Chesapeake Requiem

by Earl Swift

  He had to swim for the surface. His father was already there, treading water, thin hair plastered to his balding head. So was the Henrietta C. The boat stood straight up on its tail, about four feet of its bow rising from the water, suspended there by air trapped in its forepeak. Jason was dumbfounded by the sight, numbed by the cold, unable to move. His father snapped him out of his stupor. Come on, Ed yelled, and he led the way, swimming to the boat. They crawled onto the cowl beneath the front windows, searching for handholds. Ed latched on to the bowline. Jason wrapped an arm around the stem.

  The boat’s topside faced east, flat to the wind. Both men wore the standard cool weather attire for Chesapeake watermen: cotton blue jeans, cotton socks, cotton underwear, cotton shirts. Ed wore an additional layer, a cotton sweatshirt. The air temperature hung in the midfifties, the water about sixty. They were soaked, and there was no way to gain cover from gusts that tore at them and doused them with spray, and great wind-driven waves that pounded them against the wooden decking. Hold on, Jason, Ed shouted over the roar. He put an arm around his son, pulled him close.

  Lord, it was cold. Jason had never felt so cold. His wet hair, trimmed short, felt like ice against his scalp. His neck and arms and hands ached. His shirt clung sopping to his back, and with each gust he was nearly robbed of breath. His father was feeling it, too. I ain’t going to be able to take this, Ed told him. He repeated it several times.

  The Henrietta C. bobbed with the waves, and as it dropped into troughs a heavy, shuddering thud would run through the boat. It was hitting bottom, Ed said. They were in forty feet of water. The stern was bouncing off the mud and sand on the bay’s floor.

  Every time it hit, a little air would burp from the boat’s nose, and it would settle a few inches lower. The bay covered its front windows now and, with each thump, crept higher up their legs.

  BILLY BROWN’S CALL came into the oil dock, where watermen gather after work to chew over crabs, boats, the weather, and wrongheaded government regulators. By the time the phone rang on this afternoon, they’d been and gone—only one crabber was on hand when Sandra Parks, working the counter, received Billy’s report that the Henrietta C. was in trouble.

  That one crabber was Andy Parks, Stuart Parks’s husband and one of Ed’s closest friends. When Sandra passed on what Billy had told her, Andy was alarmed. When an experienced captain like Ed Charnock calls for help, you know he’s already done all he can do for himself. And as good a captain as Eddie Jacks was, the situation had to be very bad indeed.

  Andy grabbed the phone and called Ed’s daughter Kelly. Listen, your dad’s boat is taking on water, he told her. Is Paul home? Yes, she replied. Her husband, Paul Wheatley, the crabber who’d exchanged waves with Ed and Jason earlier in the day, had just come in from his boat.

  Tell Paul he has to go back out, Andy said. He’s got to go help your dad. Andy’s voice was cracking. Kelly had never heard him sound so agitated. She thought he might be crying.

  Down in the boat stalls lining Tangier’s harbor, Freddie Wheatley, first cousin to Paul, was about to step off his boat, the Cynthia Lou, when Jason’s call to Billy Brown came over the radio. He heard Jason’s plea for help, and could hear Ed’s voice in the background. He was shouting, “It’ll soon be too late!”

  Freddie yelled over to Dean Dise, who was tidying up his own boat in the next slip. Eddie Jacks is going down, he said. Both men started their engines and threw off their lines. Minutes later, Paul Wheatley and Ed’s grandson Jonathon arrived at the Elizabeth Kelly. They fired it up and struck west through the boat channel. Word reached Tangiermen aboard other boats around the harbor, and they pulled out, too. As the little flotilla left the island’s protection, news of the emergency was spreading by landline among the island’s homes.

  It missed Lonnie Moore. Exhausted after eight hours crabbing in Pocomoke Sound, he’d changed into pajamas and fallen fast asleep on his sofa, the ringer on the house phone turned off. But it reached his daughter, Loni Renee, who was teaching special ed at the school. When Nina Pruitt, Ed’s first cousin, pulled her out of class, Loni Renee couldn’t imagine the Henrietta C. was in any real trouble. The boat took on water all the time, and her husband and father-in-law knew how to deal with it. They’d seen plenty of rough days.

  Then she heard that no one had been able to raise the boat by radio, and VHF chatter made clear that the bay was in chaos and the wind still rising, and her calm turned to worry, then to dread, and finally to panic. Unable to reach her father by phone, she sprinted the 250 yards to her parents’ house. By the time she burst into the room where Lonnie lay sleeping, she was winded and crying. Dad, she told him, Jason’s boat is sinking. You have to go out and look for him.

  Lonnie was up off the sofa and throwing on his clothes, firing questions. Where were they? How much water was aboard? His daughter knew nothing, but Lonnie, like Andy Parks, had to assume the worst. He was out the door before Loni Renee caught her breath, running for his dock. Bring Jason home to me, she called after him. Please.

  Lonnie had just reached the Alona Rahab when Michael Parks, a stout tugboater and the island’s volunteer fire chief, yelled across the water from the county dock: You want me to get a pump from the firehouse?

  No time for that, Lonnie hollered back.

  Do you need help?

  Yes, Lonnie said. Come on.

  Michael leaped aboard as Lonnie started the boat’s diesel, threw off the lines. The Alona Rahab tore down the channel, nose high, and ran full throttle past the island’s western edge and into the storm.

  IT’S AT SUCH MOMENTS that the unique place Tangier Island occupies on the American landscape comes into focus. A treacherous sea had already claimed a storied boat, skippered by one of the most respected watermen on the bay: Eddie Jacks, the last man anyone could imagine in this situation. Yet his neighbors, in their squadron of too-small craft, didn’t hesitate to thrust themselves into harm’s way. About twenty boats left Tangier that day to find the Henrietta C., most of them with two or three islanders aboard. Fifty or more Tangiermen. A significant share of the island’s adult male population.

  The Coast Guard dispatched two cutters, a smaller boat, and a rescue helicopter. The navy scrambled a chopper out of its Patuxent River air station. All set out with only guesses as to where the Charnocks might be. Eddie Jacks, like most Tangier crabbers, had not fitted his boat with an emergency position-indicating radio beacon, or EPIRB, a device that automatically sends a distress signal from a sinking boat and pinpoints its location for rescuers. They cost a few hundred dollars. Islanders aren’t inclined to spend the money.

  Freddie Wheatley and Dean Dise, knowing that Ed had been fishing pots far to the southwest—and figuring that he was inbound from there when he ran into trouble—made for “the spar,” a buoy out toward the San Marcos wreck. Several other boats headed that way, too. Other boats ran blindly for points north of the San Marcos, informed by little more than instinct.

  Lonnie Moore, meanwhile, was replaying his last radio conversation with Jason in his head. He knew the Henrietta C. was homebound when it started taking on water. He knew that Jason turned the boat solid to the wind. With the gale coming from the east–northeast, that meant he had tracked northwest. The time between that conversation and Jason’s call to Billy Brown had been—what, an hour? Eddie Jacks and Jason could have covered miles in that time.

  The Henrietta C. was a good five miles to the northwest of the San Marcos wreck, Lonnie decided. It was likely up near a red nun buoy about six miles west–southwest of the island. The “corn buoy,” water-men call it, because it occupies a spot close to an old marker, long since removed, that warned mariners away from the wreck of a barge that sank with a load of corn aboard.

  Lonnie steered the Alona Rahab for the corn buoy, and urged the armada of workboats around him to head that way, too.

  THE HENRIETTA C.’S bow continued to slip into the water. Ed and Jason rode it down. Look for a helicopter, Ed told his son. That’s ou
r only hope. Keep looking for a helicopter.

  They saw no helicopter. They saw no boats. They could see little at all, except seas that seemed to defy every norm. The tide was outbound, running with the wind, but waves seemed to be raging without direction, without pattern. They collided in fizzing geysers, parted to open deep canyons, and ambushed the men from all sides. With every passing minute, their soaked clothes leached more of their heat and strength.

  You better get right with the Lord, Ed told Jason. Call unto the Lord, because he’s the only one who can get us out of this situation.

  A while later, as Ed looked to the east, he said: I don’t guess nobody’s a-coming.

  A little after that he said: I didn’t think I would go like this.

  Then: I’m scared.

  Jason realized his father was crying. He was too stupefied to do so himself. A blank. None of this seemed real. And the cold was so intense that it erased any but the simplest, lizard-brain thought. The bow was almost submerged, the water up to their chests, and Jason released his hold on the stem long enough to slip the life vest off his arm. He handed it to Ed. A wave ripped it from his father’s grasp and carried it off.

  Forty-five minutes after the men took hold of the bow, the last few inches of the Henrietta C. slipped under. In the water now, untethered in the chop, they were almost immediately torn in different directions. Eighty feet of water opened between them. Across the divide, Jason could see Ed staring at him.

  AN HOUR AFTER JASON’S CALL to Billy Brown, the Alona Rahab and several other Tangier boats converged on the corn buoy. Pressing farther to the northwest, they came upon a debris field floating on the water: the big plywood lid from a workboat’s engine box; empty bushel baskets, others still full of crabs; and a tote labeled with Ed Charnock’s name.

  So they weren’t searching for a boat, Lonnie realized, but for two men in the water. As the searchers split up, he began to appreciate just how high the seas were running. Five to six feet now, and there was no sense to these waves. They manhandled the boat.

  Lonnie saw that wind and tide were carrying the debris to the southwest, and fast. He pressed the “Man Overboard” button on his GPS console. It would enable him to cover the surrounding water in loops, always returning to this spot to start again.

  He knew, from his own close call in 1991, that a man treading water doesn’t drift as fast as flotsam. That meant that Ed and Jason were likely upwind of the debris. He turned to the northeast. Out on deck, Michael Parks climbed onto the engine box. The Alona Rahab was tossing like a cork, but the big firefighter somehow kept his feet while he scanned the surrounding water.

  Lonnie ran up the debris field until it ended, then circled back to the point he’d marked on his GPS. Another Tangier waterman was talking by radio to the crew of the Coast Guard chopper. Get him to find the debris field and fly against its flow, Lonnie told the waterman. Ed and Jason, they’re going to be lagging behind the debris.

  Lonnie made another looping venture to the northeast. Light and lively as his boat was, the deck swerved, dipped, and tilted under his feet. The storm was strengthening. Tangier boats had fanned out to the north and south of him, and he could see they were getting tossed. Lonnie reckoned it was blowing thirty-five, gusting to forty.

  The Coast Guard chopper roared low overhead, circling. Flew over again. Now Carol’s voice came over the radio. “Lonnie, do you see anything?” Like many Tangier families, the Moores kept a marine VHF in their house.

  “Nothing yet, Carol,” he replied.

  “Do you have hope?”

  He did not answer. As the chopper made another pass, a terrible thought began to grow in his mind. He might have to tell his daughter that he couldn’t find her husband, that his own grandchildren had lost their father. He did not share this worry with the other boats. To the contrary, as he made another circle in the Alona Rahab, and another, always returning to that spot he’d marked on his GPS, Lonnie tried to encourage their crews. I know they can still be alive, he said into his radio. I know because I’ve been there.

  Still, an hour and a half had now passed since Jason’s call to Billy. Time was getting short. Carol called again. “Anything yet, Lonnie?”

  “Nothing yet, Carol.”

  He made another circle, and suddenly Michael shouted, “I see something!” From his unsteady perch he was peering over the cabin to the water ahead of the boat. “It’s right smack over your bow!” Lonnie turned the wheel and slid open his window as Michael yelled, “I think it’s Jason!”

  Dead ahead, the waves had parted to reveal a man neck-deep in the water. He’d stripped off a pale red T-shirt and was waving it over his head. Michael heaved a life ring to him and pulled him to the Alona Rahab. He came up ghostly pale, almost blue.

  “Which way is your dad?” Lonnie asked him, looking around.

  Jason was trembling, unable to walk, barely coherent. “I don’t think Dad made it,” he said.

  FROM JASON CHARNOCK’S STATEMENT to the U.S. Coast Guard:

  Dad kept on floating away staring at me. I was looking for a helicopter to come. I kept looking, and then I looked back to see where my dad was, he wasn’t there and must have went under.

  After that I felt like I was there for about an hour. I had to gain my strength. Eventually, I had to relax to conserve my energy. I kept looking east to the Coast Guard. Eventually a helicopter flew right over top of me. There was a boat coming from the east to the west, but he passed right by me. Once it passed me, I thought they would mark off this location [as already searched]. I kept fighting.

  I saw another boat, and remember it started to rain on me again. I saw another boat from the west, who was Lonnie. I took off my shirt and waved it.

  Two nights later, when John Flood opens Swain Memorial’s Wednesday evening service, Ed is still lost at sea. “Dear Heavenly Father,” the pastor prays, “as we gather together as your people this evening, we are hurting. And, Father, we’re trying to comprehend everything that has happened this week.”

  Nancy Creedle is off the island, so the congregation sings “Amazing Grace,” all five verses of it, a cappella, lending a humble, beseeching air to the proceedings. On hearing of the tragedy, Pastor Flood tells the assembled, his first reaction was to give thanks that Ed had been saved just the previous month. “It was March the first,” he says. “He hadn’t been saved that long, but he was saved, just as if he had been saved when he was twenty years old.”

  He peers at his flock. “You have to wonder, where is God in all this? What happened here?” he asks. “I found out that there were two blessings right immediately. That Ed—in that crisis time, in that stormy sea, hanging on—he told his son: ‘This don’t look good. You have to get right with the Lord. You need to accept him as your savior right now.’ And then Loni Renee told me that she made a deal. She said, ‘God, if you will only bring Jason home safe, I’ll serve you the rest of my life.’ And you know, I had to think how that would have put a smile on Ed’s face. You know that had to be his heart’s desire, to see his son and his daughter-in-law saved.

  “And I believe that out there, as rough as those seas were Monday . . . I still believe that in all of that, that God was there.”

  With that, the pastor has outlined how Tangier will process the tragedy. Ed Charnock had long been a churchgoer—he accompanied Annette to Swain every Sunday, wearing his best. Islanders regarded him as honest and upright, and kindly and good-humored. But that he was saved mitigates the pain of his loss. And that the events surrounding his death have led two other Tangiermen to salvation is a cause for rejoicing. “God is here with us,” Pastor Flood tells his flock. “And I believe that God’s glory is already being shown in Jason and Loni Renee.”

  Members of the congregation share their memories of Ed. Hoot Pruitt says Ed was “always a joy to be around.” Marlene McCready calls him “a good man.” Jack Thorne says Ed was honest, always honest, and that he didn’t die in vain. “I thought, ‘Oh Lord, how come Ed, he’
s drownded?’” Jack says, then answers his own question: “If he hadn’t got drownded, maybe Jason and Loni would have got saved. But next day?”

  Pastor Flood nods. “There are a lot of opportunities to see God’s glory in this,” he says. “Satan didn’t take Ed. Jesus came and got him.”

  The entire congregation stands and, holding hands, forms a circle. It encloses most of the sanctuary. Marlene leads a prayer. “Please, Lord, watch over our watermen, our men who make their living on this great big bay,” she says, “and protect them.

  “And, Lord, if it is your will, please bring Ed’s body back to his family.”

  THE NEXT DAY I STOP IN at the Charnock home to visit with Annette. I’m one of a procession of well-wishers who crowd into her living room, joining her sons Brock and Travis, who’ve hurried to the island from their homes in western Virginia and the North Carolina coast. Annette greets me with a pillowy hug. She’s distracted with shock and exhausted after three sleepless nights, but somehow she maintains her usual chatty warmth. The house is filled with food, she tells me. Eat something.

  Jason is present as well, standing near the door and embracing his neighbors as they enter. “I ain’t a huggy person,” he says, “but I’ve hugged a lot of people, and I ain’t minded it.”

  Stuart Parks steps in and wraps her arms around him. “Hey, Jace,” she whispers.

  “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Got my second chance.”

  Fred Pruitt, Eugenia’s husband, comes through the door. He clutches Jason for a long moment, patting his back, and tells him that both churches devoted their services to his father last night. “Ed was the only subject,” another islander agrees, adding that Carlene led the New Testament service and “did a wonderful job.”

  Jason is as laconic as his father, and the exchange visibly taxes him. “She was always my favorite teacher,” he manages. Fred asks how he’s holding up. “I’ve been spending as much time as I can away from home,” he replies, retreating to a sofa. “The morning is the hardest, when I first wake up and I’ll start thinking.”