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Post by TOO EZ on Jan 21, 2007 12:24:34 GMT -5
A thud, and water came pouring in For seven friends, it started out as just another overnight fishing trip. Then it happened ... By KRISTIN HARTY, The News Journal Posted Sunday, January 21, 2007 The Chief, a 51-foot sport-fishing boat owned by Frank Redmiles, heads out to sea. Photo courtesy of Frank Redmiles Jeff Werler, Feasterville, Pa. John Werler, Feasterville, Pa. Frank Redmiles, Philadelphia Francis Gessler, Media, Pa. Ken Arters, Chester Springs, Pa. Tom Tuscano, Feasterville, Pa. Todd Carpenter, Levittown, Pa. EDITOR'S NOTE: All quotations in the narrative (shown in italics) are the exact words a survivor used as he recounted his story to the reporter. The substance of each quotation was corroborated by at least two other survivors.
CHAPTER 1
A storm stirred the sea late that morning, but it was nothing The Chief couldn't handle.
Traveling at a sluggish 10 knots, the boat bucked against the waves, plowing toward the Delaware shore, undaunted.
At 51 feet, it was sturdy as a house, even in turbulent waters.
Alone on the bridge, Capt. Frank Redmiles was getting wet but wasn't worried. He'd seen worse weather.
For more than a decade, the 50-year-old had taken The Chief out almost every temperate weekend, deep-sea fishing in tournaments or for pleasure.
This late September trip had been a successful one. After one night at sea, there were four 80-pound tuna and a 200-pound swordfish in the hold. The Chief was headed home, not quite beating the bad weather.
On board were seven souls: Two plumbers, four sheet-metal workers, and a construction crewman. Most had fished together in the Atlantic for more than a decade.
Six- and 8-foot waves crashed against the bow, then sprayed across the bridge.
The captain hurried below to get his rain gear.
What's wrong? First Mate Francis Gessler asked, rising from a queen-size bed in the cabin. Up all night fishing, the 25-year-old had been napping.
It's getting a little rougher, said the captain.
Francis, hard to ruffle, remained expressionless. He walked into the galley to make a sandwich. In the salon, Tom Tuscano and brothers John and Jeff Werler lounged on couches near a big-screen television. Ken Arters stood outside in the thingypit, timing the waves, waiting for a chance to run for shelter.
Except for John Werler, each owned at least one fishing boat. The Chief, a 1971 custom-built Andy Mortensen, was by far the largest.
Even the new guy felt secure inside its cozy cabin.
Todd Carpenter had never been deep-sea fishing. A recent hire at Ken and Jeff's business, E-Pay Inc., he figured he'd get to know his new bosses.
In the 1,000-foot-deep waters of the Wilmington Canyon, he caught his first tuna, wrestling with the fish from The Chief's fighting chair. The boat, weighing close to 40 tons, was bigger than he'd expected. With two full bathrooms and a custom-built bar, it could sleep at least a dozen comfortably.
Halfway home, still 35 miles from shore, Todd sprawled across the floor of the salon, directly above the twin diesel engines. Eyes closed, he listened to the waves whoosh, then crash against the hull, in a steady, comforting rhythm.
Then the boat shook.
Todd felt the impact before he heard it.
Thud. Bang!
The Chief stopped dead.
At the helm, the first mate cursed. In the corner of his eye, he'd seen a massive black object in the water. A railroad tie? A metal cargo container? A whale?
Francis pulled the throttle back. Black smoke poured from the starboard engine.
We lost an engine, he shouted to the captain.
From the salon, Todd and Tom could see water in the galley.
Frank, we're taking on water, Tom yelled. You better come look!
The rest happened in about two minutes.
Grabbing an auxiliary pump in the thingypit, the captain raced to the galley. In the salon, water was a foot deep and steadily rising.
The high-water alarm blared, warning that the engines were almost underwater. The pump, finally plugged in, started working.
But it was too much water. Too fast.
The generator quit grinding. The lights went out.
The captain knew his boat would sink.
Everybody get a life jacket NOW, he shouted. We're going down!
John looked in disbelief at the miles of ocean surrounding them. We are not going down, he thought. He secured his life jacket.
At the radio, Francis called for help, repeating coordinates to give the boat's position. His voice, urgent and steady, sounded like a recording.
Mayday mayday, 38, 33, 8-4-4 by 74 ... Mayday mayday, we're going down.
On the bridge, Frank shot flares, one after another, hoping a ship about a mile away might see them.
Grab whatever you can, the captain shouted.
Ken and Jeff scavenged the boat, looking for coolers. Six of the guys had brought snacks along: Sandwiches, sodas, beer. Most were already under water.
From the salon, John spotted his red duffel bag floating in the sleeping quarters, just beyond the galley. He considered its contents: Three waterproof flashlights, extra sweat shirts, two whistles.
All items they'd need as castaways. He considered going for it. A refrigerator floated by the galley door.
In a split second, he abandoned his belongings.
On the bridge, Frank grabbed an 80-pound block of rubber from a compartment. With Ken, he heaved it over the rail to the thingypit.
Get that raft out of the bag, Frank shouted.
Water almost to their knees at the back of the boat, Todd and Tom wrestled with the life raft. Folded in a box and wrapped with black tape, it didn't look like anything that could save them.
What are we looking for? Todd yelled.
A pull-cord somewhere, Tom shouted.
This?
Pull it!
The raft inflated.
At the radio, Fran switched from channel to channel.
Mayday mayday, 38, 34, 8-4-4 by 74 ... Mayday mayday, we're going down.
A wave crashed over the thingypit, pulling the stern of the boat under water.
The Chief moaned, sucking air as its bow began to rise.
Get off the boat! Get off the boat, Frank shouted from the bridge.
Water almost to their waists, Ken and Tom and Todd got into the four-man raft.
Jeff and John waded off the gunwale into the water, holding the sides of the raft, kicking.
Get away from the boat! Get away from the boat, the captain yelled.
Another wave. The boat heaved, its bridge now almost vertical.
Put the jacket on, Frank shouted to Fran.
The first mate shrugged him off, busy with the radio.
Let's go. Let's go, the captain shouted to Fran. We got to go NOW!
Wearing a life jacket and carrying Fran's, Frank dived into the water from the bridge's ladder.
The first mate quickly followed, leaping from a nearby portal.
They swam a quarter-mile to the raft, the captain retching as he swallowed seawater and diesel fuel.
Already drifting away from the wreck, the seven men -- Tom, Todd, Frank, Fran and Ken inside the raft; brothers John and Jeff holding onto its sides -- watched The Chief almost disappear, the radar antenna still spinning.
Fran, a former student at the Merchant Marine Academy, returned to the edge of the wreckage to grab a couple of rain jackets.
He was swimming back to the raft when he saw the sea turtle. It surfaced about three feet in front of him.
Treading water, gripping the raincoats, Fran felt his nerves calm.
Christine, his fiancée, loved sea turtles. Their wedding would take place in exactly nine months, God willing.
The giant creature gazed at him, expressionless.
Go get help, Francis thought.
A wave broke behind them, and the turtle, mild-eyed and mute, lowered his head and disappeared into the depths.
CHAPTER 2
Already, the raft was too crowded.
Five men, most weighing close to 200 pounds, crouched in fetal positions inside the inflated rubber tent, the size of a toddler's wading pool.
Two more, hanging onto its sides and kicking away from the sinking boat, were turning blue in the turbulent ocean.
Wearing life jackets, John Werler and his older brother, Jeff, had been immersed for about 15 minutes. Adrenaline kept them from feeling cold, but they were exhausted.
We gotta get in while we still can, John cried, reaching for a hand.
The men inside the raft didn't hesitate.
No one uttered the obvious question. How in God's name will we fit?
They would fit because they had to.
The boat was gone.
The raft was everything.
Without it, they probably wouldn't survive.
Four-by-four-foot square, it rose and fell like a carnival ride in the choppy water, its fluorescent orange canopy signaling silently for help.
It was a gift, almost two decades ago, from the captain's father.
Frank Redmiles Sr. lugged it to the family's dock at Indian River Inlet one day in 1989, surprising his 33-year-old son.
How many boats had Frank Jr. and his dad owned over the years? Maybe a dozen. The Starfire. The Kathleen. The Dolores Margaret.
How many trips had they taken to the deep? Hundreds.
Never had they gone to sea equipped with a life raft.
Frank Sr. handed the heavy block of rubber to his son.
Here, he said. This is a gift I'm giving you, and I hope you never have to use it.
For 17 years, the raft sat in its wrapper, unopened.
Now, Frank Jr. crouched in one of its corners, his stomach queasy, legs already cramping. He saw six frightened faces looking for direction.
Instinctively, each man reached for his cell phone. All were dead, damaged by salt water. Tom Tuscano threw his out the raft's door flap.
They agreed to toss other items. Keys. Work boots. Anything that could jeopardize the raft.
They saw instructions, in Spanish, German and English, printed on the inside of the canopy. John Werler read them out loud. Everyone listened.
Don't drink anything for 24 hours, then only once every eight hours ...
Take seasick tablets twice a day ...
Searching the raft, they found survival kits. They took stock.
Eight small bags of water, and four bottles they had grabbed from the sinking boat.
A flashlight -- useless -- its batteries corroded by salt water. They threw it overboard.
A first-aid kit; a can opener with no accompanying cans.
Two small sponges for bailing and two bailing cups.
Four flares -- two handheld, two aerial; a signaling mirror; a raft patch kit.
The castaways had no compass, no food, no Bible. Three lost their glasses. No one had a watch.
Francis Gessler, The Chief's first mate, found the two wooden oars. About 2 feet long, they looked like toys. Better than nothing.
Maybe they could row to the ship they saw in the distance. Frank had seen it from the bridge of the sinking boat -- probably a fuel tanker, maybe a mile or two away. He'd shot about a dozen flares in the ship's direction.
We're going to have to go for it, said Ken Arters.
Todd and Fran grabbed oars and paddled hard. They got nowhere. The raft was too heavy, the sea too rough.
Francis, still not wearing a life jacket, considered swimming it. Just 25, he'd been around the ocean practically since he was in diapers.
Friends knew him to be fearless, swimming from boat to boat in the open sea, staying out to fish four or five nights at a time. They always worried.
He'd shrug them off.
It's the ocean, Fran would say. If something's going to come and try to eat me, oh well. Can't stop it. It's his ocean.
Watching the 6- and 8-foot waves from the raft's door flap, Fran weighed his chances of making it to the ship. He abandoned the idea.
In the raft, quiet now, some began to wonder: Did the Coast Guard hear the distress signals?
Fran had sent about 20 maydays, calling out coordinates to give their position.
Nobody responded, he said.
The men sat.
Their families, at least, would miss them. Eventually.
All were either married or had serious girlfriends; four of the seven men were raising children.
They'd planned to come home that afternoon. But how many times had they stayed out an extra night when the fishing was good?
John Werler, father of two young boys, had called his wife Friday evening from the dock at Indian River Inlet. Don't worry if I'm not back 'til Sunday, he said.
When will the Coast Guard start looking for us? Everyone wondered.
They looked to Frank, then to Fran.
Monday, Fran said. We'll get rescued Monday.
Yeah, Frank said.
Faces fell.
That meant they would spend at least 40 hours in the raft.
All but Todd Carpenter, a novice deep-sea fisherman, had experienced the intensity of darkness far from the shoreline.
But not in a raft. Not lost at sea in a stormy ocean without even a flashlight to help.
Before night fell, they worked to stabilize the vessel, situating bodies strategically.
Todd, the biggest guy at 6 feet 2 inches, crouched in one corner, most of his weight on his feet. Across from him, Frank, the captain, sat on his rear, knees tucked to his chest. Ken sat in front of the door flap, curled in a ball. Across from Ken sat Jeff, his feet partially under Ken's rear. Tom Tuscano was in another corner, with his legs over Jeff's legs and under Frank's. John sat with his back to Tommy, also curled up tight.
That left Fran.
The smallest at 5 feet 8 inches, 152 pounds, he curled his body along the raft's gunwale, the inflated rubber lip 18 inches from its floor. With only the nylon canopy separating him from the depths below, he rested his head on Ken's shoulder and tucked his feet around one of the inflated arches.
The raft bobbed on the ocean's surface, half a ton of humanity packed tightly inside.
As captain of the sunken boat, Frank felt responsible for getting everyone home alive. Especially Francis.
When Frank first met him, Frannie was just a little boy, bouncing along the dock at Indian River Inlet. In more recent years, the two had become close fishing buddies, going out together practically every weekend.
If anything happens to Frannie, I don't think I can live with myself, Frank thought. These guys all have families. ... This was supposed to be a good-time fishing trip. ...
Something like fear churned hot in his gut, but it wasn't fear. It was beyond fear -- a primal energy that surged like liquid lightning through his veins, directing every action toward a single goal: Survival.
Sunset neared. The seas roughened.
Tangled together, the men sat. Prayed.
Prepared for the dark.
Contact Kristin Harty at 324-2792 or kharty@delawareonline.com.
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