An Understandable Fear
It was about 10：15 p.m. A shrimp boat was speeding along a mile or so away. “Give me a flare！” Pollock shouted. On a night as dark as this, a flare would surely catch the eye of anyone on deck. He set it off, expecting a wide arc of flame. But the device barely flashed up an inch before dying.
“That was a flare？” Doolin said, half-laughing. Pollock popped a second. It shot up a bit higher, then fizzled. A third sputtered and flickered out, giving no more light than a matchstick. The flares he had retrieved were the oldest ones he'd had on board.
The flashlight！ Its beam might be weaker, but would shine longer. Pollock rummaged through the small cooler where he had stowed salvaged items. Where was it？ It had to be here. But it was gone. They all watched the shrimp boat disappear.
Every bone in Doolin's body was rattling. It would be so easy to give up now, to close his eyes and allow the sea to take him. But he had to stay in this for Michael.
A tall, thin boy, Michael had almost no body fat to insulate him from the cold. He was lethargic now, at times barely conscious. “Wake up, wake up,” Doolin urged. The boy mumbled, and Doolin held him close, trying to forget the dream of the night before, praying that his son wouldn't die.
The other boys had also become weak and disoriented. Gabriel had the dry heaves from salt water he'd swallowed. His father cradled him, rubbed his arms to keep him warm. Jordan seemed to be hallucinating. The men couldn't understand what he was saying, but they understood his fear.
As dawn broke, Gabriel and Jordan perked up some. Michael was too weak to keep his head up. Doolin and Pollock tied him to the handle of the ice chest in order to keep his face out of the water. They had been adrift for almost 12 hours with no relief from the cold. It would be hours still before the sun warmed the air and sea.
They swam east toward the shore. Jellyfish stung their legs, but they pushed on. By 7 a.m., staring at the vast emptiness, Pollock felt despair. Where were all the boats？ They had been an hour from shore when their own went down. They should be seeing fishing vessels out on the water soon. But would the boats see them？
Doolin understood that nobody was going to spot five heads bobbing just above the water. He had fished the Florida Keys and knew that fishermen looked for diving frigate birds to point them to fish. What could they toss in the air that would resemble a bird diving for prey？ They had the small white cooler —— that would have to do.
Sometime past eight o'clock, two boats appeared, far southwest of them. Doolin threw the little cooler into the air. Pollock tossed their distress flag. Gabriel and Jordan joined in, shouting, yelling, throwing whatever they could. The boats sped past.
Doolin took a close look at Michael. He was as limp as a dishrag, barely conscious, no longer even trembling. Haunted by his dream, Doolin blamed himself for bringing his boy fishing, and for their predicament.
It was about 10：15 p.m. A shrimp boat was speeding along a mile or so away. “Give me a flare！” Pollock shouted. On a night as dark as this, a flare would surely catch the eye of anyone on deck. He set it off, expecting a wide arc of flame. But the device barely flashed up an inch before dying.
“That was a flare？” Doolin said, half-laughing. Pollock popped a second. It shot up a bit higher, then fizzled. A third sputtered and flickered out, giving no more light than a matchstick. The flares he had retrieved were the oldest ones he'd had on board.
The flashlight！ Its beam might be weaker, but would shine longer. Pollock rummaged through the small cooler where he had stowed salvaged items. Where was it？ It had to be here. But it was gone. They all watched the shrimp boat disappear.
Every bone in Doolin's body was rattling. It would be so easy to give up now, to close his eyes and allow the sea to take him. But he had to stay in this for Michael.
A tall, thin boy, Michael had almost no body fat to insulate him from the cold. He was lethargic now, at times barely conscious. “Wake up, wake up,” Doolin urged. The boy mumbled, and Doolin held him close, trying to forget the dream of the night before, praying that his son wouldn't die.
The other boys had also become weak and disoriented. Gabriel had the dry heaves from salt water he'd swallowed. His father cradled him, rubbed his arms to keep him warm. Jordan seemed to be hallucinating. The men couldn't understand what he was saying, but they understood his fear.
As dawn broke, Gabriel and Jordan perked up some. Michael was too weak to keep his head up. Doolin and Pollock tied him to the handle of the ice chest in order to keep his face out of the water. They had been adrift for almost 12 hours with no relief from the cold. It would be hours still before the sun warmed the air and sea.
They swam east toward the shore. Jellyfish stung their legs, but they pushed on. By 7 a.m., staring at the vast emptiness, Pollock felt despair. Where were all the boats？ They had been an hour from shore when their own went down. They should be seeing fishing vessels out on the water soon. But would the boats see them？
Doolin understood that nobody was going to spot five heads bobbing just above the water. He had fished the Florida Keys and knew that fishermen looked for diving frigate birds to point them to fish. What could they toss in the air that would resemble a bird diving for prey？ They had the small white cooler —— that would have to do.
Sometime past eight o'clock, two boats appeared, far southwest of them. Doolin threw the little cooler into the air. Pollock tossed their distress flag. Gabriel and Jordan joined in, shouting, yelling, throwing whatever they could. The boats sped past.
Doolin took a close look at Michael. He was as limp as a dishrag, barely conscious, no longer even trembling. Haunted by his dream, Doolin blamed himself for bringing his boy fishing, and for their predicament.