I watched from the starboard rail as Jonas used a reach pole to pop open David’s hatch. The physician climbed inside the cockpit to work on him.

After a few minutes Jonas climbed in.

The captain of the hopper-dredge approached and handed me his radio.

“Mac? How is he?”

“The impact broke his neck. David’s dead.”

35

When a loved one dies, we grieve. And through that process we are offered words of comfort. “They are out of pain. They are in a better place—the soul immortal, an eternal spark of perfection. One day we’ll be reunited in the ever-after.”

There are no words of comfort for a parent who loses a child. Children are simply not supposed to die before their parents. It’s unnatural. It defies universal law. The loss of a child is a loss of innocence, a promised future stolen. Hopes and dreams shattered.

A child’s passing affects a community. But from the parent, it takes a piece of the heart, and in its place it leaves a hole that can never be healed. A hole infected with depression and often filled with anger. Anger aimed at God. Anger that targets a spouse or a physician, a stranger at fault, a path crossed by evil… or oneself.

When you play with fire, you risk getting burned. Skydiving, surfing big waves, cliff diving, drugs… That’s the problem with addictions: you never know when you’ve crossed the line until you cross it. Adrenaline junkies know the risks. They shrug them off. “Hey, everybody dies. You could die crossing the street. At least I have a choice in how I go.”

That choice, that philosophy, that line of reasoning changes when you have children. And when your child dies participating in an activity that you taught him to do…

Part of Jonas was in shock, the other part of him detached so he could function. He made sure his son’s remains and the remains of the other crewmen were placed in body bags and stored in a freezer. He spoke to the captain of the Tonga and saw to the survivors of the trawler. And when he was done, he went into his stateroom to speak by Skype to his wife, Terry.

I gave him an hour and forty minutes before knocking on his door.

Mac answered, red-eyed and more than a little inebriated. “Doctor E.T.?”

“Mac, I need to speak with Jonas.”

“Not now. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s too late. I need to speak with him now.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t going to happen. Oh, and the mission you had planned? Forget about it.”

“Mac, I’m geared up. The Manta’s being prepped—”

“No more Mantas. No more missions. Boss’s orders.”

“Then let the boss tell me himself.” I pushed past my fellow Scot and entered the cabin.