Timbers creaking, the gunwhales of the fishing boat disappeared below the water, and the rest of the vessel was going fast. Grasping the rifle he found in the cabin, Elmo made his way up the superstructure of the little craft, climbing up the radio antenna assembly as the sea crashed through the windows of the pilothouse beneath his feet. The air was cool, near 40 and partly cloudy, but even though the water was cold and he was two miles from shore, hypothermia was the farthest thing from Elmo’s mind. Out at the edge of the spreading slick of oil and boat debris, he could see the two bright yellow flotation barrels skipping along the surface of the water, circling the smashed hull like avulture.
Fishing trip
Published February 21, 1996
