Afloat In Fate
Ben Pollock, his cousin Frank Doolin and their boys lazed on the deck of his 20-foot fishing boat. It had been one of the finest fishing days in memory —— a fresh spring day in May 2004, during which they had caught a good 70 sea bass, groupers and grunts, enough to pack everyone's freezer.
The two men and their oldest sons, Gabriel Pollock and Michael Doolin, and another cousin, Jordan Stokes, had been out in the Gulf of Mexico since early morning, and now were enjoying the last warm rays of sunshine before turning back to port in Hudson, Florida. About 40 miles and two hours from shore, and an hour before sunset, they were looking forward to taking their catch home.
Pollock had recently bought the 1972-vintage craft and had taken it for a test run in the rougher waters of the Atlantic. Like most older boats, it had not been “foamed” （insulated with material to keep it buoyant if it capsized）。 Doolin had an uneasy feeling about this and told Pollock he wouldn't go out in an unfoamed vessel. But Pollock kidded with him until he relented.
Now as they turned off the reef, the boat seemed a bit sluggish. Pollock figured the hull had taken on some water. Easy to remedy. He pulled the plug from the hull to let gravity drain it as they motored back toward shore.
Several minutes later, the engine, out of gas, sputtered and died. Time to fill up from the spare tank.
Doolin had gotten little sleep the night before —— an hour at best. But during that brief time, he'd had a nightmare. He dreamed about his son Michael —— and in the dream Michael was drowning. It stayed with him, pricked his consciousness, as he headed to the back of the boat. Meanwhile, Pollock replaced the plug in the hull, grabbed the fuel and a funnel, and prepared to refill the side tank.
But now things were happening very quickly. The stern dipped low in the water. Waves began to wash over the sides. It felt like a hand was pushing the boat down. Doolin grabbed a five-gallon plastic bucket and began to bail. “Get the fuel in,” he yelled.
Pollock bounded over. They dumped in the gas. Pollock frantically turned the key, trying to get the engine to crank. But it wouldn't catch —— it was already underwater. “Grab the life vests. Grab anything that will float！” Doolin called out. The boys jumped, and the men were flung into the water as the boat rolled.
Doolin gathered Michael, 13, and Jordan, 12, close to him as loose gear began popping up all around them. He took out his cell phone, which he kept in a plastic bag —— and punched 911. Nothing. They were too far out.
“Get the rope,” he yelled to Pollock. The anchor was pulling the boat down. And they would need the yellow plastic line. Pollock and Gabriel, the oldest boy at 14, sawed it off using the edge of the propeller. Then, balanced on the rocking, overturned boat, the younger two used it to tie themselves together.
“You boys just sit here,” Doolin said, climbing aboard. “Don't let this thing tip over, because we might have to be out here all night.” Outwardly the youngsters remained calm, but Doolin knew they must be terrified.
Ben Pollock, his cousin Frank Doolin and their boys lazed on the deck of his 20-foot fishing boat. It had been one of the finest fishing days in memory —— a fresh spring day in May 2004, during which they had caught a good 70 sea bass, groupers and grunts, enough to pack everyone's freezer.
The two men and their oldest sons, Gabriel Pollock and Michael Doolin, and another cousin, Jordan Stokes, had been out in the Gulf of Mexico since early morning, and now were enjoying the last warm rays of sunshine before turning back to port in Hudson, Florida. About 40 miles and two hours from shore, and an hour before sunset, they were looking forward to taking their catch home.
Pollock had recently bought the 1972-vintage craft and had taken it for a test run in the rougher waters of the Atlantic. Like most older boats, it had not been “foamed” （insulated with material to keep it buoyant if it capsized）。 Doolin had an uneasy feeling about this and told Pollock he wouldn't go out in an unfoamed vessel. But Pollock kidded with him until he relented.
Now as they turned off the reef, the boat seemed a bit sluggish. Pollock figured the hull had taken on some water. Easy to remedy. He pulled the plug from the hull to let gravity drain it as they motored back toward shore.
Several minutes later, the engine, out of gas, sputtered and died. Time to fill up from the spare tank.
Doolin had gotten little sleep the night before —— an hour at best. But during that brief time, he'd had a nightmare. He dreamed about his son Michael —— and in the dream Michael was drowning. It stayed with him, pricked his consciousness, as he headed to the back of the boat. Meanwhile, Pollock replaced the plug in the hull, grabbed the fuel and a funnel, and prepared to refill the side tank.
But now things were happening very quickly. The stern dipped low in the water. Waves began to wash over the sides. It felt like a hand was pushing the boat down. Doolin grabbed a five-gallon plastic bucket and began to bail. “Get the fuel in,” he yelled.
Pollock bounded over. They dumped in the gas. Pollock frantically turned the key, trying to get the engine to crank. But it wouldn't catch —— it was already underwater. “Grab the life vests. Grab anything that will float！” Doolin called out. The boys jumped, and the men were flung into the water as the boat rolled.
Doolin gathered Michael, 13, and Jordan, 12, close to him as loose gear began popping up all around them. He took out his cell phone, which he kept in a plastic bag —— and punched 911. Nothing. They were too far out.
“Get the rope,” he yelled to Pollock. The anchor was pulling the boat down. And they would need the yellow plastic line. Pollock and Gabriel, the oldest boy at 14, sawed it off using the edge of the propeller. Then, balanced on the rocking, overturned boat, the younger two used it to tie themselves together.
“You boys just sit here,” Doolin said, climbing aboard. “Don't let this thing tip over, because we might have to be out here all night.” Outwardly the youngsters remained calm, but Doolin knew they must be terrified.