Chapter 2: The Mayday Mystery

Around 6 a.m. on July 25, 2011, two other fishing vessels—Ocean Star 1927 and Ocean Star 1928—operating in the eastern waters off Alaska, simultaneously received a distress message: The first rays of sun barely crested the horizon, coloring the Alaskan sea with a pale, icy gold. Crews brewed coffee and checked their gear, radios crackling with routine static—until a voice broke through, tense and clipped:

"Mayday, Mayday—1927, 1928, do you copy? We need help. Repeat, need help." The message was sent via the company’s internal radio channel. It was the kind of message that made even the grizzled old deckhands go still. Someone reached instinctively for the radio dial, the familiar company channel suddenly turned lifeline. The deckhands exchanged worried glances, and someone muttered, “Ain’t nobody supposed to be out there...”

The sender was none other than Ocean Star 2682, missing for more than a month. For a moment, disbelief hung in the air like fog. Then came the clamor—crewmen shouting to their captains, men crowding around the radio, wondering if they’d heard a ghost. All three vessels belonged to the same company: Great Lakes Fisheries Group Inc. The perch logo was stitched onto every battered Carhartt jacket, the pay stubs always late, the Cleveland home office number saved in every crewman’s phone.

Derek Marshall, captain of Ocean Star 1928, immediately responded, "What’s going on?" His voice came through the static, strong and Midwestern, used to shouting over engine noise. Deckhands gathered close, reading worry in his eyes as he awaited the reply.

"This is 2682. In the North Pacific near Japan, the engine room is taking on water, the ship is about to sink."

The deck went quiet. A few men crossed themselves out of old habit; someone cursed softly. Derek’s hand hovered over the radio, steady despite the rising anxiety in the room.

"Where exactly are you?"

"500–800 nautical miles southeast of Japan, 27°1' N, 153°20' E."

The coordinates sent chills up Derek’s spine—so far from rescue, so far from anyone but God and the endless ocean. He scribbled them on a coffee-stained notepad, barking orders for the satellite phone.

After Derek ended the radio call, he immediately used the satellite phone to contact the company and report the situation. The click of the receiver echoed in the tiny galley. He dialed the company emergency number, voice tight: "You need to get the Coast Guard involved. Now."

Meanwhile, the crew of Ocean Star 2682 were desperately trying to save themselves. Below deck, men bailed water with buckets, sweat and fear mingling in the air. The engine room was slick with oil and seawater. Above, others kept a lookout, their faces drawn and eyes wild, praying for a miracle or at least a sign of help on the endless blue horizon.

Back in Maple Heights, the news hit just as the morning shift started at the Ford plant. People stopped what they were doing, huddled around radios, and prayed for familiar voices to come through the static.