A couple of months ago a friend of mine's house in the Old Village caught fire. It was especially tragic since aside from the fact the entire family was on vacation when it happened, it was the beautifully restored church house on Hibben Street. The cause of the fire was determined to be electrical and they are currently working on plans to restore the home to its former glory as a cherished preserved piece of true Old Village history.
In the realm of 'odds,' I figured that would be the only tragic fire I'd be connected to in the Old Village.
But it would seem that lightning can strike the same place twice.
It was this past Saturday night. I was watching the old movie,
"Where Eagles Dare," starring Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood making a daring raid on a Nazi held castle perched high on a mountain. At my desk I have a VHF radio, the sort people have on their boats. I keep it on most times, since I enjoy hearing the chatter of the harbor pilots, Coast Guard and numerous boats of all types as they transit the area waters. This night, though, the radio was silent until just past 11:30 p.m. when it crackled to life.
'US Coast Guard, US Coast Guard, this is the vessel Osprey. There's a lot of smoke coming out of a boat on Shem Creek. It's name is the Miss Karen. It's on fire!'
I felt a chill, then a queasy ache deep down in my gut. The Miss Karen, a boat I see almost every day, a 70-foot white and blue-hulled shrimper, my friend, Donnie Brown's boat with his mate Billy sleeping onboard. And then I heard the sirens screaming towards Shem Creek.
The vessel Osprey is a very unique vessel you may have seen plying the local waters recently. She's a large converted head boat from North Carolina and in a subsequent article I'll share with you her fascinating history. It was incredibly fortunate that her owner/skipper, Lucas Smith, had been out for a Saturday evening cruise and was passing by the Miss Karen at her berth right at the mouth of the creek almost at the same time the fire stared.
I didn't have Donnie Brown's phone number so I started calling other shrimper friends. No answers. So I threw on my shoes, grabbed my camera and took the short drive down to the docks.
As I suspected there were already several large fire trucks on the scene so I parked a good ways down the street and walked the rest of the way. Several months ago I wrote about the old boat yard, the Crab Bank Yatch Club, where the guys and I have afternoon gatherings. It's at the very end of Haddrell Street, just past Wando Shrimp, and that was the staging area for fighting the fire.
Earlier in the day, as on most days,  I was down there with my dog, taking in the peaceful sunset over the harbor and listening to mate Billy singing away as he was washing some laundry up on Miss Karen's aft deck. But now the scene was surreal.
The boatyard was crowded with big red trucks, flashing lights, fire hoses stretched taut and leaking at the couplings. Fire fighters were moving all about the place, talking into their radios with determined looks of their faces. There was a sense of calm chaos. As I walked towards the water's edge I almost didn't want to look, but I had to. Across the small cove that separates the land from the deepwater dock was the Miss Karen, already listing to port, billows of smoke pouring from her fore and aft, fire fighters crowding the docks dragging hoses and flames lashing out at the darkness from the wheelhouse. My gut tightened again.
Then I saw Billy. He was distraught, but seemed unharmed. I walked over and asked if he was o.k. Chin down he just shook his head. I knew he had just lost his home and probably most of his possessions.
Out of a sense of helplessness I took out my camera and started snapping pictures. I hated what I was seeing through the lens but I kept snapping away.
At one point the flames died down and the smoke seemed to subside, but minutes later the conflagration resumed and that was the pattern of it for the next hour or so. During that time other people started showing up. Wayne Magwood was there, literally in his P.J.'s and bedroom slippers. We exchanged a few scant words but both of us had little to say. And then I saw Donnie Brown striding down the dock. As he approached the boat I saw the firefighters on the dock stop him. With all the noise I couldn't hear the verbal exchange but it was apparent they had to gently drive him back. So Donnie climbed up onto the boat tied directly behind his and just stood at the bow stoically watching the Miss Karen burn.
Because the boat had fuel in her tanks the firefighters were understandably wary of climbing aboard to fight this particular blaze. It was only prudent. But in time they were on her and started getting the better of the fire. I'm sure they did the best they could do, but it wasn't enough. It was clear the boat was going to be a near total loss.
As it turns out there was not sufficient light for the 50-odd pictures I took. All you could see were the blobs of flame and the reflective strips of the firefighter's jackets. But the folks on the Osprey fared a little better, and you see all of those photos here.
I went back down to the boatyard Sunday afternoon and there in the daylight I could clearly see the damage. Donnie was there on the dock. He'd been cleaning things up all day. As I walked over and put out my hand he held up his soot-covered paw and started to say something, but I grabbed it anyhow. We chatted for a minute.
'Is she a loss?'
'Yea, probably.'
'Any idea what caused it?'
'Nah. Electrical.'
'At least no one was hurt. You'll be o.k.'
'Yup.'
'Mind if I take a few pictures for the paper?'
'Sure, climb aboard if you want, just be careful.'
And with that I walked out the dock towards the charred aroma that now permeated a once proud member of the Shem Creek fishing community.
I was sad. I was angry. As if these guys weren't having a hard enough time as it is fighting cheap imports, burdensome regulations, high fuel costs and dwindling dockspace. Now this. I felt a deep sense of loss, frustration and unfairness.
We all should.