1
Tomahawk, Oklahoma—1979
This is a story I thought I would take to my grave. But I am old and sick, and my time grows short in this sad and sorry world. And before I meet my maker, I wish to unburden my heart, before it all slips away…
It began with the sinking of the Molly Roger, at one time a very profitable commercial fishing boat until... Here my memory fails me, as to the hows and whys the Molly Roger sank to the bottom of the Pacific taking most of her crew with it, almost thirty years ago.
What I do remember is how cold the ocean waters were as I clung to life on a make-shift life preserver cobbled together from the last pieces of the Molly Roger.
From my Navy days, I knew that the ocean is a living thing. It can by turns be calm and yet suddenly turn rabid within heartbeats depending solely on its manic nature. It is also a hungry thing, and I have seen many good men swallowed whole by that watery leviathan during the War.
I knew that I should let go and join the rest of the Molly Roger crew in a watery grave. But I was always a stubborn man, and once I got an idea in my head, I would see it through to the bitter end. So, I clung to life. Deep down, however, I knew it was a losing battle. There was no help in sight, and I was an adrift in the middle of nowhere. An earlier cry for help was quickly silenced by a wave of salty water that poured down my throat.
Still if the ocean didn’t kill me then the icy cold weather most certainly would have. In that moment, my chattering teeth were a constant reminder that if rescue did not arrive soon then 1949 would be my year on Earth. I felt cheated. It was so unfair, I was still so young, barely twenty-three at the time, with my whole life ahead of me.
A sudden wave shakes me off my make-shift life preserver.
I disappear underneath the dark frigid waters.
Briefly, I resurface, only to be pulled back under as the ocean swallows me again.
Surprisingly, the water proved soothing. The water’s gentle currents made my eyes grow heavy. It is said that drowning is not a bad way to go. I surrender to the ocean’s cold watery touch and feel at peace.
A peace that is shattered as slimy oily hands reach out... And claim me as their own.
