I can see them tonight, as they vanished into the
fog--three men and a big Newfoundland dog, looking over the rail and
down on us who, a moment before, were about to die.
Storm, fog, icebergs, cold, exposure, the alert and strenuous life, with
his own life the forfeit of failure, are a part of the normal experience
of a deep sea fisherman. Two members of our crew were father and son,
Uncle Ike Patch and his son, Frank. The old man had been a fisherman in
his youth, but had been on shore for thirty years. When we were making
up our crew, Frank caught the fishing fever and wanted to go, and his
father decided to go along with him. They were out in their dory, one
foggy day, and when the boats came back to the vessel from hauling their
trawls, Uncle Ike and Frank were missing. We rang the bell, fired our
small cannon, shouted and sent boats out after them. As night came on,
we were huddled together in the forecastle, wondering about their fate,
while the old fishermen told stories of the fog and its fearful toll of
human life. It seemed a terrible thing for the old man and his boy to be
out there, drifting no one knew where; and though we were accustomed to
danger, there was a gloomy crew and little sleep on our schooner that
night.
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