Heroism was onboard in fishing-boat disaster

Ann Weckback was wearing only pajamas when flames on the fishing boat Galaxy forced her into the freezing waters of the Bering Sea. She had given her survival suit to an injured crew mate minutes earlier.

The deck boss, Ryan Newhall, who had a survival suit, plunged in after her, wrapped himself around her and held her for more than two hours. As huge, dark waves overpowered them, carrying them farther from the life raft, he told her: "You know, we're probably going to die."

"I know," she answered.

Weckback, Newhall and 21 others survived the disaster aboard the 180-foot long-line fishing boat, which caught fire Oct. 20, 2002. Three crewmembers — Jerry Stephens, 43, of Edmonds; George Karn, 45, of Auburn; and Jose Lino Rodas, 32, of Pasco — were killed.

The difference between those who lived and those who died wasn't necessarily survival suits or skills. It was seconds and inches and small deeds that on any ordinary day might not even matter. Almost certainly, had there not been heroes and lucky breaks, more would have perished.

A deckhand jumped in without thinking to try to save his boss's life. The captain braved flames time and again to send a mayday. By chance, a rescue helicopter was 4½ hours closer than it would have been at its regular station.

During recent Coast Guard hearings in Seattle, survivors recounted their stories for a lieutenant commander who will determine the cause of the accident and whether safety changes are in order. From their tales, and from the opinions of maritime experts, he has been able to piece together much of what happened that day and will issue a report in April.

But some things may never be fully understood.

"It keeps you awake at night, trying to figure out why this one made it and that one didn't," said Capt. Dave Shoemaker, 53, of Seattle.

"George had on a suit, Ann had on pajamas. And she made it, and he didn't. Go figure.

"You go over it again and again in your head, and you always come out at the same place. Why Jerry? Why George? Why Jose?"

Rough waters

It was about 4:20 p.m. and as close to down time as it ever gets on a fishing boat in the Bering Sea, one of the most historically dangerous bodies of water in the world, yielding fish and fortune to some, exacting life from others.

The crew had just finished pulling in a haul of cod and was running for the second. The deck crew was in the galley having hot coffee and burgers, while the fish processors were in the factory a deck below, gutting the last load.

The ship had just taken a couple of two-story waves broadside and rolled hard. Up in the wheelhouse, Shoemaker, a 23-year-veteran fisherman, was hoping the weather would let up, but he wasn't that worried. His was a tight ship, with a hand-picked crew of 24 trusted men.

From the stairwell, the call of "Fire!" rang out.

Stephens, 43; Newhall, 29, of San Antonio, Texas; and deckhand Tory Denuccio, 21, of Eugene, Ore., ran for the engine room, where thick, black smoke was pouring from the hatches.

Stephens was the best first mate the captain had ever had. A husband and father of three, he was everybody's big brother, someone you could talk to. "You could go to his room when he was sleeping," Shoemaker said, "and there's not many officers on a boat that'll let you do that."

When Stephens, Newhall and Denuccio returned with firefighting equipment, the smoke was much worse. Then they heard a clicking sound in the engine room, and the lights went out. Incorrectly thinking the ship's emergency CO2 system had been activated, Stephens ordered an outside hatch opened to clear the smoke.

Within seconds, an explosion propelled them through a hatch into 20-foot seas. All three were able to swim close enough to the boat to grab lines thrown by crew mates. Denuccio and Newhall were hoisted aboard, but Stephens struggled at the end of his line, dipped into the water like a tea bag and battered against the steel hull.

Finally, he let go and, paddling weakly with one arm, drifted along the vessel's starboard side.

Power out

In the galley, chief engineer Raul Vielma, with 22 years of experience, saw smoke trickling up the stairs and ran for the engine room. It was so full of heavy, black smoke he knew the fire couldn't be fought with conventional means and that he'd have to activate the emergency CO2 system, designed to smother fires.

Following protocol, Vielma tried to call the captain — the CO2 system can also smother men — but the power was out and the phones were dead.

He ran for the wheelhouse three decks up, told Shoemaker what he intended to do, then ran back down.

When he got there, the same explosion that shot his three crewmates into the water slammed him against a bulkhead. When he got up, he couldn't find the activation pulls in the choking smoke.

But it was too late anyway. The fire was out of control.

'I had to let him go'

Deckhand Calvin Paniptchuk, an Alaska native from the village of Shaktoolik, worked twice as hard as anyone on the boat. Nearly every day after work, he'd find first mate Stephens and ask, "How did I do today, boss? Did the captain say anything?"

And Stephens would always truthfully assure him, "You did great."

"There was nobody on that boat who wanted to please as much as Calvin did," Shoemaker said.

From the main deck, Paniptchuk saw Stephens struggling in the water and made to go after him. Vielma, who had crawled topside from the burning CO2 room, barely had time to zip Paniptchuk's survival suit and force a life ring over him before Paniptchuk was over the side.

In the crashing waves, he tried repeatedly to get Stephens into the life ring, only to have him slip back out.

Paniptchuk was exhausted and close to drowning when Vielma hollered down to let Stephens go. "It was clear that Calvin wouldn't make it much longer. And it was obvious to me that Jerry was dead by then," Vielma said. "I had to let him go to save Calvin."

Mayday!

Barely 15 minutes after the first sighting of smoke, the center core of the ship — from the engine room to the wheelhouse — was engulfed in flames. A few crew members were on the main deck with Vielma; others were on the rear top deck.

Shoemaker had been in and out of the wheelhouse since he first saw smoke shooting through the screw holes of his chart table. He watched anxiously as his crew pulled Newhall and Denuccio from the water and helplessly as his friend and first mate Stephens floated away.

"I felt like I was just going to dive off and go get him," Shoemaker said. "I had to grab myself, stop myself. I looked at the rest of my crew, and they were looking at me, awestruck, like, 'We're counting on you, captain. What do we do?' "

Shoemaker was able to get a few survival suits to the top deck and, with help, to launch the starboard life raft. He knew he had to send a mayday, but by then flames had melted the radios in the wheelhouse and in his stateroom.

"I kept thinking, I can't get in. Then the next second, I'd think, I have to get in. I knew I might not come out, but I thought what if I don't get the mayday off and I'm the only one who makes it. How could I live with myself?"

Finally, after a half-dozen tries, and with third-degree burns on his arms, face and hands, Shoemaker found a working radio near the wheelhouse and at 4:36 p.m. made the call for help.

He rushed back out to get more survival suits from the main deck to the crew on the top. As he hoisted suits tethered to a line, it burned and he lost balance, toppling to the deck below and breaking three ribs.

A plea to jump

Paniptchuk, after letting Stephens go, swam to the empty life raft but was so tired he couldn't pull himself in.

Convinced Paniptchuk would die without help, Vielma jumped two stories from the main deck and landed in the empty raft. He grabbed Paniptchuk by the shoulders and hauled him in.

As flames reached for the life raft, Vielma began coaxing those on the top deck to make the 30-plus foot leap into the wind and wave-whipped raft. "I knew they had to jump, and I was yelling and yelling for them to jump, but they wouldn't at first," Vielma said.

Fish processor Camilo Barrientos of Mexico had worked in the fish factory for five years. Solemn and respectful, he talked about his wife and children while the others talked of their onshore exploits. Now he was afraid. It looked like such a long way down, and he'd been told so many times that going into the Bering Sea without a survival suit meant death. But he gathered his courage and turned to his friends.

"You have to do it," he told them in Spanish. "Think of your families."

Then he jumped. One by one, most of the others followed.

Jose Lino Rodas, 32, who smiled and sang through his shifts in the fish factory, was on his second trip with the Galaxy.

Against advice from the others still on the deck, he made up his mind to rappel down the side of the boat with a line and a buoy tied around his waist. Part way down, the vessel rolled, he lost his footing and the rope cinched around him. "He was hanging sideways and crying and screaming for help," Vielma said. "He was in a very bad way."

The men on deck tried in vain to pull him up. Those on the raft could not reach him. He hung there until fire burned through the rope and he was dumped into the water. He was later found dead, still tied to the buoy.

Could not swim

George Karn, 45, though new to the boat, was already appreciated for the brownies and muffins he popped into the mouths of deckhands as they worked. Now, he was on the top deck in a survival suit getting ready to jump.

The lifelong bachelor loved to spend money at the racetrack, so he stuck with well-paying fishing jobs even though he could not swim and didn't like the water. But as Karn leaped, the line that tethered the raft to the vessel was cut, a wave hit and the raft moved. Karn landed in the water.

"At first, he was just a few feet away," said second cook Marco Casal. "And he struggled to make it to the boat. But then another wave came, and when I looked again, he was just an orange suit with a little black head far away."

'We have to go'

To those still onboard, it looked like the fire was eating holes through the hull. It was so hot the paint was bubbling.

Deck boss Newhall was nicknamed "Red" or "Rojo" by a crew that respected him for his abilities, good nature and willingness to pitch in anywhere, helping the processors gut fish when they fell behind in the factory. Newhall had already survived the water once that day, when he was blasted out the hatch with Stephens and Denuccio and dragged back in to safety. Now he was lying half-conscious on the top deck.

Ann Weckback, 24, of St. Louis, was with him, holding his head, cradling him and urging him to get up.

A visiting observer with the National Marine Fisheries Service, Weckback had been with the crew only six days. She had given her survival suit to Denuccio because he was injured and she didn't think he'd have a chance without it. Now the flames were at her back, and she was in pajamas and a T-shirt. She tied a buoy around her waist.

"We have to go," she cried, pulling Newhall to his feet. "We have to go right now. The boat is burning." Then she jumped.

"I did not want to get back in that water," Newhall said.

But he grabbed a life ring, jumped in and swam toward Weckback, who was drifting in one direction, instead of toward the life raft, which was drifting in another. He put the ring around her and urged her to swim.

"The water was so cold, she couldn't," he said. "It's like your brain's working and your heart's pumping, but your arms won't move." Soon they were far from the Galaxy, far from the raft.

Help arrives

Nearby fishing vessels and the Coast Guard helicopter arrived around the same time, about two hours after the mayday had been sent.

By then, 15 crewmembers were in the life raft, five people were in the water and six were still on the vessel.

Of the six onboard, one swam safely to the first rescue vessel at the scene, the Blue Pacific. The other five jumped into the water, where a Coast Guard rescue swimmer helped them into a helicopter basket.

The 15 on the raft were picked up by the fishing vessel Glacier Bay.

Weckback, nearly frozen to death, and Newhall were rescued by another vessel, the Clipper Express.

The next day, a crew member of the Clipper Express, 24-year-old Daniel Schmiedt of Arlington, was washed overboard and lost while securing the Galaxy's discarded life raft.

Galaxy disappears

The Galaxy burned for more than two days and then disappeared. It's presumed to have sunk.

Without the vessel, it will never be known exactly how the fire began. However, Lt. Cmdr. Chris Woodley, who headed up the investigation, said there was enough evidence to surmise a back-draft type of explosion occurred when the hatches were opened.

He was not willing to speculate on what caused the buildup of smoke in the engine room before the explosion, but Vielma thought the generator had sprung a leak when the boat was rolled by broadside waves.

Woodley called the tale of the Galaxy one of the most astounding he has heard.

"The number of people who survived, and the stories of heroism and bravery that emerged from this, are what elevated it into something remarkable," he said.

Shoemaker has gone over it many times in his head. He knows there are things he and his crew could have done differently.

"I tell you, sitting in this room, I can give you a play-by-play of what should have been done. But to be on that boat, to be making split-second decisions while the fire is burning, and explosions are going off, and people are in the water calling for help... I don't think there's anything we could have done different."

"If I had medals to give, I'd give one to everyone who was onboard that day. All of them. There's not one I wouldn't go to sea with again."

Christine Clarridge: 206-464-8983 or cclarridge@seattletimes.com