The Sinking of the Angie Piper

by Chris Riley

  I’ve mentioned Danny’s obsession with SEALs before. The excitement he felt over those elite warriors, and his dream of one day becoming one, went all the way back to our adolescence. We used to go to the movies a lot, which was a hoot in and of itself, all because of Danny. He would sit in the theater with a giant tub of popcorn and a giant soda and make a ruckus, crunching and slurping away. Not only that, but Danny would giggle, laugh, and cackle all throughout the movie. Even during times when there was nothing worth laughing at, Danny would laugh. He drove everyone in the theater crazy. But for me, listening to him was often more entertaining than the movie itself.

  Things were a bit different though, when Danny and I were in the eighth grade and went to see Navy SEALs, staring Charlie Sheen. Danny didn’t laugh much during that film, but he still managed to disturb everyone in the theater with his oohs and aahs, pointing, even jumping up and out of his seat. He thought the world of that movie. He went to see it five more times, checked out some books at the library on the subject of Special Forces, and asked a million and one questions of our neighbor, Ted, a marine veteran of the Vietnam War. Before long, Danny was telling everyone he met that one day he would become a Navy SEAL.

  It was funny to hear my friend go on like that. He even adopted his own phrase from that elite community: Hooyah, master chief! Except with Danny, of course, it was never quite that clear. Eventually you figured out what he was saying, because he used the phrase every chance he got.

  People would just smile and nod when Danny talked about becoming a SEAL. They did it in such an awkward fashion, knowing that the boy they encouraged would never see the fruition of his dream. But whether he was aware of it or not, Danny didn’t seem to mind. He knew in his heart that one day he would be required to report for duty out on some blacktop, gear in hand. For Danny, it was as if he was any other guy.

  “You got that right, Danny,” said Loni. “They the best.” Interestingly enough, Loni had no trouble understanding Danny. But then again, he was a great listener. “So how long you boys been here?”

  “Only a few hours,” I replied. “We flew in this morning.”

  “You eat yet? Might get me some lunch in town.”

  “And why am I not surprised?” I asked. “Here, have some pork and beans, then you can help us with all this shit.”

  “Oh man!” Loni said, laughing. “You a cruel man, Ed. A cruel man.” Loni was one of those guys who would eat anything on his plate. He had the appetite of a grizzly bear, and would likely eat a bowl of rubber if it came with a bottle of Tabasco sauce.

  “The diner has good food,” Danny said, giving it a thumbs-up.

  “Oh yeah, it does,” replied Loni. “Real good food, in fact. Think I might go there right now.” He threw his duffel bag into the stateroom and then headed back toward the door. Hesitating, he asked, “So why’s Dave all mad like that?”

  “Oh,” I replied, “just bugging on shit, as always.”

  “Yeah, well, we gonna see about that. I don’t know, Ed. Don’t know if I can take any more of his talk.”

  The comment sounded more menacing than what I would have expected, coming from Loni. I was taken aback, speechless for a second. “That sounds almost like a threat, Loni,” I replied.

  “Might be that it is, Ed,” Loni said. “Might be Dave’s gonna get him a big surprise this season.”

  I wondered what Loni meant by that. And even more, I wondered what he would have done had he been with us earlier, on the street corner outside the general store. It was a thought that once again brought a small sense of relief. Loni was the greatest ally a person could have.

  He smiled then, as he stepped out onto the deck. It was a curious smile with a hint of mischievousness. And from it, I observed the twinkling eyes of Maui, the hero-trickster of Polynesian mythology, and this brought an answering smile to my face. “Hey, Loni,” I said, just before he closed the door, “we doing McCrawley’s later?”

  “Damn right, brother!” he said. “Can’t sail without watering up.”

  I laughed. “See you when you get back, then. And don’t worry, we’ll save some work for you.”

  Chapter 8

  Three days later, I was recovering from our famous night at McCrawley’s, feeling like my head had been crushed between two crab pots. When I finally crawled out of the rack from inside my stateroom and into the dark belly of the Angie Piper, I realized the captain must have been screaming at me, and Loni, and the entire crew for quite some time. He was mad as a hornet, calling off orders, anxious to get us up and running.

  Staggering over to the bathroom to wash my face, I noticed Danny was nowhere in sight. But I found Loni curled into a tight ball, his head over the toilet, hands grasping the rim of the bowl.

  “Shit, Loni,” I said, “we haven’t even left the harbor yet.”

  Loni had his sea legs, there was no question about that. He was just working his way through a terrible hangover. I was wondering how Danny would get along out there on the open sea. I wasn’t sure if there were any precluding conditions about someone like him being on a boat. Maybe Danny would get sick as a dog once we got running, endlessly puking his guts out, left completely dysfunctional and useless. It had happened often enough, causing dire situations. But when we were kids out on the playground, Danny would ride that little rusty merry-go-round for what seemed like hours, never once getting sick. I guess I was relying on that memory and hoping things hadn’t changed much since then.

  Fifteen minutes later, I stumbled into the galley in search of coffee. Salazar was there, standing next to the stove, cooking eggs, sausage, toast, and pancakes—the whole enchilada. A cigarette dangled from his lips as if he were a short-order cook out in the field with a bunch of Marines.

  “Captain ain’t gonna let us eat breakfast in town, is he?” It was a dumb question, but I asked it anyway.

  In his usual taciturn way, Salazar simply shook his head and grunted.

  “Well, have you seen Danny? Smells good, by the way.”

  Salazar pulled his cigarette from his lips, as if to speak, but then jerked a thumb toward the deck.

  “Be right back, then,” I replied. I left the galley, walked through the ready-room, opened the door, and stepped outside onto the deck. Like another smash in the head from a crab pot, the brightness of the day stunned me. Yet it was hardly bright. The morning might have been cast in silver, embodied by heavy cloudbanks. They were immense, like gray whales rising from the ocean to greet our world with their stories of the deep Alaskan waterways.

  After rubbing knuckles into my eyes, I noticed Danny standing by the door. His hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, a beanie on his head. His pants were tucked into rubber boots, and gloves dangled from his back pocket. A Leatherman Multi-Tool was clipped on his belt, and his face …. Well, his face reflected uncertainty, a bit like the bright yet foggy day. Danny Wilson was ready to work.

  “Morning, buddy,” I said, still blinking away the sudden brightness. Danny nodded in return. He was staring out across the deck, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. I studied the boat anyways. The Angie Piper looked good, ready to sail. The stacks of crab pots towered before us, a host of webbed rigging and steel ribs. The deck looked tight and clean, devoid of clutter and extra supplies. A thick brine clung to the morning mist, and was heavy to breathe. You could taste the ocean in the air.

  “Eat anything yet?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied, his tone short and decisive.

  “Well, come on, then. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “I’m okay.” Okay, shit. Danny could eat three cows for lunch before coming up for air. He was a bottomless pit, and his dad was always going on about how much it cost to feed “that boy.” I had observed this enormous appetite of Danny’s for as long as I could remember. Furthermore, unlike Little Mikey from the Life Cereal commercial, Danny would eat damn near anything. He didn’t have any issues about food, dislikes or favorites I’d noted with most other people. Danny
was easy when it came to eating. He was an easy, bottomless pit. And naturally, breakfast was his favorite meal.

  I took a guess as to why he was standing out in the cold. “Come on, Danny. Don’t worry about the captain. He’s just eager to get us going.” Opening the door wider, I motioned for him to come in. “Smell that? Bacon and eggs. Sausage. Pancakes.”

  “Captain wants us to work,” Danny replied.

  “Danny. If you don’t get in here, the captain’s gonna eat your damn breakfast!” He hesitated, looked at the door, the deck, the crab pots, not knowing at all what to do even if I did tell him to get to work. “Would you get the hell in here already?”

  Danny finally came in from the cold, causing an uproar of laughter amongst Loni and Salazar when I told them he was standing on deck, ready to work. Fred seemed pleased with Danny’s enthusiasm as well. He seemed less rigid, more casual. This was, after all, the last relaxing meal we would likely have until our tanks were full of crab and we were running back into port. As we lumbered into the galley, I explained as much to Danny and told him to eat up. As soon as we started turning gear—working twenty, thirty, even forty hours straight—he’d be lucky to get a candy bar down his gullet for breakfast.

  “Whatcha want on your plate, Danny-boy?” Being a true fisherman, Loni was completely unfazed by his episode in the bathroom minutes before. He was at the stove piling scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast, smiling, chipper as ever. “I’m gonna serve our greenhorn,” Loni said. “Boy made me a shitload of money last night.”

  “Pancakes, please,” said Danny, sliding into the booth.

  “Pancakes?” replied Loni. His eyebrows twisted in apparent confusion. “You gotta eat more than that out here, Danny.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Loni,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee and leaning back against a pantry door. “He’ll eat anything you give him, and lots of it—so just pile it on.”

  “I like sausage too,” Danny said.

  “Again, don’t listen to him, Loni,” I repeated. “Like I said, he’ll eat anything. So load him up.”

  Changing the subject, Loni chuckled and asked, “How much did everyone make last night?”

  “Danny and I made two thousand dollars each,” I said, lifting my cup into the air, offering a toast to nobody in particular.

  Loni squealed with laughter, but Salazar just shook his head, cursing softly to himself. Being overly conservative, he found betting on an arm-wrestling competition way too risky for the likes of him. And man did Salazar regret it just then.

  The captain, who had been standing next to me, slid into the booth beside Danny. “What about you, Loni?” he asked. “How much did you take in?”

  Loni placed a heaping plate of food and tall glass of orange juice in front of Danny. “This boy made me three-thousand dollars. And when this season’s over, I’m gonna buy him a real good steak. Fat and juicy, huh, Danny?”

  “Yes sir!” Danny said, grinning. He drove his fork into the steaming plate of food.

  Just then, Dave walked in from down the hall, dressed and ready, hat on, a smear of grease across his cheek.

  “How ’bout you, Dave?” Loni asked.

  “How ’bout me, what?” Dave replied. Once again, his mood was black as coal. He walked straight to the stove and served himself a plate of food.

  “What’d you make last night?” Loni continued. “I saw you smiling when Danny-boy beat that state champ.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Dave. He turned around and walked toward the hall, stopping briefly to give the captain a status report. All was well—except for his attitude, which he then took outside, along with his breakfast.

  Obviously, Dave had been up for a while. But that didn’t surprise me. For all his asshole-ness, he was a dedicated employee. He’d been down in the engine room, likely tinkering with nuts and bolts, belts and gauges, and whatever else we didn’t want breaking down on us once we were out on the open sea. There were plenty of stories about boats going down all because of a ten-dollar part, such as a gasket or a washer. And each of us on board—except for Danny—knew those stories damn well. Briefly, my mind went back to Molly McDowell and the Polar Betty. What were the circumstances surrounding their tragic end? Just what exactly sent that boat and her crew into the abysmal depths of the Gulf of Alaska? Was it a leaky gasket? A failed pump? A ten-dollar part? Was it something more unpredictable and violent—a rogue wave? In the end, we’d never know. Molly hadn’t been able to get a clear transmission to the Coast Guard, explaining the details of their trouble. And nothing from the boat was ever recovered. In the blink of an eye, The Polar Betty and her entire crew was lost forever.

  “That man got too much darkness in him, captain,” Loni said. He turned and sat next to Danny at the table. “Too much evil darkness. Too much anger.”

  “Don’t stress about Dave, Loni,” the captain replied. “You know him. He’ll drop some of that evil darkness once we get on the crab.”

  There was a brief roll of laughter amongst us, but then Fred looked up and stared at me. His face was pale and serious. I’d been standing against the pantry door once again, plate now in hand, fork in mouth, yet my body froze at that stare.

  “Ed, when you boys are done eating, I want you to take Danny down the hall and fit him with a survival suit. Show him the routine—how to get in quickly and zip it up. And make sure he can beat the time.” The captain looked away then and reached for his coffee. I observed his eyes, his hands, the way he held his cup …. He looked sad and distant. It was as if he had been right there with me, in my own mind, thinking about Molly and his crew.

  “Sure thing, Captain,” I replied.

  “And when you’re done with that, take a good stroll on deck. We’re throwing lines in an hour, so let’s be ready.” He put his cup down and continued eating. “But take your time with them suits.”

  That’s exactly what Danny and I did, once we finished breakfast. The route to the survival suits led us down the hall and into the stateroom adjacent to ours. I reminded Danny about the importance of learning every nook and cranny of the ship. About knowing the location of every exit and having these egresses mapped into his brain not just as they were, but how they could be: in absolute darkness, twisted, rotated, flipped, and cockeyed because the damn boat had just lost all power and took three rolls from a giant wave. How it could be.

  Danny nodded gravely as we pulled out a survival suit from the large wooden chest mounted against the stateroom wall. I guided him on how to get into the suit properly: feet first, body next, weak arm straight in while your strong arm waited so that you could use it to affix the hood. Then you slip that arm into the suit and zip yourself up. It was slow going, but Danny managed to get the suit on.

  “Last but not least,” I said, “blow into this tube. It’ll inflate the suit, keep you from sinking.”

  “We don’t want that to happen,” Danny replied. My friend looked like a giant orange marshmallow puffing on that bladder hose.

  “That’s good,” I said, looking over his suit. “That’s how you do it. Now take it off and put it back on. You’ve got one minute, Danny. Gotta be able to get this suit on in less than a minute, so make it fast. And remember, you might be in the dark, so go ahead and close your eyes.”

  Thirty minutes later, Danny was still practicing getting his suit on. I told him not to overdo it, that he could work on it another time. Nevertheless, he kept sliding into that damn thing, stubborn as always. But that’s how Danny had always been. Whenever he got something into his head, he stuck with it until the end.

  Ironically, this aspect of Danny’s character always conjured up a sad fantasy. I often wondered what his life would have been like if he’d been gifted with normal intelligence. What was his true potential? What could he have done? He would have made one hell of a Navy SEAL, that’s for sure. Just like his dad, Danny knew the value of hard work. And just like his dad had told me, Danny always learned best by pra
cticing something, over and over again.

  I remember the day Danny had showed up for swim tryouts at our school, and Mr. Elmsworth lowered his head and told him he couldn’t be on the team. Danny didn’t sulk or whine. He didn’t even argue. He just smiled, and then had his dad sign him up at the YMCA the following day. And on that day, and every day forward, that’s where I found my buddy after school: swimming laps as awkward as hell, one after the other. Practicing to be a Navy SEAL.

  It shames me now to think of what Danny’s true potential might have been. I’ll never forget what happened to my friend—what happened to us. It seemed as if the struggles we faced growing up—the challenges Danny and I both had, especially his challenges—were simply meant to prepare us for the biggest battle ever.

  “What’s that right there?” Danny asked, pointing to a roll of yellow reflective tape sitting on a shelf.

  After I told him, Danny took that tape and constructed a crude bull’s-eye on the back of the suit he’d been practicing with.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  “In case they need to find me,” he replied.

  “In case they need to find you?” I teased.

  Even as a kid, Danny never knew how funny he could be. “What are they going to do—shoot you?” I burst into laughter and told him he had five more minutes before he really saw the captain get angry. “I’ll meet you on deck,” I said. Then I walked away.

  Chapter 9

  Two hours later, Danny threw out our last hawser line and the Angie Piper chugged away from the dock. I stood on the deck, starboard side, and watched as we motored away from the safety of Kodiak’s beautiful landscape. Her shaggy green hills, rocky shorelines, and pine-laden outcrops stretched like fingers out into the sea. People were hustling up and down the wharf, sorting boxes and gear, preparing boats, unloading trucks, running cranes, laughing and cursing, waving goodbye. Most crabbers are not actually from Alaska. Like birds, they migrate to this land from distant places such as northern Oregon or Seattle—like Fred, whose boat was moored there during the off-seasons. Friendly waves from fellow fishermen or complete strangers on the shores of Kodiak were expected when we headed out to sea. In their own way, the people who work in Alaska—local or not—can be kind and understanding. They know the dangers of fishing for crab in the dead of winter, with the dreaded williwaws, the fifty-foot waves, the deadly icing-over of vessels, and any number of other possible tragic outcomes.