The seas off New England are a fickle mistress (that sounds pretty cool and but rather unoriginal) any time of year. In February, the seas are gray to match the sky. The wind, and there is always wind, barrels out of the northeast, and the seas build quickly. You know it will be a bad day when the froth off the tips of the waves rips off and flies across the sea. Patrol boats are great, but they pitch without care or mercy, and there are times when the seas are just right the boat rises up but doesn’t ride down the wave; it falls off. When the ship hits the ocean, the vibrations rattle the keel, galley, mast, and anything else onboard. The shimmies travel from just forward of the galley to the screws. The feeling in your stomach is the deck falling out beneath your feet, as well as the stark fear of the boat breaking in half—a horrible feeling.
GRAND ISLE was patrolling Georges Bank on a day quite like that. We had been out three or four days with nothing to show for it. We had submitted several contact reports the first day, but after that—crickets, nothing, nada, zero, zilch—I could go on, but you get the pitch (get it…pitch…if you’ve been on a PB you get it). We were the B2 boat for the northern half of the district, ready to respond to any search and rescue cases. A time-honored tradition when you found yourself in molar-jarring sea conditions…head back to homeport with your tail between the stern.
Rides like this are physically demanding; your back and knees take a beating. They do their best to absorb the pounding, but after a few days of this incessant pounding your body surrenders and loses its shock-absorbing ability. The waves go from the deck to your feet through your back and rattle your brain. Not only does it hurt, it’s exhausting to stay on your feet. If your knees haven’t totally given up the ghost, they try to sway to the rhythm of the ship—expect there is no rhythm, no pattern to figure out. Two or three minutes of getting slammed fine of the starboard the then something hits square on, and a torpedo of water shoots through the bullnose and straight streams the bridge. If that has happened, you probably buried the bow, and the ship’s bell rung on its own from its perch on the mast. Again, it’s a bad day all around.
We called the Group and told them we were enroute Gloucester; we would assume B2 refuel and restock the galley. We planned to give the ocean a couple of days to settled down and hit the closed areas again.
I am such an idiot.
We got back early in the mooring and granted liberty shortly thereafter. The cook made a quick run to the store, and the engineers had the tanks topped off in just an hour or so.
I got home and fell asleep on the couch for a couple of hours. After a brisk workout in the gym, a good dinner, and the Bruins game, I hit the rack and hoped to catch up on some sleep while still on dry land.
Until…
The phone rang about midnight—I can wake up quickly and don’t like it, but I am usually alert right away. [Author’s note: This is no longer the case. I don’t do anything quickly anymore.]
“Captain.”
I assumed if you were calling that late it wasn’t social.
“Sir, it’s QM1 on the boat…you awake?”
That was a perfectly acceptable question…there are times when you can be so tired that you sound awake, make some decisions, and have not recollection of the conversation. This also gave me a chance to get the cordless [how archaic to read that sentence in 2021] and head downstairs to the kitchen.
“Yeah wheels, I’m good; what do we got?”
“Fishing vessel about a 100 miles southeast of Boston disabled and adrift, four people onboard. District is recalling us.”
“Great…any idea on the weather?”
“Gales or worse out of the northeast…we can expect 8 to 12s at least and maybe building. Won’t calm down for 48 hours at best.”
“Great. OK…get the recall going, if you can plot the position and get us a course. I’ll be in soon.”
My next call was to the OPCEN.
“D1 Command Center.”
“Morning, this is LT Dow from Grand Isle.”
“Sir, we got a fishing boat needed to get towed off Georges Bank.”
“I heard. Have you seen the weather out there?”
“Well…that’s kind of why we are having you get him.”
That was a good point. I can only guess I was still tired…it was not one of my stronger moments.
“Yeah. OK…we will call the group and let them know when we are underway, and we have an ETA. Anything else to pass?”
“No sir. That should do it.”
“Roger. ‘Night.”
I put on my coat, grabbed my ready bag, and opened the door. It was snowing. Hard.
Great.
The drive for me was only 10 miles. It was the kind of snow that was blowing into the windshield in straight rows. Hard to see, and high beams made it worse. No plows yet, no one else out this time of night in this type of weather. I was alone. I didn’t turn on my radio or put in a tape (no CDs, no iPods, XM, just a beat-up tape deck. I was on autopilot. I had enough of my brain engaged to get me to the boat and not much more. I think it’s a defense mechanism—I didn’t want to think what this trip would do to the crew and ship. These were tough…the crew knew why we came back to port, and they were driving to the boat in the same storm. Even without looking at buoy data, we all knew this was going to hurt, and it would be a rough mission.
I got there about the same time as the XO, and we walked down the pier together, it was high tide and our floating pier was as high as I’d seen in it in my few months aboard. Rob and I talked a bit and retired to our respective staterooms. I quickly changed into my undress blue uniform and pulled on a fleece jacket. I went below to the galley and the cook had a pot of coffee ready to go. I poured a cup of the black into my mug and went up to the bridge.
The QM1 had the appropriate chart for Georges Bank and the XO was checking out his tracks.
“They look good sir. Quarters in 15 minutes on the mess deck.”
“Aye.”
For the next fourteen , I sat in my chair and listened to the NOAA weather broadcast. It was like a NASCAR car wreck…it was awful, but I couldn’t pull myself away. Every forecast for every area for every time frame was the same. They could have said: “if you are out in the weather, you are in the shit, good luck.” That was pretty much what they said.
The coffee helped some.
Not much.
But some.
QM1 piped first call to Quarters and I slipped off the chair and made my way back down to the galley. Refilled the black and stood next to the XO in front of the TV. The crew all made it in less than 45 minutes. We would be underway about 70 minutes after the initial alert. Pretty good…good, no great crew.
XO gave the update on the boat and location. I told them the weather was expected to be tough during the whole case. BM1 admonished the crew to secure for sea one more time.
“Mooring stations in ten minutes.”
The station sent two of their watchstanders to handle lines for us. They wouldn’t even look us in the eye. Like we had smallpox…they didn’t want to catch what we had and have to go on this trip. They knew what was waiting for us and throwing off our lines was bad enough.
Great. Thanks.
We got underway from the flying bridge but quickly shifted to the bridge to get out of the snow—it was marginally easier to see without the snow careening into our eyes. It doesn’t take long to get out of Gloucester Harbor and into open ocean—a major strength of our homeport. We came up to clutch ahead and headed toward the fishing vessel Alamorosa. We left a little after 1 AM and it took us almost 15 hours to get on scene. They had a working radio and good comms with the group, so we were getting position updates every half hour. We would be getting there just about sunset. The water shipping over the gunwales was freezing on the deck in minutes, covering all the horizontals in black ice. The best tread boots didn’t stand a chance on that deck. Having to set up a tow was moving from dangerous to deadly. We secured the weather decks and, for now, didn’t allow the EOW to make topside rounds. The smoking lamp was only good on the flying bridge. About six hours in we, slowed down to clutch on both, and the MK1 did a round of the boat while BM1 and BM2 checked the small boat, gun, and other deck gear. Once they finished their round, we came back to speed.
I asked the department head to meet me on the bridge at 1500. Along with the XO, we tried to map out a game plan. Setting up a tow was an all-hands evolution, and I had concerns about having the whole crew on the pitching deck covered in the dark ice. We talked about someone falling overboard. To a person, they weren’t sure if we could get around fast enough to save them based on the water temperature. And that was without a tow. If someone went over while we were setting up or had the fishing vessel on an 1100-foot leash, they could die of exposure (unless they were in a gumbo suit) before we could maneuver to retrieve them.
I asked them to think about any options we had; everything was on the table. My last case scenario was to set the tow detail.
When we got close enough, we assumed the radio guard from the Group. I asked the master a couple of questions and knew right away we were going to have problems. Portuguese fisherman migrated to New Bedford— a lot of them still spoke that as a first language. And this fishing boat captain was one of them.
I asked the watch stander to find MK1 Paul Barosso, who could speak some Portuguese and understood it even better. He was a great boarding officer and good on the radio.
Minutes later…
“Cap, request permission to come on the bridge?”
Chief was already up there, and Paul joined us by the chart table.
“Paul, think you can talk to this guy?”
“I can give it a try sir.”
After 20, maybe 30 minutes, Paul gave us a rundown. They had a significant leak on a fuel line, and they were worried about how much was in the bilge and how much might spray on the engine. Earlier, we talked about launching the boat to send someone over to look at the main. It was a good idea but, in these seas it was too much of a risk. I didn’t want to do it, but it looked like we would to have to tow this guy back to Boston.
Until…
“Cap…Chief…is there some way we can get them a synthapatch?”
Intriguing question. This was a fiberglass-based patch that hardened over a metal pipe. It wasn’t meant for long-term use, but if we could get a package or two to them it might work.
“Cap, I’m pretty sure I could talk them through how to apply it.”
“Paul, you’re my hero. Boats…how many people would you want on deck to use a heaving line and send over a patch.”
“No problem sir. Paul, you mind making the toss?” Paul was the best aboard.
“No problem, Dan.”
“Cap, I would need Paul, BM2, and me…keep it to us. Have the rest of the deck department dressed out on the mess deck, standing by if we need them. Yeah, we can do this.”
“Great plan. Paul, give them a call and tell them what we want to do. Boats, get your guys ready and give them a mason. Chief, you want to take charge of the mess deck?”
“Aye Captain.”
“XO, Wheels, you guys got the bridge. Let’s see if we can get this going.”
This was a solid plan…I was more comfortable with three people on deck than the whole crew. It was up to Paul to get the information conveyed to the crew. He spent about 15 minutes on the VHF.
“Cap, they are good with the plan and asked if I can talk them through it. I told them that was what we planned. They asked once they were done with the repairs would we stand by. I told them we would escort them back to port but wasn’t sure where.”
“Great job Paul, let them know we will get them to just outside of Boston and then another Coast Guard unit will escort them to the pier.”
“Roger that sir.”
I left Paul on the bridge and went down to the mess deck to talk to the BM1.
“Boats, we’ll get you close, you to tell Paul when to throw. Don’t fall overboard.”
“Not planning on Cap.”
“All right, about 20 minutes and we will pipe you guys to the fantail.”
By the time I got to the bridge, Paul was off the radio and on his way to dress out in a mustang. Mustang suit provided some protection from the cold and floatation. The bright orange contrasted with the black ice and made the crew pop off the deck—that’s what they were for.
“Throw detail to the fantail.”
I was on the flying bridge again with Rob. He would make the same approach as a tow, come down on the ship, swing over hard and give Paul a broad target. The end of the heaving line was tied to a bag with the patch great wrapped in heavy-duty plastic.
Rob’s approach was flawless and pulled us close…maybe too close!
I had given the BM1 the authority to throw when ready. And from the flying bridge we could see the deep red monkey fist knot scream out from the starboard side and the white line go taught and land across their deck. The crew on the fishing boat quickly grabbed the line and pulled across the bag.
Rob pushed the throttles forward and put the rudder over full to open the distance between the two heaving ships. We got off their quarter, and Rob did his best to maintain station—that is a hard task in seas like this. The waves and wind pounded GRAND ISLE.
Paul doffed his mustang and made his way to the bridge.
“Nice toss Paul!”
“Thanks sir…it’s cold.”
It was, and I was grateful that my three guys were aboard and safe—the weather was vicious and unrelating with the wind and spray pelting the boat. When a wave broke over the boat, the drops of water crashed into the hull, and it sounded like someone poured a bucket of nuts and bolts on the deck. Eerie when you think that is just water.
And frightening.
We weren’t done yet.
Paul spent another 15 minutes on the radio and told them how this would work. He thought it would only take them a few minutes to make the repairs. They knew where the leak was; what would take some time was the dry time of the fiberglass – about an hour or so of being on station.
And as always in the Coast Guard…waiting…and pounding.
Pounding…and waiting.
An Hour goes by and Paul and the Chief are on the bridge when Alamorosa lit off her engine. We waited…this was awful…we were taking a risk…a fire on that boat would be a disaster.
The master came over the radio and said the leak was just a drop every few minutes. He was going to bring the main ahead and see what kind of speed they could make.
It took a half an hour, but they managed to make four knots. That may not sound like much, but we would take it. It was faster than a tow. The master came on and said the drops were a little faster, but he thought it was safe. We gave him a course to steer that would take us back to Boston. One hundred miles to the buoy, four knots…24 -steam. Long time in these seas with a fuel leak. The closer we got, the better the weather should get, and if we had to take them in tow, we could.
Problem though…Island Class Patrol boats are made for speed. GRAND ISLE was a C-class boat…and thought they had a slow drive, it wasn’t effective in these conditions. Our slow speed was nine knots…twice as fast as the fishing boat. What we did—took position behind the boat and zig zagged…for a hundred miles.
It was a long and stressful trip. We kept comms with them every 15 minutes…got a gauge of the drip, and it stayed manageable. We called in the details to the Group and asked them to arrange the Station to meet the boat inside the harbor.
We escorted the fishing vessel in, handed them off to the small boat, and made our way home.
Good case and good example of using all our options and getting ideas from all our crew. A lesson that I hope stuck with for the rest of my career—both in and out of the Coast Guard.
Postscript (ok…not really a postscript because I knew I was going to write it, but it sounds cool)
About three or four months after this , I found myself down at the base doing a bit of a meet and greet…had a meeting with my boss, the group engineer, saw a few friends. I would make the trip down from Gloucester every month or so. I made my way to the command center to talk to the watchstanders I normally only talk to on the radio.
They were in the middle of a case. They had a patrol boat enroute to a disabled and adrift fishing vessel out on Georges Bank. Turns out they had a mechanical failure. I don’t think too much of it until the Group OOD got not he radio:
“Fishing Vessel Alamorosa, we have a cutter enroute your position.”
You gotta be shitting me…
