THERE IS A WAYPOINT about 50 miles southeast of Ocean City, Maryland, and 12 years ago this month, it’s where I started going gray. A silver anniversary, of sorts.
Our five-man crew was en route to the Ocean City inlet when the skies darkened, the wind whipped into a frenzy and the seas went from fairly flat to furious. It was about 3 p.m., according to the boat’s GPS, but it looked like midnight on the bridge deck. The only way home was straight into the building waves.
We scurried around the boat, securing everything loose that could potentially cause a load shift. Then we gathered on the bridge deck, looking above the helm station for the life jackets. My friend Paul, seeking to lighten an otherwise tense moment, said:…
