The style of the poem below is presented with a tip of the hat to Canadian poet, Robert W. Service; with the greatest admiration for the crew of the Andrea Gail; respect for the loss suffered by their family and friends; and in recognition of the outstanding recounting of their tragic story, as told by author Sebastian Junger in his book, The Perfect Storm.

Heather L. Long - September 27, 1998

October of ‘91

Captain Billy set to sea, his crew's unease apparent
T'was late in the year and the Andrea Gail,
though valiant, was tired too.
The sword's were few on the outward run and the seas
‘round The Banks were quarr'lsome, but Billy'd a yen
to run home full, tho the ice was low
and the fleet was in, or makin' a go for shore;
The weather cracked with an ozone smell and
the waves were fearsome high - the sky stayed dark
and the buoy marked the moment
when men would die.

While down below, the willing crew
shrugged it off as another blow
- the mayday switch still hadn't been tripped
and Billy was good, by God.
Beaufort 11 and Hurricane Grace were words
they'd never hear -
tho' Bobby and Chris both had a twitch
that till now they'd never let show.

Buoy #44137, sixty miles south

At ten gone eight the Eishin Maru takes a broadside
that renders her dead - and Judy Reeves tells
the Japanese the longliner's chances are slim.
At sixty knots, the edge of fear tastes like iron
on her tongue; and with hatches battened
the Eishin Maru hears their creant to gods
- to right her and keep her trim.

North of Buoy #44139 - edge of the Banquereau

No horses on Sable, no horsemen apparent to
witness the roll and the ravage unfolding -
no one to witness, ‘round midnight,
ten-story waves making ready the grave
of the crew.
And Billy, up top, sees the end, though
pitch-pole or founder, the truth can't be known
the terror's upon him with no time
for warning the crew he'd promised to save.

Tho' tales abound, there's naught to be found
of the wreck of the Andrea Gail
and her crew now sleeps in fathoms deep
where the swordfish come from the warm.
New England weeps, and loved ones tell of the
seas of ‘91, while the heavens poke great fun
at the weep and wail.

And to history, and the lore of the sea,
it remains... the night of the perfect storm.