The Perfect Storm

#44139 and on the edge of Banquereau, one of the old fishing grounds off Nova Scotia. The 200-fathom line turns a corner at Banquereau, running north up the St. Lawrence Channel and south-southwest to Sable Island. About sixty miles due east is an underwater canyon called “The Gully,” and then the Sable Island shallows start.

Sable Island is a twenty-mile sandbar that extends another forty or fifty miles east-west below water. From a distance, the surf that breaks on the shoals looks like a white sand cliff. Mariners have headed for it in storms, thinking they might save themselves by driving their boat onto the beach, only to be pounded to pieces by twenty- foot waves on the outer bar. Sable Island historian George Patterson writes, in 1894: “From the east end a bar stretches northeasterly for seventeen miles, of which the first four are dry in fine weather, the next nine covered with heavy breakers and the last four with a heavy cross-sea. The island and its bar present a continuous line of upwards of fifty miles of terrific breakers. The currents around the island are terribly conflicting and uncertain, sometimes passing around the whole circuit of the compass in twenty-four hours. An empty cask will be carried round and round the island, making the circuit several times, and the same is the case with bodies from wrecks.”

The island prowls restlessly around the Scotian Shelf, losing sand from one end, building it up on the other, endlessly, throughout the centuries. Since 1873 it has melted away beneath the foundations of six lighthouses. Herds of wild horses live on the island, the descendants of tough Breton mountain horses left there by the French. Nothing but mar-ran grass holds the dunes in place, and cranberries, blueberries, and wild roses grow in the inland bogs. The Gulf Stream and the glacial Labrador Current converge at Sable, frequently smothering the island in fog. Five thousand men are said to have drowned in its shallows, earning it the name “The Graveyard of the Atlantic,” and at least that many have been pulled to safety by lifesaving crews that have been maintained there since 1801. “We have had a tolerable winter, and no wrecks, except the hull of the schooner Juno, of Plymouth,” one island- keeper recorded in 1820. “She came ashore without masts, sails or rigging of any description, and no person on board except one dead man in the hold.”

In bad weather, horsemen circled the island looking for ships in distress. If any were spotted, the horsemen rushed back for the surf boat and rowed out through the breakers to save anyone who was still alive. Sometimes they were able to fire rockets with a line attached and rig up a breeches buoy. After the storm died down they’d salvage the cargo and saw the ship timber up for firewood or construction material. People pulled from sinking ships often spent the entire winter on the island. Sometimes two or three hundred people would be camped out in the dunes, waiting for a relief ship to arrive in the spring.

Today there are two lighthouses, a Coast Guard station, a meteorological station, and several dozen oil and natural gas wells. There’s a sixty-foot shoal thirty miles to the northwest and a forty-five-foot shoal twenty miles to the east. They mark the western and eastern ends of the sandbar, respectively. Billy isn’t right on top of the bars yet, but he’s getting close. In the old days it was known that most shipwrecks on Sable occurred because of errors in navigation; the westerly current was so strong that it could throw boats off by sixty to a hundred miles. If Billy has lost his electronics—his GPS, radar, and loran—he’s effectively back in the old days. He’d have a chart of the Grand Banks on the chart table and would be estimating his position based on compass heading, forward speed, and wind conditions. This is called dead reckoning. Maybe the currents and the storm winds push Billy farther west than he realizes, and he gets into the shallows around Sable. Maybe he has turned downsea on purpose to keep water out of the wheel-house, or to save fuel. Or maybe their steering’s gone and, like the Eishin Maru, they’re just careening westward on the weather.

Whatever it is, one thing is known for sure. Around midnight on October 28th—when the storm is at its height off Sable Island—something catastrophic happens aboard the Andrea Gail.

THE ZERO-MOMENT POINT

Behold a pale horse, and his name who sat

on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

—REVELATION 6:8

IN the 1950s and 1960s, the U.S. Government decided to detonate a series of nuclear devices in the Pacific Ocean. The thinking was that deep water would absorb the shock wave and minimize the effect on the environment, while still allowing scientists to gauge the strength of the explosions. But an oceanographer named William Van Dorn, associated with the Scripps Institute in La Jolla, California, warned them that a nuclear explosion in the wrong place “could convert the entire continental shelf into a surf zone.”

Concerned, the Navy ran a series of wave tank tests to see what kind of stresses their fleet could take. (They’d already lost three destroyers to a typhoon in 1944. Before going down the ships had radioed that they were rolling through arcs of 140 degrees. They downflooded through their stacks and sank.) The Navy subjected model destroyers and aircraft carriers to various kinds of waves and found that a single nonbreaking wave—no matter how big it was—was incapable of sinking a ship. A single breaking wave, though, would flip a ship end over end if it was higher than the ship was long. Typically, the ship would climb the wave at an angle of forty-five degrees, fail to gain the top, and then slide back down the face. Her stern would bury itself into the trough, and the crest of the wave would catch her bow and flip her over. This is called pitch-poling; Ernie Hazard was pitch-poled on Georges Bank. It’s one of the few motions that can end ship-to-shore communication instantly.

Another is a succession of waves that simply drives the boat under—“founders,” as mariners say. The dictionary defines founder as “to cave in, sink, fail utterly, collapse.” On a steel boat the windows implode, the hatches fail, and the boat starts to downflood. The crew is prevented from escaping by the sheer force of the water pouring into the cabin—it’s like walking into the blast of a firehose. In that sense, pitch-poling is better than foundering because an overturned boat traps air in the hold and can stay afloat for an hour or more. That might allow members of the crew to swim out a doorway and climb into a life raft. The rafts are designed to inflate automatically and release from the boat when she goes down. In theory the EPIRB floats free as well, and begins signalling to shore. All the crew has to do is stay alive.

By the late hours of October 28th the sea state is easily high enough to either pitch-pole the Andrea Gail or drive her under. And if she loses power—a clogged fuel filter, a fouled prop—she could slew to the side and roll. The same rule applies to capsizing as to pitch-poling: the wave must be higher than the boat is wide. The Andrea Gail is twenty feet across her beam. But even if the boat doesn’t get hit by a nonnegotiable wave, the rising sea state allows Billy less and less leeway to maneuver. If he maintains enough speed to steer, he beats the boat to pieces; if he slows down, he loses rudder control. This is the end result of two days of narrowing options; now the only choice left is whether to go upsea or down, and the only outcome is whether they sink or float. There’s not much in between.

If the conditions don’t subside, the most Billy can realistically hope for is to survive until dawn. Then at least they’ll have a chance of being rescued—now it’s unthinkable. “In violent storms there is so much water in the air, and so much air in the water, that it becomes impossible to tell where the atmosphere stops and the sea begins,” writes Van Dorn. “That may literally make it impossible to distinguish up from down.” In such conditions a helicopter pilot could never pluck six people off the deck of a boat. So, for the next eight hours, the crew of the Andrea Gail must keep the pumps and engine running and just hope they don’t encounter any rogue waves. Seventy-footers are roaming around the sea state like surly giants and there’s not much Billy can do but take them head-on and try to get over the top before they break. If his floodlights are out he wouldn’t even have that option—he’d just feel a drop into the trough, a lurch, and the boat starting up a slope way too steep to survive.

“Seventy foot seas—I’d be puttin’ on my diapers at that point,” says Charlie Reed. “I’d be quite nervous. That’s higher than the highest point on the Andrea Gail. I once came home from the Grand Banks in thirty-five-foot seas. It was a scary fuckin’ thought—straight up, straight down, for six days. My guess is that Billy turned side-to and rolled. You come off one of those seas cocked, the next one comes at a different angle, it pushes the boat around and then you roll. If the boat flips over—even with everything dogged down—water’s gonna get in. The boat’s upside-down, the plywood’s buckling, that’s the end.”