Five hundred miles from land, the Jeanette Diana’s seventeen-man crew clung to a cork-line in the middle of the South Pacific, as the orange glow from the rising sun bathed the crow’s nest for a few more moments before it slipped beneath the water.
She was gone.
They had lost their skiff two days before and were making their way back to the Samoan Islands for a replacement.
Some were from Samoa, others from San Diego, still others from as far away as Portugal, they were commercial fishermen familiar with the waters that had swallowed their vessel and nearly all hope for a rescue. The men said nothing. Some moved their lips in silent prayer. None wore a life jacket. All knew they were almost certainly doomed to join their ship making her way to the ocean floor. They also knew about the grey-tip sharks.
In the middle of the…
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