I know what it’s like to wait for someone lost at sea.
When I was 20 years old, working at a music cafe in Charleston, South Carolina, I got the call that my mother’s boat was lost in a massive storm during a sailing race to Bermuda. I was assured that the powers that be would do everything they could to locate her. I remember rehearsing the delivery, the tone and the inflection to tell my little brother in the least panicked way possible. My boss asked if I wanted to go home that day. I stayed.
We bore witness to two shipwrecks within days in June. First, a boat carrying as many as 750 refugee migrants capsized in the Mediterranean. Only 104 survived. Among the dead were an estimated 100 children. Second, an unregulated Titanic wreckage tourist submersible, The Titan, went missing carrying five wealthy passengers. The world couldn’t look away while the search was on. It had imploded.
