everything in between, She provides sustenance, a viable natural food source as well as such great recreational opportunities, not to mention the sheer ambiance of the openness, the freedom of the ocean and salt air that is so calming, so serene…

~ She commands respect, and she receives it. She shows no bias, no prejudice. She welcomes all with open arms and chastises as well, offering such sharp contrast between her beauty and fury. It is not good to fool Mother Nature and She is the Mother of all things nature, along with her comrades, the Wind and the Sky.

~ Take a moment, walk along the shore, or set sail, enjoy the view…there is none other like it! Cast your bread upon the waters and see what She yields.

Cast of Characters

JEAN-LUC DUPREE, a.k.a. Cappy

JACKSON MONTGOMERY, a.k.a. Pastor Jack

CAPTAIN BILL BEAR LEWIS

FIRST MATE - JIM ALLEN & his ailing black Lab, SCUPPER

DECKHAND - DAVID J. ROGERS

GREENHORN - NORRIS MONROE

DECKHAND - ALBERT LEE JONES, a.k.a. Bart

GREENHORN - ROY LANDRY

GREENHORN - ROBERT LEE JONES, a.k.a. Lee

GALLEY COOK - BRANDY ROGERS

Prologue

The Sea Quest, Bayou Pascal, Alabama, 1972

L ike a moth to a flame, Brandy Rogers was precariously drawn to the docks as she drove along the familiar coastline. Captivated, brimming with uncertainty on this spontaneous mission.

Beneath the moonlit sky, the rhythm of the waves calming as they lapped the shore and although hauntingly quiet with the ebb and flow of the evening tide, seemed predictable, safe even. Brandy never imagined how this choice would change her life.

Each inhale of fresh salt air filled her lungs - every exhale released anticipation. She felt an eerie comfort, entranced in a consuming desire for closure, unaware what these next moments would hold. As a peculiar mist shrouded the shoreline, she continued down this same route she had done so many times before; only this time was different, tonight she was unexpectedly lured to the docks.

Just six months earlier, Brandy’s husband Dave Rogers boarded the Sea Quest for a routine shrimping trip. Nothing about that night seemed distressing. There was nothing to suggest that just days later he would vanish. Nothing could have prepared his crew for that fatal night.

Like a tattoo on the brain, that night would be remembered permanently. Where they were, the precise time, who was doing what when he went overboard. The crew would remember forevermore the exact moment they knew Dave was gone.

On that particular trip, the crew of the Sea Quest had been trawling the seas for nearly three weeks when their luck finally turned. After weeks of hauling empty nets, they hit the mother lode of shrimp. Quickly, the mood on board soared with equal shares of relief and joy; however, short-lived. Life sometimes deals a crushing blow in the blink of an eye. Their abundant catch tragically turned into a devastatingly costly night in a moment, a high price to pay for success.

In a whisper, the Sea Quest relinquished one of her own to the clutches of the sea, never to be seen again. True. Maybe Dave was the only one buried in an unfathomable watery grave; but each crew member was drowning in a sea of despair. It could have been any one of them. The sea chose Dave that night.

Each man knew the futility of searching and coming up empty. Each knew the truth that Dave was gone. And that truth meant bearing this devastating news to Brandy. Her beloved husband would never be returned from the bowels of the sea.

Dave’s tragic demise was six months ago. Here she was now, under the cloak of darkness, returning to the same docks where Dave took his last steps on land. Feelings of being violated by the sea simmered in her heart as despair lingered in her soul. The heaviness of Dave’s death still very real. This unanticipated proposal that burst into Brandy’s mind seemed audacious, ridiculous even.

Brandy heard the crewmen would be gearing up for the upcoming trip in the next few days. It was now or never. Would Captain Bill agree to such a strange request? Brandy was counting on the captain’s empathy, surprising even herself with the impudence of her request. But in this moment, the desire to join the crew of the Sea Quest swirling in her mind, controlling her, steering her emotions until she felt tossed by the waves of the sea. Brandy knew commercial shrimping was dangerous. Was she prepared if Captain Bill said yes? Truth was, she didn’t care. All she wanted was to be a part of Dave’s world. And tonight the sea - Dave’s sea, summoned her to join them.

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Captain Bill may have regretted his decision to allow Brandy to join the crew of the Sea Quest, but he understood her dilemma. They needed a cook. Brandy needed closure. She needed to feel closer to Dave. So, he agreed.

Soon they would be boarding the Sea Quest. The same vessel that led Dave to his death.

Brandy knew the beauty of the sea. She knew the pain. Ahhhhh the SEA … She welcomes, She commands respect, She gives and takes without consent; and without warning, She claims.

How could it have happened? A fine shrimping vessel such as the Sea Quest…how could an experienced shrimper like Dave go overboard? And why did it seem like the crew was hiding the truth from her?

Something assured Brandy, this trip would more than answer her questions; it would change her life.

Part One

Chapter One

Bayou Pascale, 1982, Cappy

I t was just another usual morning in sweet home Alabama, or so it seemed to the locals of Bayou Pascale. Barely dawn with the innocence of morning fast approaching. But do not be misled by the sight of a few unpretentious weathered men of the sea casting fishing lines off the familiar old dock that had seen better days. The dock harbored many secrets, so many stories of generations who once earned their living from the sea. With the golden hues of the rising sun slowly treading down the dock joined by a few scattered clouds mirrored on the water, a few souls in this sleepy paradise were about to wake to an interlude leading to a life forever changed.

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Bayou Pascale, Alabama – The Bayou is a warm and friendly place, enchanted with the sweet fragrance of Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Sweet Tea Gardenia. The tranquility of this quaint town invites and captivates most to put their feet up and bask in the warmth of the steamy summer months. Crickets chirping on a balmy summer night and the screeching of gulls down by the river in the daytime are welcomed interruptions to the locals. It’s a place of honey-dipped accents and genuine mind-your-manners southern hospitality. Along with the fleur-de-lys peaceably stamped around town, French sounding names and a close-knit community that knows the freshest seafood around, Bayou Pascale is the epitome of endearing charm.

On any menu and on every table, the best sweet tea is served. Also, one could expect fried pickles or okra, biscuits and sausage gravy, fried green tomatoes, shrimp and grits, BBQ pulled pork and the gooiest most delicious pecan and sweet potato pies that will satisfy any sweet tooth.

The docks were once a happening place in this historic seaport town. Every town has its icons - a fixture that leaves an imprint. For those of Bayou Pascale, Captain Jean-Luc Dupree, or Cappy as his friends called him, was that icon.

As in nature, the age of an old oak tree is determined by the number of rings in the cross section of its trunk, so also the years reveal that this weathered old man of the sea has been around. An unmistakable man with overgrown wavy white hair, shaggy beard, bushy brows, and a ruddy complexion, Cappy was a man of rugged stature, even now, slightly bent over from his long hours mending fishing nets – a lost art.

His captain’s cap with wisps of white hair jostling in the breeze was tilted to the side, faded from many hours under the hot sun and salty air. His pipe clenched between his teeth, he tamped down some cherry blend tobacco and struck a match on a nearby piece of rusty angle iron to light it. His eyes were as light blue as the sea and seemed to say, lend me your trust. These eyes were filled with life’s experiences, a deep wisdom. Cappy was a good judge of character, a man worthy of entrusting your life to and many in the Bayou had during their days of commercial shrimping. Cappy had a way of seeing right through a person – straight into his heart and soul.

His swollen, knobby knuckles gave credence to hard work and were evidence of the many nets repaired, as well as decades of life of one working the sea and on the waterfront.

More likely than not, Cappy could be found perched on an overturned wooden fish box near the shrimp house. He’d lean forward, worn white boots kicked off in the crushed shells beneath his feet, mending a net using fingers and toes to hold it. For Cappy, no matter the work at hand, the river leading to the open sea continually beckoned him. Long ago were his days at sea. A quiet man of few words, when Cappy spoke, his words captured his listeners and held them spellbound. Although he was worn out, he was still full of life’s many stories.

As this new day dawned, something was about to happen that would change Cappy, forever.

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Cappy hung his sea captain’s cap on the stray nail in his 250-square-foot, three-room shack on the river. It was modest but functional with a view like none other. Cappy liked to think of it as an open concept house…but, shack was more accurate.

He had his small bedroom, a tiny galley kitchen with a breakfast bar that seats two and a practical bathroom – complete with shower. For cooler winter days, he had a slim black pot belly stove to complement his humble abode. Cappy had to be creative to make the most of his minimal space. He could easily stand in one spot with a few pivots to shower, make a pot of coffee, watch TV, and lean onto his bed. Simple living, he convinced himself through the years. He was a practical, humble soul.

In this old salt’s shack, there was room for a much used rocker/recliner chair, complete with Cappy’s imprint in the sunken cushion. To the right was a narrow chairside table with a built-in lamp with a large sea shell perched on it, holding his pipe. Cappy had strategically rested a small swivel TV on a tall wooden barrel, conveniently, between the bedroom and kitchen. He wasn’t much of a TV fan but he would watch the weather forecasts, which he called the weather guessers, as they were not very accurate. Cappy could always tell when bad weather was on its way by the ache in his rusty old joints. Certainly, a more accurate barometer than any meteorologist predictions.

The floor of his home had rugged old Heart Pine floor boards of assorted widths. The rough hand-hewn beams in the ceiling afforded a comfy, homey atmosphere. The walls were covered with various sizes of weathered shiplap pine planks, white-washed on the exterior and bare on the inside, with many knots throughout. Hanging on the wall was a deep red mahogany ship’s wheel clock. Situated underneath the clock sat his most treasured possession - an old dovetailed pine sea chest filled with some family heirlooms. Inside, his much used handed-down Bible from his Grandma Alice rested comfortably atop the heirlooms.

On his breakfast bar sat an old ceramic stein. His beer mug was in the shape of a sea captain’s head, adorned with cobwebs and a few dusty pencils standing at attention. Cappy rarely used a mug. He was in the habit of drinking his brew straight from the bottle - good to the last drop.

An ancient two-ton anchor rested outside the entrance, welcoming visitors. This relic of an anchor was where he hung his nets up. He was pleased to salvage it while on a flounder fishing trip he had made in his younger days, buried deep in the graveyard of the Atlantic, offshore from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina.

Cappy also mounted a large weathered brass ship’s bell outside his front door. This cherished bell was rung by Cappy’s great-grandfather throughout his seafaring days to call his crew for watch. Two generations later, Cappy’s mother used it to call Cappy for dinner. Now, it hung as decoration for the seagulls passing by.

On rainy mornings, the steady pelting of drops on his old tin roof brought him back to the time when he was a little boy sitting on his mother’s lap. Cappy cherished the many times she embraced him while they watched and listened to the rhythm of the falling rain. How special his Momma had been to him, truly a great southern woman. He fancied the memories of her lovingly wiping his face with her apron. And now winced at the thought that when he had something stuck on his chin, she would lick her finger and use her spit to clean his face.

He smiled as he remembered snuggling close, leaning back into her cushy bosom, listening to her heartbeat while his light brown curls nestled under her delicate chin. He could still smell the fresh scent she wore, a sweet honeysuckle, which was her favorite. What a wonderful childhood. A good life. So many happy memories, Cappy thought.

His senses came alive when he smelled the scent of honeysuckle through his opened windows. The sweet fragrant vines had lined the walkway to the front porch of his home growing up. Cappy loved honeysuckle and the wonderful memories conjured up from that scent. He especially admired how the vines created their flowers where it mattered most, at nose level. Even as an old man, he loved and missed the security and love he felt from his mother. Oh, how he missed her…

The smell of fresh brewed coffee permeated every square inch of his sea shack, bringing Cappy back to the present. He didn’t own much in the way of appliances, but his blue speckled enamel coffee pot was most treasured. The scents and sounds of it brought life to his little shack every morning by 5 a.m. The coffee percolated, music to his ears. He was bequeathed this special coffee pot by a neighbor, another old salt who had passed on. This pot had to be at least forty years old. Every time he perked a pot of freshly brewed coffee, the aroma caused Cappy to remember his old friend and smile.

Captain Russ had passed away a few years ago from a serious lung infection. Cappy could still hear him choking and hacking, hoccckkk-phtttewww! as he coughed up phlegm, aiming for the spittoon while gasping for breath. Oh yes, the spittoon, also an inherited item from dear Captain Russell Sherman. Although it did deserve a rest after collecting all those deposits before Russ passed away, Cappy repurposed it. He cleaned it out and kept that round brass spittoon just beneath his chairside table to collect new deposits of loose change from his pockets.

Cappy imagined Captain Russ with his fat, damp cigar hanging from his mouth, smiling down at him through the portholes of heaven. Captain Russ was an educated man - a Harvard degree, no less. Sometimes Cappy would ask the deceased Captain Russ about something, knowing full well he wouldn’t answer; neighbors for decades, it was habit. Old habits die hard.

Cappy sure did miss the times when the two old fishermen would convene to banter and solve the problems of the world. Although he planned on being reunited one day with Captain Russell Russ Sherman, he was not in any hurry. Honestly, his prayers were simply that he wouldn’t be seeing heaven’s shores any time soon. If Heaven were a place accepting of him, he often wondered and hoped.

Cappy’s net shop was behind his meager living quarters and as some would refer to it, the sea shack. He had no problem keeping up both places, clean and orderly, just like his boat. His few possessions were carefully kept in their place.

There was one wall in his net shop that faced the north. Thankfully, the well-sealed tongue-in-groove shiplap siding did the trick to block the cold winds of winter on the infrequent days it did visit the Deep South.

The entryway sported a distressed plank door that Cappy would pause at as he peered through the dusty porthole window. This thick circle of glass was framed in a brass rim, exposed for decades to the salty air. It aged to resemble an old relic of distinguished beauty, tarnished with green patina. He would sometimes open it just a crack to enjoy the scent of the fresh salt air. It was comforting to hear the seagulls as they swooped by the docks and squealed like vultures fighting for whatever they could get their beaks on.

The back door led out to a walkway that brought Cappy to his net shop on the dock where he hung various artifacts related to shrimping. Draped along the walls were remnants of old nets and tools, which served as an ever-present reminder of ‘good ole days’ gone by. Some of these items were handed down from his grandfather. Nearly an acre lot, this parcel left to him by his granddaddy boasted a generous 200-feet frontage of waterfront property. Cappy’s hopes were for this land to not only afford him a good living, but also provide for his retirement when his hands were too stiff and feeble to repair nets. It yielded a tidy income from the many boats moored, as it once was a bustling dock. A wise man, Cappy knew once the dock was no longer busy as it used to be he’d have to conserve, and that he did.

During its prime with several shrimp vessels tied to the dock, a bustling shrimp house employing women of all ages, cleaning and de-heading the day’s catch was what you’d see. Those hard working southern women wore white boots nearly up to their knees, rubber gloves and aprons with pockets big enough for all their shrimping tools. Paisley kerchiefs on their heads were neatly tied in back as they processed and packed the shrimp. Some with their toddlers in tow while trucks loaded up for retail. Cappy could almost hear those bygone days as he reminisced.

He’d watched over the last ten years how a gradual decline in commercial fishing vessels, due to the unreasonable regulations by the governing authorities, eventually crippled the industry. His once booming shrimping business was eventually forced out, as were many other fishermen in Bayou Pascale. With a dying fishing industry, real estate tycoons scooped up empty commercial buildings, making them into waterfront properties at a hefty profit. Some were transformed into desirable apartments with fabulous river views.

They fought Cappy for his property but there was no profit he could settle on for his idolized life on the docks, his docks. And he couldn’t think of his property turning into a condo for retail or office space. Bayou Pascale was a desirable inlet, the best kept secret for years. Consequently, property values skyrocketed.

Chapter Two

Cappy Remembers

I n his early eighties, Cappy was the last of a dying breed of commercial shrimpers/fishermen all over the country. Besides crooked hands and a weather-beaten face, all he had now were his stories of the untamed sea. As usual, Cappy sat outside his net shop taking in the view of the rising sun over the docks. With a fresh cup of hot black coffee in his hands, warming his old bones, a warm breeze whispered through the early chilly morning air. Fog began lifting off the water giving it a mysterious, even ominous feeling.

Cappy was troubled this morning and for some strange reason, he thought of Dave Rogers. Cappy couldn’t help but shiver as he remembered the last time he’d seen Dave walk past his net shop. It was a morning much like this morning. Thick humid air, fog dissipating, and a promise of clear skies at sea. Poor Dave.

It wasn’t often that he thought of the perils at sea, he preferred to reminisce on kinder stories. But, he couldn’t shake the memories of what happened to that young man over a decade ago. Dave. What a terrible accident. He gave all he was to the call of the sea.

It was a decade ago that Cappy was surprised when his lifelong friend Captain Bill confided in him the details of Dave Rogers’ final fateful trip on the Sea Quest. Now, ten years later, he kept this story buried in his soul. He was sworn to secrecy never to repeat this story…in an attempt to protect Dave’s wife, Brandy. Ohhhh, Brandy, Cappy sighed under his breath. Maybe if the truth had been shared. Maybe if she knew what really happened. Maybe then her life would have turned out differently.

Cappy shivered as he remembered, feeling a heaviness in his spirit that matched the humid air and thick fog of this morning.

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Twenty-four days into a planned 30-day shrimping trip, the crew on the Sea Quest were weary from a seemingly failed trip. It had been slow-going up until that day and Captain Bill Bear Lewis had been worried about paying expenses and crew on this trip. Fuel was $3.00/gallon and shrimp went for $3.00/pound. Captain Bill felt he was working solely for the oil companies. The Sea Quest would consume 10,000 gallons of fuel in thirty days, or $30,000.00. And on this trip so far, they had not caught nearly enough to pay fuel, not to mention maintenance, groceries, gear and crew.

Bill’s soapbox of choice was to complain about how fishing used to be when shrimp fetched $3.00/pound, and fuel was only $1.00/gallon. "How could so much change in the industry? Ignorant lunkheads in the government. They were always looking for the cheaper way to fill their pockets. They’re messing with my industry!" Bill would rant to Cappy.

Rant or not, Bill was right. It was no surprise that the price of American shrimp plummeted when the government allowed pond raised, diseased shrimp from Asia to the American consumer. Add that reality to the past several years of harsh regulations for fishermen by those lunkheads in the government, as Bill called them, and it was not good. These strict regulations caused added expenses, closed work areas and even regulated days they could work.

Many fishermen were forced to find other occupations. Many others resisted the changes but lacked the resources and political clout to prevent the inevitable. It resulted in the unfortunate demise of generational fishing traditions. Truth was, the commercial fishing industry was tragically facing the end of its era.

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Captain Bill knew he had a lot riding on this trip. He needed success. He was determined to be successful in the fishing industry and prove himself to those lunkheads keeping tabs. As it happened, the crew of the Sea Quest pulled anchor before daylight on the 24th morning. They let their nets out and pulled them for three hours. When they dumped the catch, they were shocked to see they’d hit the mother lode. A huge catch of the lucrative pink shrimp. Jubilant crewmen cheered with equal shares of relief and utter joy, they gave each other high-fives.

Finally, after weeks of gloom, the mood did a complete 360-degree turn. Nets were tossed back in the water quick. They needed to catch them while the getting was good. It went like that for the next four days, practically filling the freezer hold in the Sea Quest. Captain Bill’s persistence finally prevailed, he acquired success.

With only two days left on the trip, they couldn’t have been happier. They’d be heading home soon with a full load. On the last drag of the day, the catch was the best yet. Captain Bill decided to make yet another drag into the night.

All lights on board shone like daylight, lighting up the entire back deck. They made a short hour and twenty-minute drag for fear of loading up with fish after dark, instead of shrimp. When they dumped the nets - no fish, just beautiful clear large shrimp. No bycatch, they could just shovel them up into baskets. What a sweet catch!

Their excitement soared as they got ready to set out the nets again. They couldn’t pass up a chance to get one more load this good. Captain Bill rolled the wheel of the Sea Quest down hard. His goal was to turn the Sea Quest around quick to get back to the school of shrimp.

Deckhand Dave Rogers was working alongside greenhorn Norris Monroe, letting loose the nets on each side. That’s when Norris got between the lazy line and the rail of the Sea Quest. Dave saw it. He ran over and pushed Norris towards the center of the deck. About the time Norris hit the deck, the scratchy line caught Dave around his chest, pulling him towards the stern with tremendous force.

Both first mate Jim Allen and a stunned deckhand Norris Monroe frantically ran back to the stern to free Dave. Norris got there first and grabbed for Dave’s hand just as the line flipped Dave and pulled him overboard.

Jim couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Panicked, he yelled at Norris, KEEP YOUR EYE ON DAVE! and ran as fast as he could to the wheelhouse door. His feet barely touched the deck as he flew by Scupper, his aging black Lab who was resting on the hatch covering the freezer hold. The lethargic, arthritic-riddled dog sensed the danger and suddenly came to life barking loudly near the rail.

Jim charged into the wheelhouse. He didn’t say a word to Captain Bill. With an abrupt swift left hand he shoved the stunned captain out of his way as he quickly grabbed the throttle and pulled her to dead slow, knocking the transmission out of gear. Bill looked at him like he had lost his mind. Jim felt like he had.

It’s Dave, he went overboard! Jim shouted as he concentrated on stopping the large trawler. Captain Bill jumped off his chair and bolted out of the wheelhouse. Jim was right behind him as they both ran to the stern. The dark quiet night was suddenly brought to life, lit up from the Sea Quest’s powerful deck lights. Still you could only see 40-feet out into the water around her. Twin generators were running along with the double engines. The sounds of machinery and men shouting were deafening.

Captain Bill ordered Jim and Norris, Quick, wind up the nets, maybe he’s still holding onto the net or line, as he ran back to the wheelhouse and readied the vessel to pull the line. As soon as he did, Jim put the winch in gear and began winding in the nets.

Captain Bill ran to the stern and looked at the port rig, hoping and praying he would see Dave. The nets came to just aft of the Sea Quest’s mid-ship but Dave was nowhere to be seen.

Captain Bill turned his attention behind the boat. His stomach churned as he saw hundreds of Blacktip sharks following close behind. Gentle as they come, but when it came to feeding time, fishermen knew how voracious they would become. That was a reality for every shrimping vessel. Dread filled the captain.

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Another one of Bill’s soapboxes…those lunkheads in governing agencies put a suspension on shark fishing by commercial fishermen, which created an astronomical population growth of these sharks. Not only did it cause damage to the livelihood of commercial shark fishermen, the huge increase of Blacktip sharks also quickly became a danger to the beaches where families have come to swim and play for generations. Shark attacks were becoming more prevalent. Sometimes progress doesn’t seem much like progress at all. Perhaps measures were taken to preserve shark life, but it would be at the expense of human livelihood, and sometimes even human life.

Captain Bill ordered the nets to be hoisted up to the boom so he could maneuver the Sea Quest freely. After they were secured, he told Jim and Norris, You two go up on the bow to look for Dave.

Rushing into the wheelhouse, with trembling hands and alarm in his voice, Captain Bill notified the Coast Guard on the radio channel 16.

They responded that they would have a chopper under way in 15 minutes, but it could take an hour to get to them.

With all those Blacktips, Captain Bill knew time wasn’t on their side. An hour was far too long. Captain Bill then switched the channel to signal the fleet of eight nearby boats to assist in the search for Dave.

Norris and Jim were on the bow searching the glowing waters below, lit by the beam of the spotlights. Captain Bill had already pushed the Man Overboard button on his navigational plotter and was searching downtide where Dave fell over.

In less than 20 minutes, the eight other boats, along with the Sea Quest had positioned within 50-feet of each other with spotlights scanning the white caps, all feverishly praying for a sight of Dave.

The chopper arrived on scene within 45 minutes and searched the water for any sign of life with its high-powered spotlights. Three hours to go before daybreak.

And then the unspeakable happened… Terrified, Jim and Norris caught a glimpse of Dave thrashing in the water. Before they could even shout for help, in an instant that seemed like an eternity, they watched helplessly from the rail of the bow as the vicious Blacktip sharks circled their prey. Like a pack of hungry wolves, one at a time lunging toward Dave until they all had their fill of poor helpless Dave. In complete and utter shock, the two crewmates became paralyzed in fear, speechless, helplessly witnessing the horrific end of their fellow crewman.

Shortly after that, the Coast Guard called off the night search for Dave Rogers, planning on returning at daylight after refueling.

Shocked by the horror of Dave’s death and troubled about the thought of Dave’s wife Brandy finding out about his gruesome demise, Jim and Norris kept what they saw to themselves. They finally agreed to only share the details with Captain Bill, so he would call off the search. The Sea Quest needed to return to port, her fuel supply was running out.

Of course, Dave was not found by the Coast Guard during the daytime search. Neither clothes, nor rubber boots, nor gloves were found; it was apparent that the sea and the sharks devoured any evidence. Only Captain Bill and the two crew members of the Sea Quest knew what really happened to Dave.