October 11, 1989 Suisun Bay, California

Wednesday Afternoon

“Sue the F——g studio!”

Dusk settled over Suisun Bay just north of San Francisco. An occasional fishing vessel passed through; a sailboat slipped by quietly. But mostly it was the ghost ships—sixty-six of them in well-defined rows, the military’s “Reserve Fleet” or “Mothball Fleet” occupying the narrow slip of water—discarded, ancient, rusted, tired and creaking warships. Like a field of ethereal soldiers standing in formation, their war long forgotten.

On a high deck of the innermost ship—sitting many stories above the waterline—perched on scrappy metal steps up to the highest cabin on the structure, Meredith Ogden rested her head on knees hugged close to her body. Caught between frustration and panic, she tugged at her thick jacket. Her throat ached from yelling—screaming—nearly two hours—from the bow of the boat.

“Hello! Anyone...Help!”

Frantic words that dissolved into the breeze across the shad- ows and finding listeners only in the clouds. Meredith unfolded her lithe, athletic form from the hard steps and stood to gaze—yet once more—across the water, mentally searching for a fix for the predicament she was in. Stranded on an abandoned warship was

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the most unexpected result of a planned ordinary movie set visit for the intrepid writer. A prominent, nationally known columnist covering the entertainment industry, she was most often seen on red carpets and in spotlights around star-studded premiers and events. Seldom stranded on an abandoned warship with only winds and threatening rain to keep her company.

How, she wondered, could a major movie studio escort an important Hollywood journalist to this isolated location, site for the upcoming blockbuster release Shadow of the Wave, then forget she’s on board? And not even notice enough to send someone back to retrieve her. The thought left her breathless. And furious. And a little frightened. This is worse than the worst “B” movie plot, she told herself. And hardly worth spending anxiety on...and yet....

Working on an in-depth article about the movie industry’s relationship with the U.S. Military, she had connected with the most prolific producer of movie and TV shows centered around armed service subject matter. Matthew Morgan’s long reputation was built on his ability to locate productions on military property, use military equipment and even personnel, and generally bolster the overall character and mystique of the American soldier. His latest movie, a multi-million-dollar blockbuster with top-tier stars, would fill theaters in a few months. Much of the film was shot on the decrepit warship languishing in Northern California’s Suisun Bay. “It was a cheap opportunity,” he told Meredith. He had invited—urged—her to join a small band of press and executives for a quick visit to the set of Shadow of the Wave in order to gather a good understanding of the story’s context and landscape.

Meredith didn’t really need the visit to the ghost ships. She had already spent several hours with Matthew Morgan at the studio and in his Los Angeles office, but she realized that seeing first-hand how a rusty battleship might be resurrected as the

backdrop for an epic maritime drama would lend color and veracity to her work. She accepted the invitation, caught an early morning flight from L.A. to Oakland in time to meet the assembled group for brunch at a harborside restaurant, then drive the hour-and-a-half to Benicia on the Carquinez Straits. From there, they divided into two watercraft launches that took them to the watery home of the National Defense Reserve Fleet, the Ghost Fleet.

The sight of the vast rows of moribund maritime giants took away the breath of most of the 13-person entourage consisting of the movie’s executive producer Matthew Morgan, the studio’s publicity chief, four weighty international press members, Shadow of the Wave publicity representative, two drivers, two other studio executives and two unidentified film distribution VIPS.

“This ship reminds me of the movie Poseidon Adventure,” uttered the journalist from France. “Like I’m living in the shadow of the big wave.” His lilting dramatic accent causing several colleagues to regard him in puzzlement. They said nothing. Movie title aside, Suisun Bay didn’t seem prone to large waves.

Meredith felt her own heart pound as her imagination took over at the view—not just rusting ships but long-forgotten, perhaps never told, stories of life, death, courage, victory and tragedy. She felt the thrum of spirit and soul as the launch grew closer to the awesome lineup. They boarded the ship situated in one of many rows, the one farthest into the bay, away from land, to see where Shadow of the Wave had been filmed. The movie crew, long gone, had converted many areas of the ship into sets representing the story being told. Now gone, all vestiges of filming removed, the empty vessel had returned to its former abandoned shell. Like a hunched over elder, scraggly and matted grey hair, watery eyes barely seeing but trying to be welcoming. It was an image Meredith kept with her as she fought to keep

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grounded and work to figure out how to now escape the old gent’s company.

When executive producer Morgan had prepared to give a presentation of the film to the assembly, he told Meredith she could step aside if she wanted. She’d heard the spiel before. Looking at the group assembled by the studio, Meredith was slightly amused. Besides studio personnel and a representative of the organization overseeing the ship maintenance, there was a correspondent from a major German publication, a French television network, and Clarice Duncan, entertainment columnist for a local weekly paper from a small town in upper Marin County above San Francisco. She had expressed surprise at the inclusion of the part-time journalist and the producer rolled his eyes and said, “she pestered me to interview someone—the movie was shot so close by. I remember her from a while ago with a larger paper. Know her?”

Meredith nodded. “She used to be with the old Celebrity Plus syndicate, but it was absorbed then shut down by one of the larger ones. Been a while.”

A few steps down from the main deck area, Meredith settled into a room off a long hallway and out of earshot to make notes. She sat down on the empty floor and leaned against the bulkhead wall to scan her notes. There was a plethora of material. A good three-part column series took form and she began to organize it, engaged totally in the process. Suddenly she looked up to realize at least an hour had passed. She made her way back to the main deck area to join the group and discovered—there was no group. There were no voices. The launches weren’t even in sight. Somehow, she’d been left behind. She felt her spine clench, her mind reverting almost to the childhood fear of discovering she’d been abandoned in a strange and frightening place and no idea where her mother or dad might be.

Yelling and frantic waving to the disinterested bay had no response whatsoever. At first she considered the possibility of simply climbing across the many ships stacked next to one another until she reached the one closest to the actual landing facility on the shore. But exploring, she saw there was at least a twelve-foot leap to the hull of the adjacent ship. Then she thought about swimming to shore. Her rusty iron home was the last ship in the bay itself and boasted a gangway to the water, but no platform or dock there. Again, the distance to the shore was too daunting and the weather too cold.

Yet, only a mile or more away was the massive expanse of the Benicia-Martinez Bridge—stretching about a mile and a half across the Carquinez Straight with enough commerce and traffic to see the addition of a second span in the next two years. Meredith looked across at the minute movement atop the span and yelled “Hey, look this way. I hear you. How come you can’t hear me?” She screamed in frustration, then kicked the rusted gunwale. “Ouch,” she barked, surprised at her own force, and gave up.

Breathing deeply, she talked herself away from panic, reminding herself that this was the adult world and that between the myriad of individuals involved with this excursion, rescue would be inevitable. And she repeated the words over and over.

So much for another one of those simple one-day excursions—and home in time for a late dinner, she told herself. She knew she had scant time to plan what looked to be an unplanned overnight stay on her floating bivouac. And no way to contact anyone. No available electricity aboard the ship that perched high above the water. With dusk giving way to darkness and a storm pending, she moved into the one room that seemed closest, most open and captured some light from the outside. She pulled her large bag atop a single remaining scarred and splintered table and felt inside for whatever she’d packed that

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would be helpful. Fortunately, she sighed, she had the foresight to think about temperatures in the San Francisco area, worn her bulky weather jacket and brought a knit cap and scarf. Her seemingly bottomless tote held an old cellophane bag of trail mix and the bonanza: a Snickers bar she bought in the L.A. airport before boarding her flight. Dinner. Those items were accompanied by a half bottle of water, a bottle of Advil, small cosmetic bag and brush for “on the go” touch-ups, wallet, a tiny slender pen light on her key set, the miniature multi-purpose “tool” her colleague insisted she always carry, and, of course, her notebook and three pens, and her constant companion—a tiny Minnox camera. She found a scrunched-up half bag of popcorn from some other event pushed deep down in her jacket pocket.

It would be a long night.

Meredith could see clouds starting to obstruct the stars and lights from the shore and felt the dampness of forecasted rain. Winds had already escalated. She strained to see what activity might be in progress in the bay, but it stretched dark and quiet. Only the metallic groaning and creaking of the tired and ancient ships surrounding her laced the air. A gentle almost imperceptible roll of the hulk. She shuddered and pulled her jacket closer and returned to the temporary camp she set up under the topmost deck where she had some shelter from the weather and illumination from a safety light, one of many above the massive water dormitories. A long-lingering suspicion of her own unknown night demons lay quietly in her mind.

Eating half the bag of trail mix and two bites of the Snickers bar, she had tamped down her anger far enough that it no longer qualified as “fury,” then settled in to make the best of this uninterrupted time and distract her underlying awareness of the empty, ghostly monolith. A pen and notebook were her only back-up and she scratched out her immediate thoughts.

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What will Raymond think when I don’t show up at home? The domestic ground’s already a little shaky.

How will I pick up my car tomorrow from the shop? And who’s the asshole who keyed the angry scratch in the door of my beloved red Mustang. Inconsiderate.

Who’s posing as me, and why and who was following me in New York?

What will I tell Cece Longmore and It’s a Good Day producers about their offer of a permanent slot on the show? So many considerations: New York, L.A., on air—becoming the personality who talks about other personalities or...?

What about Ronnie? Can’t help but wonder if he’ll still harbor in the homeless camps and shadows of New York or pick up on the long-ago momentum of the super-popular young teen TV star? Or choose a new direction?

How will I get off this hulk and get home? Will I ever get off the hulk? How did this happen?

Sue the f——g studio!