The George Prince
Gately Green
I didn’t know today was the one my life would shift from ordinary to historic.
The scattered moments of this morning knit themselves into a loop of trauma and pain. I only have to step into the loop, and I am again unaware of my fate.
It’s Wednesday and I am sitting in my car. Like countless days before I am waiting for the ferry, in the dark, with others along River Road. It’s the same vehicles, same people, repeating the same routine.
To my left, the foundations of the new bridge rise from the depths of the water. When it’s done, no more of these days in the car waiting in endless lines to get across the river.
I want a lazy morning warm in bed with my wife, long after the sun has risen. Even if the kids do often make their way to our bed throughout the night. They’ll sandwich themselves between she and I, little sharp knees and elbows sprawled without care.
But, on the rare mornings we are alone, I am off work and wake up first; I watch her sleep. It's in that quiet time I realize how full my heart is.
I close my eyes for a moment and wish for more of those sun-warmed mornings and fewer of these long fall days.
Going to work and coming home in the dark makes me feel life is nothing but my job. I let out a long sputtering sigh, try to do a quick count of the years between now and retirement but give up, deciding it's much too far away.
I reach for my lunch box to see what was packed just as headlights appear over the levee and blind me. The ferry is emptying, so I put my car in gear, ready to go.
It doesn’t even feel like the heater is working in this car. I hope the coffee is already made when I get to work.
The vehicles in front of me are finally moving. I roll forward before pushing on the gas to climb the incline of the levee.
I get to my spot on the packed ferry for the morning ride across the Mississippi and put the car in park. The truck behind me has its lights glaring in my rearview mirror; I adjust it and mumble a curse.
Today’s unusual cold has everyone either in the passenger waiting room or in their vehicle with the windows up. I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes, feel the full boat lurch, and know I’m moving.
The thought of my wife’s curves under the sheet in a morning sun warms me now. The memory lets me feel the smoothness of her long hair, I often twist it between my fingers. That is when she is most beautiful, with hair tousled about her head like a messy halo.
Shouts and car horns bring me back to the moment and the dark cold. A ship's horn slices through the quiet. There shouldn't be one sounding so close to the ferry at this point in the river.
A couple of guys pass my car; others are running out of the passenger room, waving their arms. Someone shouts, "It's gonna hit!"
Another horn blast sounds, now for sure too close. I turn in my seat and try to see what the commotion is. Headlights are flashing, and cars horns are wailing.
Before I can open my car door, I am airborne.
Screams, scraping metal, and streaks of light become a disorienting background as I’m tossed about.
My body makes contact with something hard, knocking the wind out of me. I tumble more before my back is braced against the steering wheel, feet on the roof. I am upside down in my car.
My chest heaves for precious seconds before my lungs fill again. Cold is spreading across me. The car is filling with water. I am in the water!
I try to open the door. I pull the handle. It won’t release. I try the other door, nothing. I pull the handle with both my hands and push against the glass with my shoulders. There is no movement. I try to roll down the window. It will not move. I grab my lunch box floating and hit the window crank. I hit it over and over. The knob breaks off.
Water is filling the front. I crawl into the back and position myself against the driver’s seat and kick at the glass. A light is coming through the hazy dark towards me. It's two lights. I only realize it’s a vehicle as it hits the back of my car and pushes me down faster.
Water is against my back and covering my shoulders. My body is shaking, and my breath coming in quick pants. I kick the side windows. I kick the back glass again. I kick the door frames. The water is rising high, too fast. I can’t get out.
Dear God!
I can’t get out. I can’t see anything. I am not going to get out of this car.
Hail Mary full of grace.
My mother will have lost my Dad and me. My wife will be a widow. Who will watch over them?
The Lord is with thee.
Are you here with me? Will you stay with them? Will they have all they need? Who will care for them?
Blessed are thou among women.
I see my wife telling me goodbye this morning, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She is standing in the doorway of our little home, still in her nightgown. Did I kiss her goodbye?
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Did I tell the kids I loved them? Did I hug them last night? Will the baby remember my face? Why was I so often frustrated? I love them; I love them so much.
Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Forgive me for what I did and for what I did not do. The water is to my chin now. I reach to feel the back glass and push, hoping it will break free. But, I am so cold, and my body slow.
Finding the last pocket of air, and I suck in fast, shallow breaths. Squeezing my eyes shut I feel myself on our front porch watching the kids run through the fresh cut grass, the clippings sticking to little feet. Their deep belly giggles echo through this dark water.
Pray for us sinners.
My mother's heart will be broken from grief for the second time. I am so sorry, I am supposed to be here for you. I should have done more; I am so sorry.
Now, and at the hour of our death.
I am about to die. I will never hold my children as they sleep again. I’ll never watch the soft breaths that come from the heavy sleep only a child can have. Have they woken yet? What kind of men will they be? I don't want to leave them. Oh God, I don't want to leave!
Amen.
The water is over my eyes as I pull in the last air. I cross myself and will my body to relax. I float inside the descending spiral of the car.
My lungs are burning, but I still smile, seeing my wife's face in my thoughts. I don't want to open my eyes to the blackness about me.
The sun will be rising in the world above, but I will never see the sky again. My body will stay cold.
My head is pounding with my heartbeat. I hear the call telling me to let go, my call from the silent land.
Remember me, and my love for you.
I struggle for the courage to let go and answer the persistent voices calling me.
My wife kisses my lips, and her fingers warm my cheeks. My sons' little hands interlace with my own, urging me to let go.
The car impacts far below swallowed into the muddy deep.
My body breathes, and I am gone.
Inside the loop, it is always this morning. The water tirelessly pushes up the imprinted trauma only to pull the screams and panic under again. The land is just as ruthless, constantly threatening to turn our wound into a forgotten scar. The most honorable monument, is remembrance.
Postscript
The early morning of Wednesday, October 20, 1976, was cold and clear. The George Prince Ferry carried commuters between Destrehan and Luling, Louisiana, across the Mississippi River. Most of the people on the ferry that morning were employees at the nearby refineries. Shortly after 6:00 am, the George Prince left the East Bank ferry landing carrying twenty cars, eight trucks, six motorcycles, and ninety-six souls. Within minutes of departing, the 120-foot George Prince was struck by the 664-foot SS Frosta. The George Price failed to give way to the larger tanker. All ninety-six people went into the Mississippi River that morning. Eighteen came back up to see the sun rise. Only one person made it out of their vehicle. Visibility was good. Investigations concluded that alcohol, complacency, and negligence were factors making the worst ferry disaster in United States history. Seven years later, The Hale Boggs Bridge opened, eliminating the Luling-Destrehan ferry runs. Near the bridge is a memorial to survivors and those who lost their lives that day. The memorial exists almost exclusively because of a local documentary made by Royd Anderson called “The Luling Ferry Disaster”.
This is a work of historical fiction, an amalgam of historical testaments and the author’s imagination.
