No Regrets

again—almost twenty miles out of their way—to get to work, go to the downtown theaters, hospitals, sports events, and other important sites in the heart of Seattle.
    In 1978, the West Seattle Bridge was certainly in need of refurbishing. Back in 1924, the first of two bascule-designed bridges over the Duwamish Waterway was completed—the ultimate in modern construction at that time. An identical span opened in 1930. Forty-eight years later, the old bridge sorely needed replacement. It was barely serviceable enough, though, until bonds in the amount of $150 million were voted in to pay for a new, higher, pivot-wing bridge.
    At least it was until the dawn of June 11.
    Rolf Neslund was serving as the pilot of the vessel
Chavez,
a forty-ton, 550-foot ship capable of holding twenty thousand tons of gypsum rock. He stood on the ship’s bridge as it idled near Duwamish Head. He had successfully guided the
Chavez
to that point from the Pacific Ocean, and then into Elliot Bay, something he had done scores of times.
    Everything seemed normal.
    It was only ten days from the longest day of the year, and the dawn of day was still just hidden behind the mountains to the east, so it was dark and warm as they headed toward the loading area. A good morning to be at sea. Armed with the confidence born of all he had survived in his tussles with oceans and rivers, Rolf Neslund believed in himself, and in his almost mystical grasp of what it tookto get a ship to do what he wanted. With his wide-planted feet, he felt the
Chavez
’s heart rumbling and beating through the decks, and he knew all the sounds and the smells and the shifts that meant he was right on target.
    Two tugboats began to move into their slot so they could help bring the huge ship from the wide waters to the north into the narrow slice that is the Duwamish’s West Waterway. Neslund, the old pilot, would call out the commands to keep the
Chavez
straight and true in an almost impossibly tight and shallow river which local industrial waste had turned the color of lead. The West Seattle Bridge’s drawspan was up and waiting.
    Later, there were those who came forward to say Rolf was getting a little vague and that sometimes he didn’t pay as much attention as he should. He knew they were wrong. It was true that he didn’t like modern tools like radios and other electronic devices used by the young pilots; he was like an old cowboy who knew how to control a bucking horse or an angry steer. He sensed in his bones what was right, and he would give his orders to the helmsman without using the portable radio.
    As the ship’s pilot, Rolf Neslund was the top man in navigating the
Chavez
safely into port. From the moment the pilots board the big ships, they instruct everyone from the ship’s crew—including the captain—to the longshoremen who man the lines and the tugboat crew on what to do and when. Visibility, storms, ferryboats, and docked ships can all make a pilot’s job more difficult. On this night, the tugboats needed to pull the
Chavez
to the left because there was another ship on the right—an ancient freighter waiting to be dismantled and recycled partially blocked the already-tight route.
    This was a dicey route, and seconds counted as the
Chavez
moved through the waterway. Men aboard a Coast Guard boat on traffic duty watched the massive ship warily.
    The Coast Guard officers called Rolf on the portable radio and got no answer. The reason was simple. Rolf Neslund had turned the damned thing off.
    In the hierarchy of the sea, Rolf was in charge. No one else on the ship could countermand his orders, and it was a heady feeling, as it always had been—whether he was the captain or the pilot. He ordered the helmsman to turn to port (left) and they slid by the no-longer-seaworthy freighter.
    And, then, for some inexplicable reason, the old man had a spate of forgetfulness, possibly even a small stroke—a TIA (transitory ischemic attack)—something that made him lose precious seconds of awareness. The West Seattle Bridge lay ahead, its red lights blinking to warn drivers that the barricades were coming down. Its alarm bells were harsh in the soft darkness. Cars that looked like toys lined up obediently at the edges of the huge bridge, held back by the safety arms.
    For those precious instants, Rolf Neslund apparently forgot that he was the pilot in charge, neglecting to notice that he had not ordered the seaman at the helm to turn back starboard (right) and