When the telephone rings in the middle of the night, it rattles my nervous

system the way a fire alarm does. Generally it is a wrong number. But a

number of years ago it turned out the call was for me. It was the Coast

Guard. They said that my brother Jerry's new 80-foot dragger was hard

aground on Cushing's Island, Maine, and asked what I wanted to do about it.

Here¹s what happened < and here¹s the reason I still wince when the phone

rings after midnight.

Jerry was away. It was like notifying the next of kin of a death in the

family. I called my friend John Holmes and said, ³Don't ask. Please get your

boat ready, and I will meet you at the landing in 30 minutes.²

He didn¹t ask and was there and ready with his 23-foot center console when I

arrived. John regularly leaves at 5 a.m. or so to go duck hunting or

fishing, so this wasn¹t an unusual experience for him. There were no

pleasantries this morning. We had no idea what to expect, but we sensed it

wasn¹t going to be pretty.

We crept down the narrow low-tide channel of the Royal River in Yarmouth,

Maine, in a very dark night, looking for channel buoys with a searchlight.

(John has a great track record; he has hit a buoy only once in the dark.) A

mile or so later we were in open water and headed west-southwest five or six

miles down Casco Bay toward Cushing's Island < the last westerly island out

and home to many summer families. All we could do was think about the

gravity of the situation.

We arrived as the sun was rising, casting a gray early morning light over

the island. There, above us, was the Alexander W. < high and dry. Standing

on the western ledges of Cushing's Island like an elevated work of art was

165 tons of steel, 9,500 gallons of diesel, winches, booms, 25 tons of ice,

a massive diesel engine, generator sets, 600 gallons of lubrication oil, a

full galley, bunks, hydraulics, electronics, a home to the crew, family

pictures, and everything else that it takes to go out into the hostile seas

of the North Atlantic for two weeks at a time. In short, a state-of-the-art

fishing machine, though severely damaged.

The dragger had just been built in Bayou La Batre, Ala., welded by skilled

southern boatbuilders and brought up the Eastern Seaboard to Rhode Island by

her skipper Capt. Pete Kelly, where the deck gear was installed. When she

arrived in Portland she was sporting her first coat of paint; Alexander W.

would never look better. It gave you goose bumps just to look at her. She

was the apex of years of commercial boat engineering and boatbuilding

experience.

The able Alexander W. was designed to fish off Maine in some of the most

brutal waters in the world. She was the sum of my brother's foresight, a

significant financial commitment, the captain¹s experience, and the skills

of the crew that built her. She was to be a paycheck for the owner, captain

and crew for years to come.

On the rocks

She left on her first offshore trip that summer with a substitute skipper

and crew. Pete had taken a much-deserved vacation. She left Portland just

after midnight headed toward Whitehead Passage.

Portland is the third-largest oil port on the East Coast and a very large

container and fishing port; more fish are landed here than in Boston. Ships

four times the size of Alexander W. leave and enter day and night, in clear

weather and dense fog, snow and big seas. There are several lighthouses,

buoys and a foghorn to guide ships in and out of Portland Harbor. The

channel has deep water and is extremely well marked.

It is still a damn mystery to me how seasoned fishermen put Alexander W. up

on the rocks of Cushing's Island. But there she was: a boat out of water,

steel on granite. Not a good mix < particularly if you own the steel.

I called Pete, her skipper, at home and we arranged to pick him up at Union

Wharf.

John dropped us on a beach on a lee shore of the island, then went around to

the windward side and remained anchored just off the wreck, outside the

breaker line. Alexander W. was perched midway on the ledges between the

high, grassy shore and the thundering low-tide surf line. Since the tide was

out (Portland averages 8-plus feet of tide, and highs exceed 10 feet), we

were able to walk around her and inspect the entire bottom. There were some

massive dents, and she was holed here and there. When a boat that big hits

granite, the granite never loses. The only thing to do at that point was to

close the deck hatches and bulkheads below to isolate incoming water, and

float her if possible.

Desperation

Her outriggers were extended parallel to the water, port and starboard. We

were able to get aboard by climbing up onto her port outrigger and hitching

her length until we were aboard. The Coast Guard had taken the crew off the

boat earlier that night. It made the press as some sort of rescue. The tide

was high, the wind was calm, and the fog was in. The worst that could have

happened is that one of the crewmembers could have tripped on a beer can.

Once aboard we realized that someone else had come aboard and stolen the

electronics < an interesting event given that Cushing's is one of Maine's

wealthier summer colonies. We had no radio, and there was a feeling of

desperation: We absolutely had to communicate. The sun was just coming up

and I could see islanders gathered on the ledges, an outrigger away from us.

I pleaded for help: ³Please, we need a radio to communicate. All the

electronics have been stolen.² There was an ex-Coasty among them. An hour

later he returned everything that was stolen in a wooden box < some very

fast island justice. I didn¹t ask about the details.

The tide was coming in and offshore storm waves were pounding the ledges

just below us. I had made radio contact with the insurance company and asked

their advice: "Tow it off. Just get it off that ledge."

We called in a big tugboat.

In the next few hours the tug arrived, the tide came in, and we were getting

nervous. The waves were hitting the side of Alexander W. so hard that we

were unable to keep our footing; one minute we were walking on deck and the

next, as a wave hit, we were down on our knees or on our backs. Pete and I

were crawling around closing hatches and bulkhead doors below, generally

trying to limit the amount of water that could enter the hull.

Lobsterman Joey Scola brought a large, unwieldy 9-inch-diameter line. Peter

and I hauled it aboard a foot at a time over our shoulders. It was so large

that we couldn¹t tie a knot in it. We wrapped the line around the gallous

frame (the A-frame structure on the stern that holds the net drum) and

lashed the running end with smaller line onto itself. There must have been

150 yards of this line between us and the tug.

Bump and grind

Everything was about to break loose. This was it. The tide was as high as it

was going to get, the tug put a strain on the line, and Capt. Pete and I

were in the wheelhouse. Pete was in charge and was on the radio to the tug.

Every little tap to the tug's throttle brought on hundreds of horsepower of

pull. Under the strain the 9-inch nylon line stretched and reduced in

diameter to that of a string ,while building up a huge amount of memory <

the world's biggest elastic band between the tug and us. Alexander W. was

trying to back toward the tug, but her keel fetched up against a ledge. It

was hopping up and down like some toy, but this was real life.

Pete hollered at the tug as we bounced. He advised the tug to lay off the

power and swing to the south. Next came another measured pull, and we

started to move aft at a different angle. At this point nobody really knew

what would happen next. Pete and I were doing what we had to do. The tug

crewmembers were doing their best. The Coast Guard was keeping the flotilla

of rubberneckers from getting in the way. The rest was fate, with a little

terror thrown in to make it interesting.

There was a horrible grinding sound as the steel hull vibrated at such a

frequency that I could feel it through my body. Alexander W. started to

slide backward. She was heeled to starboard. Still in the wheelhouse, I was

looking up at the sky through the port windows. We moved perhaps 20 feet,

and we truly thought that we would make it. I remember letting out a big

yell because I felt we were finally going to get this dragger into deep

water. The steel hull screeched across the rocks.

Survival mode

We moved another 10 feet or so, and the port stern quarter hit another

ledge, rolling Alexander W. dangerously over on her side. Pete screamed at

the tug to get off the power. Even then there was still an enormous strain

on the line. The ship jolted aft a foot at a time and continued to heel.

It is amazing what goes through your mind at a time like this. Survival

instinct comes to the fore. I realized that the doors to the wheelhouse were

narrow and wouldn¹t open if this 80-footer turned upside down. That thought

was amplified when the thick oak pen boards below deck, which hold 50 tons

of ice, started to break. I could hear the boards on the high port side

splintering and tons of ice dropping down onto the starboard side. Alexander

W. tipped more as each pound of ice tumbled. We were looking straight up

into the sky. I said to Pete, "We have to get the hell off this thing."

The captain did not want to go. It¹s not as if he wanted to go down with the

ship, but Pete had put an awful lot into this boat and did not want to lose

her. I yelled to him again.

"We are not going to survive if this goddamned boat flips,² I shouted, ³and

she is going to any second."

The deck was closing on 90 degrees to the seas and everything loose on deck

slid over the side, littering the water with fishing-boat flotsam. Alexander

W. was shifting about erratically as the seas smashed against her. No

backward progress was being made. Somehow I got out of the wheelhouse from

the high-side door and grabbed the deck railing. I scrambled forward, hand

over hand until I reached the point of the bow. I think my fingerprints are

imbedded on that rail. If I was going to jump, this was the only place where

the boat couldn't roll on me. Pete was still in the wheelhouse, but I could

see he had decided there wasn¹t much more he could do.

To anyone watching this ordeal from a boat safely outside the surf line, it

might appear that jumping was an easy decision. But contemplating a jump

into these huge, chaotic waves that could easily smash and shred us on the

ledges was a difficult decision. Riding Alexander W. down, even in my near

panic stage, didn¹t seem like a good idea. If I jumped, I reasoned, I would

at least have a fighting chance. I put my glasses in my pocket (beats me

why) and said goodbye to my children. Peter was coming along the rail after

me.

My shepherd

I am on this earth because of two people: my mother and Joey Scola. My

mother goes without explanation; Joey is beyond explanation.

Joey is in his 50s and has been around the water most of his life. He

started fishing out of Gloucester, Mass., at age 13. He later came to Maine

with his family and worked on draggers with his father six days a week out

of Portland, coming home on Saturday night and taking Sunday off.

Joey Scola knows fishing. He¹s probably spent more time on the ocean than on

dry land. He also has arms as big as my thighs. He has worked hard with good

spirit and intelligence, making a name for himself. He graduated to the

Alaska fishery, and his wife, Nancy, went with him. He did well aboard a big

offshore processor for several years until one morning when he woke up and

told his bride, ³I¹m not going to do this anymore.² He¹d had enough. That

decision in the mid-1980s voided his contract and cost him at lot of money.

However, I am very fortunate he made that decision. Joey came back to

Portland and just happened to be off Cushing's Island in his lobster boat

the morning we got in trouble.

Joey yelled to jump. I leapt and floundered in the large, sweeping sea.

Before I could get, "The Lord is my shepherd" out of my mouth, my prayers

were answered. I was looking up at Joey < my shepherd in lobsterman¹s

clothes. He drove his wooden lobster boat into the surf line (against the

advice of the Coast Guard), reached over the side with one arm, flipped me

into the cockpit, and backed away from the ledges at full throttle. I

weighed 190 pounds. His boat was just feet away from becoming kindling. She

took a wave over the stern, flooding the cockpit < and me < until the water

drained through the scuppers.

Then Pete (a big man) jumped. As I got to my feet, Joey timed the next wave

and went in after him. He one-armed the captain aboard then successfully

backed off again. At that point Alexander W. went beyond 90 degrees, and the

port outrigger came crashing over her wheelhouse, smashing everything in its

way. She shuddered and ground some more on the ledges, then just rolled

slowly over in deep water like a big bull that had been shot. The towline

contracted and slowly drifted the Alexander W. out to deeper water.

Joey put me and Pete in John's boat, and he went about his business. A

section of Alexander W.'s stern and bottom were visible. She had air pockets

in her, and she floated stern up, bow down. Geysers of wet air blew straight

up from the holes in her bottom; she disappeared an inch at a time. I swore,

then cried. John was in "holy-crap" mode. Alexander W. went to the bottom,

upside down in 65 feet of water.

Back in business

The press thought it had a big story. They talked about oil spills and the

pending catastrophe to the environment. They even chartered boats to come

out and comment without any real knowledge of the situation. Not once did

they mention what a disaster it must have been for my brother. There was no

oil spill, no story, just my brother's loss. It went unnoticed. How do you

recover from that kind of loss?

Diving and barge crews righted Alexander W. and slowly brought her to the

surface with a massive crane barge. She was brought to Portland Harbor,

pulled out of the water and put on the hard. It was as if someone had taken

an 85-foot boat, filled it with diesel oil, and shook it violently until

every thing came loose. It was a nauseating mess of appliances, clothing,

wiring, magazines, fishing gear, food, electronics, wallboard, all thrown

together in one surreal mess.

Everything was shoveled into fishboxes and thrown into dumpsters. There were

big craters in the bottom of the hull and some holes large enough to put

your arm through. The wreck of Alexander W. brought my brother to tears but

not to his knees. It wasn¹t over for that ship.

She was crudely patched in Maine and floated to Rhode Island, where the

original gritty Alabama crew that built her came and put a new bottom on

her. They fixed all the steel that was ruined, bent and ripped. She was

rewired, and new quarters were installed. Her engines, deck gear and

hydraulics were rebuilt as necessary, and she was painted < a born-again

dragger that rose from the depths.

Bob Knecht is a real estate broker in Portland, Maine. A freelance writer,

Knecht plies the waters of Casco Bay in a 28-foot Cape Islander. The sinking

occurred in 1987. The last Knecht knew, Alexander W. was fishing off Africa.