A storm at sea

photo by Joshua Adams

There is nothing quite like a storm at sea. I've scoured the globe for years, seen lots of disturbing images, lived through a great earthquake once on the Asian ring of fire. But a white sea is a unique beast, an inestimable entity which may inspire with its beauty, prompting some into acts of courage. Others it will cripple with paralyzing fear.

At least we're at the dock when I wake, shower and coffee in peace. When I'm toweling off, the chord of my necklace snaps and it drops to the deck. I pick up the Maori bone carving, a fish hook I was given in New Zealand in 2000. It keeps me safe at sea. I examine it for a breath, and its fully intact but aging, turning yellow and beginning to pockmark, its edges nearly translucent. I drop it in my breast pocket and head to the bridge.

Morning news debates a moratorium on deep-water drilling. The Obama administration is asking a federal judge in Louisiana to reinstate the ban. You won't find someone around here, a local at least, who thinks that's a good idea. To the common man, its a simple matter of jobs, and businesses have evolved to service the market for deep-water drilling. People here call for a moratorium on BP--why punish other companies with good safety records who seem extremely unlikely to allow a blowout in the first place, let alone after what has transpired? These people have a point. The Deepwater rig explosion wasn't a mechanical failure or even a freak accident. It was a year-long drama of bad decisions by a rogue company.

The dock crane drops a small basket on us, and two passengers arrive. The dispatcher boards with them, and a huddle forms on deck. "They're 'shut in' at the rig, cap. They need these tools." Our potential passengers look grim. "I know it's gonna be rough, but they're askin' ya to give it a shot." A long run would be out of the question, but its only 7 miles beyond the river to location; its a tolerable amount of heavy sea.

Nearing the jetties at the tip of the Mississippi, a SE wind sends waves hurdling rocks and reaching the channel. We round the bend and head east toward an unseen sunrise, taking the sea on the starboard bow, turning right toward the biggest waves to keep the boat from pitching side to side. We're about a mile from the platform when the next swell is a monster; I'm looking up from the window. I pull the throttles back, hear an "Oh shit" from Alex, brace myself and boom! When the whiteout clears our anchor sits askew on the bow, its been dislodged from its aluminum housing. The next swell and it's airborne. For a split second I envision it coming through the bridge windows--I should hit the deck, but before I can react, we roll to starboard and another awful sound. Alex is at the port window glaring down. I leap left to look, and the anchor's between the house and bulwarks. It needs to be secured, and Alex says he'll do it. "Lifejacket!" I call as he heads below.

I dash back and forth from wheel to window, monitoring his progress. He's got the anchor against a cleat and he's wrapping it with line, making figure 8's with the anchor underneath, cinching it to the bits. I concentrate on the throttles, attempt to keep the boat as steady as possible. I've got to keep the bow into the sea, not get broadside in the trough, where any boat--no matter the size--could go down in a big-enough sea. I sense momentum from ahead and there's another huge wave. I bang on the window but its useless. The deck is awash in whitewater. Alex's arm emerges first, he's clutching the fluke in one hand and the line in the other. In another minute, he's dripping on the bridge, reaching for a cigarette. He's plenty dry by the time we beat our way through the final mile, take care of operations, and surf our way home pushing 26 knots in the following sea.