Free Deadliest Sea by Kalee Thompson

Silveira reported to the Coastie: gale-force winds of just over 40 miles per hour. “We’ve lost our steering, uh, we don’t have any steering. We haven’t lost power yet, the engines are still on.”
    At 2:55 A.M . COMMSTA Kodiak issued the first Urgent Marine Broadcast alerting all Bering Sea traffic about the foundering ship. Like the standardized maritime distress call—the thrice repeated “Mayday,” which comes from the French m’aidez, or “help me”—at-sea alerts begin with an anglicized version of a French word, panne, or “breakdown.”
    “Pan, pan. Pan, pan. Pan, pan. Hello all stations. This is United States Coast Guard, Kodiak, Alaska, Communications Station. United States Coast Guard, Kodiak, Alaska, Communications Station. The factory trawler Alaska Ranger is taking on water in position 5, 3, 5, 3.4 north, 1, 6, 9, 5, 8.4 west. There are forty-seven persons on board, and it is one hundred and eighty-four feet with black hull and white trim. All vessels in the vicinity are requested to retain a sharp lookout, assist if possible, and report all sightings to the United States Coast Guard. United States Coast Guard, Kodiak, Alaska Communications Station. Out.”
    The officers in the Ranger ’s own wheelhouse heard the chilling announcement over HF channel 2182. It was unlikely, they knew, that an unknown Good Samaritan vessel was close by.
    The most likely “Good Sams” in the vicinity were the other Fishing Company of Alaska trawlers. The closest was the Alaska Warrior, which was more than forty miles away.
    “ Alaska Ranger, this is COMMSTA Kodiak. At this time, we’d like to put you on a zero-five minute communication schedule,” Seidl radioed at 3:00 A.M . “We’ll contact you every five minutes for updates on your status, over.”
    “Roger,” First Mate David Silveira answered.
    A few minutes later, Seidl called to ask for an update on the flooding.
    “Well, it’s over our, uh, we call it the ramp room. Our rudder room was flooding, coming up the ramp room. We’ve shut the watertight doors,” Silveira reported. “We got out of the area.” Heavy static distorted the second half of the transmission, but it sounded like Silveira was saying that the Alaska Ranger ’s chief engineer was recommending they abandon ship.
    “ Alaska Ranger, this is COMMSTA,” Seidl radioed back to the boat. “Understand above the rudder room and to your ramp room. You shut the watertight doors, got out of the area, and donned your survival suits, over.”
    “That’s a roger.”
    “ Alaska Ranger, this is COMMSTA. Nothing further. Talk to you in five minutes, over.”
    “Roger,” Silveira answered.
     
    O UTSIDE ON THE DECK, SEVERAL PROCESSORS were leaned up against the rail. Among them was David Hull, a twenty-six-year-old from Seattle who had been working on the Ranger on and off for the past five years. David was well known as the ship’s health nut. He kept a blender in his room, along with supplies to make smoothies, and a large collection of vitamins.
    It was after the muster, and things seemed pretty quiet. David looked around. He was thinking about the valuables he’d left behind in his room. He felt like things were calm enough that no one would notice if he was gone for a few minutes. He ran as fast as he could in his suit, down two flights to his bunk room, where he grabbed his laptop bag and started stuffing a bunch of vitamins inside. Before long, boatswain Chris Cossich—who was in charge of David’s muster group—was at the door. “Heh! Get out of here,” he yelled. Chris was furious.
    “Fuck you! You’re fired!” he yelled at David when the two men got safely back up on deck. “What the hell were you thinking? You are off this boat!” David felt terrible. He realized he’d made a stupid move. He tried to apologize, but Chris wasn’t having it. It was pretty obvious to everyone who heard the commotion that descending into a sinking ship to get a computer bag was about as