Into the Storm: Surviving Hurricane Bertha on the USS Cole

The photo is Anthony and I aboard the USS Cole circa 1996.

The USS Cole cut through the churning Atlantic, slicing past the Frying Pan Shoals buoy near Cape Fear, North Carolina. The mission was clear but shrouded in uncertainty, missing weekend boaters, lost somewhere in the chaos of Hurricane Bertha. The crew didn’t know how bad the storm was going to be. We had no idea that we wouldn’t find the boaters, that we would be the ones fighting to survive instead.

At the helm, my hands were slick with sweat despite the sideways rain lashing through the bridge windows. I gripped the wheel as tightly as I could, my knuckles whitening under the strain. The sea was monstrous, waves climbing to 45 feet, towering above the ship before crashing down with a force that made every steel bolt tremble. Each wave lifted the bow skyward, pointing toward heaven, before we plunged down the other side, into the abyss of Davy Jones’s Locker.

I had no idea if it was night or day, the storm had swallowed time whole. Lightning cracked, splitting the sky open for a brief, blinding moment before plunging us back into darkness. Thunder rolled like cannon fire, shaking me to my core. The wind howled, drowning out everything but the intense, unwavering voice of Commander M. Stewart O’Bryan.

“Steer a steady course, maintain heading. Be prepared for large waves. Keep the ship running with the seas as much as possible.”

He was a rock, his voice never wavered, never betrayed an ounce of fear. He wasn’t afraid of the storm.

Behind me, he sat steady, composed, unshaken.

Beside me stood Seaman Anthony Lowe, my childhood friend who had gone through boot camp with me and had been assigned to the USS Cole with me. He was the Lee Helmsman, his station critical to maintaining the ship’s power and control. We stole quick glances at each other, but there was nothing to say. The tension between us was thick, electric as we steeled ourselves against the storm. Our eyes darted between the heaving waves and the controls, then back to each other. The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm raging inside our chests.

A sudden rogue wave struck us broadside. The impact was like a freight train slamming into the hull. The ship lurched violently, and my grip slipped from the wheel. I lost my footing. The deck tilted sharply, and I went airborne, crashing hard against the steel bulkhead. For a moment, everything was a blur, pain, cold, the bitter taste of blood in my mouth. The ship was alive, groaning under the immense strain, as if it might break apart at any second.

Strong hands seized me by the collar. Anthony. He yanked me up with the kind of force only pure adrenaline can summon, shoving me back toward the helm. “I’ve got you,” he said, his voice barely cutting through the chaos. His eyes locked onto mine for just a second, long enough for me to see it. The fear. The same fear I had. The same fear we couldn’t acknowledge. If we die today, we die together.

We couldn’t say anything else. All we could say was, “Aye aye, sir” to the captain’s orders.

The USS Cole was still brand new, barely a month since her commissioning. The fresh paint still gleamed when the lightning hit just right. Every dial, every bolt, every instrument was pristine, untouched by time. And yet, in this storm, none of it mattered. The sea didn’t care how new our ship was, how experienced our captain was, or how hard we fought to hold course. The ocean had its own plans.

The wheel jerked in my hands as another rogue wave smashed against the bow. The ship tilted sharply, too sharply, before leveling out again. My arms ached, my body screamed for rest, but I wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t.

I was 20 years old, living the life of a sailor, lost in the rhythm of deployments and liberty ports, and in that moment none of that mattered either. I could hold the wheel, I could follow orders, but I couldn’t stop the waves. I couldn’t stop the storm. All I could do was keep my hands where they needed to be and trust the man next to me and the man giving the orders behind me.

The battle raged on like this for days, maybe a lifetime, until finally, the storm began to break. The waves, still massive, lost some of their viciousness. The wind, though howling, no longer felt like it would rip the ship apart. The sky, once an endless black void, began to lighten, faintly, on the horizon.

When we finally made it back to port, I stepped off the USS Cole and onto solid ground. My legs were still swaying from the relentless motion of the storm. I took two steps forward, then collapsed to my knees, the world spinning around me.

I reached down and kissed the ground.

I didn’t care who saw. I didn’t care if it made me look weak.

I was alive.