His name was Criss Wolcott. I first met him at two o’clock in the morning on the storm tossed entrance to the Chesapeake Bay. He was in near freezing water, desperately hanging on to a small keg. His barge had sunk. He couldn’t swim. He thought he was going to die.
The buzzer on the sound powered phone jarred me awake.
“Captain!” An automatic response. I was now fully alert.
The CG 95312 was my first command; I was twenty-four, the only officer assigned to the 95-foot patrol boat in Norfolk VA, a busy port with lots of Search and Rescue action.
“Captain, this is Barker on the bridge. The Cherokee has lost her tow! She’s about five miles northwest. Five men are in the water. I just changed course to head to her.”
My feet barely hit the deck when I heard the familiar start-up whine of the two Cummins V-12’s that roared to life just like the big rig truck engines that they were. Sitting on the side of my small bunk, I grabbed my pants. I stumbled as I threw on my shirt; the Bay had really kicked up since I had gone to bed. Continue reading “Rescue of the Minnie V. Pt. 1”