Early Hopes Gave Way to a Sea of Despair

Deckhands Jerry Earwood and Lisa Sigurdson braced themselves against the brisk wind snapping against their faces. Leaning against the bow of the Speed Twin, a 65-foot commercial fishing craft, the crew members and a small group of reporters strained their eyes, struggling to see beyond the ocean’s blackness. Night had fallen. And seas were rough.

Like dozens of other boats operated by local fishermen, this one moved toward the wreckage site, hoping to help the Coast Guard’s rescue efforts.

Most of us on board were there to do a story, whatever that story turned out to be.

We held on to hope that we would spot a survivor or two, but knew it wasn’t probable.

More likely, we’d witness the crew pulling in the remains of victims.

Lights from our boat streamed across ocean swells crashing against small boats. The once black sea was illuminated like a floating football stadium by the lights of many boats.

After an hour of silence, interrupted only by the steady whirring of the boat’s motor, Earwood called out for the boat to stop.

A square piece of tan plastic drifted in the distance.

A table tray, with the label on the back still clearly readable: “Fasten seat belt while seated. Use seat bottom cushion for flotation device.”

More wreckage followed, littering the dark seascape. Sigurdson and Earwood worked furiously to pull it in:

Twisted metal, foam, a tennis shoe, a baby’s cup.

More debris came into view. The crew and reporters stood silently as the breadth of the unfolding tragedy washed over us.

The cold was becoming an unbearable obstacle. It was hard enough to hold a writing pen, and we marveled at Earwood and Sigurdson as they repeatedly dipped the cold metal pole into the frigid water to retrieve clues left behind by Monday’s disaster.

Many of us were putting up a fierce battle against seasickness, as the boat rocked violently against ocean swells slamming the craft. Some succumbed. In the face of overwhelming nausea, made worse by the grim task at hand, we desperately tried to maintain our composure and stay focused on the search.

Earwood leaned deep over the side of the boat to reach for another piece of wreckage. It was a sizable chunk of wood paneling, and he struggled to bring it on deck. It looked to be a door from somewhere in the cabin--or part of one--entangled with human remains. Sigurdson spotted the gruesome discovery and took in a sharp breath. She said nothing, but the grim sight put an abrupt end to her search.

She was there to find the living, not the remains of the dead. She put down her netted pole.

A Coast Guard craft pulled alongside the boat a short time later, instructing the dozens of fishing boats maneuvering to hand over their finds and then leave the area. In a green fishing net, Earwood scooped up the tattered airplane remains and turned it over to a Coast Guardsman on the adjacent ship.

No, no word on survivors yet, the guardsman solemnly told the crew before they parted. “If you are a religious person,” he yelled out to Earwood, “now is the time to pray.”