A Different Type of Quiet

Mark had never seen the ocean like this before. A fury of winds, raging waves big enough to capsize boats, and white caps pouring froth in a frenzy. He looked out to the bleak horizon. He looked beyond the towering waves. The entirety of the sea was a field of gray. It resembled a completely different place. This was not the same refuge that he had always known. This was not the same oasis he visits. After today, he was unsure if he would ever be able to look at the ocean in the same way.

Mark Davis had grown up around the Outer Banks of North Carolina. He loved fishing. He would want to spend every waking moment out on the water, cutting through the waves on his dad’s boat. He envied his dad’s boat. Then one day on his 14 birthday his dad bought him his own. It was the best day of his life. His brand-new vessel was the Carolina Skiff JVX with a beautiful white hull and beige seats. An ideal boat to take to the water during those cool spring mornings. His father would drive him out to the Hatteras Island boat ramp, and he would take his skiff out a couple miles to Pamlico Sound. Pamlico was calmer than the ocean, and it was known to be full of red drum fish.

His dad owned a small bait store in Hatteras Village. Their spot was well known, as the locals would often stop by early in the morning to acquire their bait for the day ahead. Business was well for Mark’s dad, and Mark was lucky as his dad would occasionally let him get first pick, If Mark was up early enough, which he usually was. This was important, as fish are more likely to bite lively bait, which for Mark would be either shrimp or minnows that have been freshly stocked.

He would venture out to the Sound nearly every day, staying there for hours at a time. His boat could be finnicky sometimes, but he learned to manage it. He would cast the shrimp he had on hand out into the flat and would let the boat drift as he trolled for red drum or silver speckled trout. He loved watching the fishing boats pass by, slicing through the olive-green water, chopping through the Sounds mild waves. When the sun set, the warm yellow and bright orange colors the sky would cast on the water was always breathtaking. He soaked up every moment. When it was time for his dad to pick him up, he was already waiting for the next day, the next time he could take his precious skiff out. His family always appreciated it when he would bring back a few prized red drum for dinner. That was always a special treat, for him as much as his family, as he could never cook those fish as well as his mom.

His trips to the Sound would only become more frequent as he grew older, and he eventually started traveling further, longing for the thrill of the ocean. Ocracoke Inlet naturally was a farther journey that he took. The first time he dared to travel out to the inlet was at the age of 16. This was unlike his normal rides to the Sound, as his trusty boat would take about 2 hours to arrive. The swells were larger and more dangerous, but with his experience and the knowledge he had gained from his dad over the past couple years, he believed he could do it. Because of the tidal currents and deeper channels, Ocracoke was a more desirable pick for fishing, and Mark had grown tired of eating red drum and speckled trout. He was hoping to catch some flounder while he was there.

The first few times Mark visited the inlet, he had trouble handling the larger waves, as they could easily grow to 4 feet tall. Although in stormy conditions, the waves could rapidly escalate to almost 8 feet. Mark was disciplined and careful though, and he would always make sure the weather was suitable before setting out across the channel. And as time passed, he learned how to handle the waves, how to position the boat relative to the waves. If the waves were coming at him head on, he would power through, driving the skiff into the wakes. But if the waves came from the side, trying to engulf the port or starboard, he would angle the boat slightly to counteract the waves force. The last thing he would want is for the waves to capsize his vessel. For such the distance he was traveling, that would never be a good situation.

His father taught him to respect the sea, and he carried that with him as he grew into adulthood. The ocean could be a calm, peaceful place one day, while another day it could unleash its full wrath, spew massive waves and send spray 30 feet into the air. There are always bad days to be out on the ocean, so Mark’s father taught him to always be on edge.

His trips still got farther as he got older, and his love for fishing grew exponentially. One day he heard that the boat, The Threshold was shorthanded a crew member, so Mark took the opportunity and joined the team. He was 20 years old when he began his deep-sea fishing career. He worked on the Contender 38’ Sportfish, a boat made for handling swells and pulling in large fish. He and the crew would target Yellowfin Tuna, which can weigh up to 150 pounds, and Bluefin Tuna, the more prized fish. It was rare to hook a Bluefin, and even rarer to get it on the boat. They can way up to 500 pounds and take hours to reel in, so The Threshold only catches 3-5 a year.

But when Mark realized that his dream of deep-sea fishing was finally going to be fulfilled, he made it his goal to catch and reel in a Bluefin Tuna by himself. All by himself. As he got used to the routines of the boat and the crew, he quickly became friends with the deckhands. Over the next year, as he fostered the relationships with his fellow workers and captain, he steadily climbed the ranks. He moved up from handling deck maintenance, to baiting the rods, and eventually assisting the captain. He still longed for the day where he would be able to man the rods, and pull in a Yellowfin Tuna, or even better yet, a Bluefin.

The seas would get rough sometimes, and he would have to work on his captain’s schedule. That meant no more checking the weather and playing it safe like he used to. This was all about catching as much fish as possible and then selling them for the highest price. Mark was no longer going on fun outings by himself, this was business. This was work. But he still liked it. He trusted the crew and the captain. He knew they were safe from the moment they would leave the dock to the second they came back. He knew that they possessed the skills they would need in case they ever got stuck in a frightening situation. He trusted them. He trusted himself.

This trust kept him coming back day after day. He knew that the feeling of hooking a 500-pound monster would all be worth it. And he loved every second that he was out on the water. One day while he was helping the crew load the bait onto The Threshold, the captain pulled him aside. He was being promoted. Over a year of waiting, watching, and wishing had ultimately led him to this moment. He felt so alive when he manned the rod. His first fish was a Yellowfin, but he was still waiting. He felt it. He knew that he would catch a Bluefin. Over the course of a year, he mastered the techniques, the art of deep-sea fishing. He quickly became a pro at his craft. Then one summer afternoon, while The Threshold was out on the open waters, his rod bent down. The line went tight with tension. He felt it. He knew. There was a Bluefin on the line.

He fought for hours, slowly but surely reeling the mammoth of a fish in. His hands grew red from clutching the rod so tight. His forearms burned every time he would reel. His back was the most sore he had ever felt in his life, from the constant pull, the force this huge fish was exerting. It was trying to escape, trying to break free. But little did it know that it had an expert fisherman on the other side of the line. Mark had been training for this moment. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, daring him to keep going. With every passing second, he thought that his arms would give out, refusing to work any longer. But it never happened. He kept reeling. He kept tugging. And after a very long time of continuous effort, he landed the Bluefin.

Mark walked off the dock that day with an extra 200 dollars in his pocket. A bonus, for anyone who reeled in that coveted fish. But for Mark, it wasn’t about the money. He loved every second of it. He loved fighting that fish. Just like he felt when he was a 14-year-old, he couldn’t wait to get back on that boat the next day and fish off the coast of North Carolina, no matter how sore his arms were.

Mark saved every penny. He thought the life of a deckhand was great, but he wanted to get his own deep-sea fishing boat. He wanted the rush of crashing through the sea, barreling into the waves. After 4 years of hard work on The Threshold, he bought his own boat, a Grady‑White Express 37’ and resigned from his position. He named his boat The Stallion. He worked meticulously to find a crew, a crew that loved fishing and the ocean. Just like him. After a lot of interviews, he finally had his deckhands. Mark was of course the captain; the years of training and practice had paid off. He was now at the top. He was in charge. The hierarchy revolved around him. He promised himself that he would be a good captain, one his dad would be proud of.

The days out at sea were long. He taught the crew everything he knew. Everything he had learned. But he had picked hard workers, and they were fast learners too. Day after day, they would show up and before long the boat was working like a well-oiled machine. They pulled in fish after fish, and even occasionally brought in a Bluefin. Mark remembered that glorious moment, and he wanted everyone to experience it on his boat. He was making way more money than before, and more people than he expected wanted his fish. He loved the ocean even more than before. He was living his best life. Until it all changed.

He knew he shouldn’t have gone. He felt something was off. Maybe he had become like the crew and the captain of The Threshold. Maybe he had learned to ignore his instincts, to wave off that horrible feeling in his gut. The water looked fine, even to a trained eye. But Mark could feel something in the air.

He and the crew left the dock early in the morning. The boat had an abundance of bait, and although tired, the crew was ready. The crew was alert, like always. But nothing could have prepared them for what was about to happen. The Stallion cruised away from the docks, like normal. The crew bustled around the boat, tending to their jobs. Mark just stared. Looked at the mainland, which was fading away. He stared up into the sky. Dark gray clouds were scattered everywhere. He had never felt this way before. Was it too late? Could he tell the crew? There was no need. What would they think of him?

He didn’t turn back. He tried to push that feeling away. The feeling of dread. He assured himself that everything was alright. The sea grew quieter as they furthered their proximity from the shore. Not quiet in a good way. It was too quiet. Mark felt the wind picking up speed. He knew the crew felt it too. It was abnormal, the way it suddenly escalated. He kept moving. There was no need to turn back, right? Mark reached the destination. The point where they would usually cast their lines and wait for the fish to bite. But no one moved. No one talked. He saw it on there faces.

Mark motioned for everyone to get back to work. He was already here so he might as well fish. But every minute the waves seemed to look bigger. The rain unleashed from the menacing black clouds above them. He couldn’t wait any longer. He yelled to his crew. They already knew what he would say. They all rushed to secure the rods, tackle and loose gear. Mark watched as they made sure all the hatches and windows were secure and completely closed. He designated a deckhand to check all the safety equipment, he needed to make sure everyone got home safely. He needed everyone to be alright. He ran into the cabin and checked the radar. There was a huge storm heading there way.

Once all the precautions were taken care of, Mark immediately turned the boat around and kicked it into full gear. He needed to get out of there as soon as possible. He gave the wheel to a crew member and rushed outside to check everything. The winds got stronger; he judged them to be about 40 mile an hour. This was bad. Suddenly, a huge gust knocked him over, and onto the side of the boat. His crew rushed to help him up. He could have easily been thrown overboard by the power of the wind. He ordered everyone to get inside the cabin. The sea was about to unleash its fury. The waves grew to 15 feet. Pounding against hull of the vessel. Crashing over and filling the boat before the scupper drained the sea water out.

Mark could feel the boat groaning. He tried to power through the waves, but as they grew bigger, the boat became more vertical each run up the steep gray slope of the surfs. Its bow pointing up to the dark bleak sky. Every time the boat would rise to the top of the wave there would be a moment of silence. A moment where everything went completely still. Everyone held their breath, not knowing if this would be the one that capsizes the boat. Then after a few seconds, the bow crashes back down, violently hitting the water with a loud boom, shaking The Stallion and lifting Mark and the crew off the floor. The boat veered and turned and twisted through the waves like an untamed horse.

The waves were now 35 feet. These were monsters. Mark had never seen anything like this before, and neither had his crew. Waves crashed against the boat with power, with force, Mark was sure it was ready to fall apart. The crew had their life jackets on. The bright orange. It reminded him of the sunrises and sunsets when he was a boy.

Suddenly as he felt the boat going up the unforgiving slope of a wave, right at the point where the wave crested, the boat fell. It fell backwards, tumbling, flipping the boat over. The overturned boat was submerged in the raging water, waves pounding over them and engulfing The Stallion. Water poured in through every crack and crevice and pooled at their feet. Mark could feel themselves going under, slowly sinking to their watery graves. He tried to open the cabin door. It wouldn’t budge. Hydrostatic pressure at its finest. The crew stared in disbelief. They would have to wait until the boat was full of water, until the compressed air escaped.

Those minutes of waiting were grueling. Who knew who would get back home safely today? Maybe no one. Mark and his crew took their final breaths, as the water rose to the ceiling, or now floor, of the boat. How far underneath the water were they? They have been slowly sinking for a while. Once the water fully filled the boat, Mark heaved the door one more time. It gave out. He swam out and looked up to the surface. He could see the white froth and foam of the crashing waves as they surged underwater. He estimated he was about 40 feet under. The pressure was immense, and he let the life jacket take him up to the surface. He needed to make this breath, the air he had in his lungs count.

He broke free for the oceans grip. He gasped, sucked in as much air as he could, until another wave collapsed on top of him. He sank back under. He kept fighting. He could feel the waves carrying him away, pulling him farther and farther. He wondered where his crew was. Were they ok? With every stroke his arms weakened, he tried to ride the waves but kept failing. But he refused to give up.

Hours passed; they seemed like days. Water flooded into his mouth. He probably swallowed more than he should have. Rescue seemed impossible. Every time a wave would fall on top of him it felt like he had been crushed by a car. Just when his body was about to give out, he saw a helicopter.

They pulled Mark up. Gave him water and a blanket. He didn’t understand why this happened to him.

Would he ever venture back out to the sea? Of course.