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233 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1997
[T:]he smell of the ocean is so strong...it can almost be licked off the air. Trucks rumble along Rogers Street and men in t-shirts stained with fishblood shout to each other from the decks of boats. Beneath them the ocean swells up against the black pilings and sucks back down to the barnacles. Beer cans and old pieces of styrofoam rise and fall and pools of spilled diesel fuel undulate like huge irridescent jelly fish.
The diving reflex...is compounded by the general effect of cold temperature on tissue - it preserves it. All chemical reactions, and metabolic processes, become honey-slow, and the brain can get by on less than half the oxygen it normally requires. There are cases of people spending forty or fifty minutes under lake ice and surviving. The colder the water, the stronger the diving reflex, and the longer the survival time. The crew of the Andrea Gail do not find themselves in particularly cold water, though; it may add five or ten minutes to their lives. And there is no one around to save them anyway. The electrical activity in their brain gets weaker and weaker until, after fifteen or twenty minutes, it ceases altogether
The wave wanted me and was going to keep thrashing me in the darkness until I finally gave up and breathed in. What amazed me was how malevolent the whole thing seemed — Me? Why do you want me? I was young and had no idea the world killed people so casually. Oddly, I remembered that there was a pile of dirty dishes in my sink that someone was going to have to deal with. Files and notes for a book I hoped to write on my desk ...
I was writing about a swordfishing boat that had gone down with six men off the Grand Banks in 1991 and wanted to reconstruct their last days and hours and minutes as closely as possible. I didn't know any of the men, but through my research I'd gotten to know their siblings, their girlfriends, their mothers. The process eventually came to feel so intrusive and wrong that I started dreaming about them — that is to say, the men occasionally visited me while I slept. One dream was particularly vivid: I was walking along the beach where I surfed when I spotted them sitting in a circle in the sand. I hesitated because I was sure they were angry with me for writing the book, but they just waved me over to join them. Don't worry, they seemed to be saying. We've been expecting you.
What was happening was not a terror beyond words. It was a grim sense of reality, a scrambling to figure out what to do next, a determination to stay alive and keep other people alive, and an awareness of the dark noisy slamming of the boat. But it wasn’t a terror beyond words. I just had an overwhelming sense of knowing we weren’t going to make it.