Excerpt
Chapter 1: A Normal Night at Sea
Cold air hung low over the water, the kind that made you see your breath even in late March. Prince William Sound, tucked into the southern coast of Alaska, was still in the grip of winter. Ice clung to rocky shorelines, snow dusted the mountains that stood tall behind the forests, and the sea was quiet—too quiet to hint at what was coming.
This place was more than just beautiful. It was alive. Eagles circled above the spruce trees. Sea otters floated on their backs, paws tucked on their bellies, drifting gently with the currents. Humpback whales sometimes passed through, their huge tails splashing as they dove deep. Beneath the surface, salmon darted in schools while crabs scuttled between underwater rocks.
The sound wasn’t just a name. Prince William Sound was a maze of deep blue water, inlets, and tiny islands. It was surrounded by mountains and covered in mist on many days. It looked peaceful. Untouchable. But it was also working—hard.
This was a place where fishing boats cast their nets for halibut, where native communities relied on the sea for food, and where giant ships moved through narrow channels carrying oil. Lots of oil. Thousands of gallons passed through the region every single day, traveling from a pipeline that crossed Alaska down to the port at Valdez, at the edge of the Sound. From there, the oil was loaded onto tankers and sent across the ocean.
Oil was big business here. The people working in the industry were paid well. The towns around the Sound had jobs. Stores, restaurants, docks—it was all connected. But not everyone was excited about it. Some people worried. They knew how easily a ship could crash in the tight curves of the Sound. They wondered what would happen if just one mistake was made.
Even with all that activity, the Sound was mostly quiet at night. Most people had gone home. The forests hushed. The animals rested. The lights from Valdez twinkled faintly across the water. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad could happen.
From the surface, you couldn’t tell that something was moving through the dark.
Somewhere far from town, in deeper water, the Exxon Valdez tanker was making its way out. Its engines rumbled beneath its metal deck, but no one in Valdez could hear it. The ship carried millions of gallons of oil, and it had done this trip before. This was routine.
Prince William Sound had seen thousands of ships pass through its waters, but it had also seen thousands of years of nature without them. Before the tankers, before the docks, before even the first fishing boats, this place belonged to the animals and the plants and the people who respected them.
The Alutiiq people had lived in the region for centuries, building their lives around the rhythm of the sea. They caught salmon, carved canoes, and shared stories about the land. They knew the tides. They knew the winds. They treated the Sound as something sacred. Even today, many native communities still live nearby. Some fish for their families. Some guide tourists through the wilderness. Many still pass down stories of the land and water, stories told for generations.
To them—and to many others—Prince William Sound wasn’t just a spot on the map. It was home. It was heritage. It was a wild, unpredictable partner.
It was also a place that didn’t forgive easily.
The waters looked calm, but the Sound was filled with rocky reefs hidden just beneath the surface. If a ship didn’t follow its planned route carefully, even a small mistake could lead to disaster. That’s why there were rules. Shipping lanes were marked. Maps were studied. Ice patrols gave updates. There were people trained to help navigate these waters.
But even the best systems can fail.
And that’s what was about to happen.
It’s strange to think about a place moments before everything changes. That night, the otters floated. The birds called to one another. The fish moved through the kelp beds, unaware of anything unusual. The mountain peaks stood watch, the same way they always had.
But under that still surface, the balance was about to break.
The Exxon Valdez was large, but the Sound was larger. What made this place special—its beauty, its wildness, its life—also made it vulnerable. Oil and oceans don’t mix. And when they do, it’s not just about water getting dirty. It’s about lives—human and animal—being flipped upside down.
Nobody on shore heard the scrape when metal met rock. No sirens blared in the night. The snow kept falling. The cold kept creeping in.
The Exxon Valdez prepares for a routine journey
Lights blinked along the docks of Valdez as the night shift moved steadily through their tasks. It wasn’t loud—just the quiet clanging of tools, the hum of engines, and the soft voices of crew members checking and double-checking their gear. On the edge of the harbor, a giant tanker named the Exxon Valdez sat waiting.
She was long and heavy, stretching out over 1,000 feet from front to back, and loaded with crude oil—over 50 million gallons of it. Not a single drop of it had spilled yet. Everything was normal. Everything was quiet. This was just another voyage.
The crew didn’t seem nervous. They had done this before. Captain Joseph Hazelwood was in charge. He was known to be experienced, someone who had been with Exxon for years. Other crew members moved across the deck, checking the pipes, gauges, and communication systems. A ship this size didn’t just “leave.” It needed clearance. It needed paperwork. And it needed everything on board to be running the way it should.
Tugs guided the ship through the narrow opening in the port. The process wasn’t fast. Tankers are slow to steer and even slower to stop. But there wasn’t a rush. The Exxon Valdez would head into deeper water once she cleared the harbor. Then she’d follow a shipping lane through Prince William Sound, turn south, and make her way out into the open ocean.
The route had been mapped out already. Tankers were supposed to stay away from Bligh Reef, a sharp ridge of rock beneath the surface. Every ship’s crew knew it was there. Maps showed its location clearly, and there were traffic lanes to guide vessels around it.
The Exxon Valdez wasn’t carrying food or packages or mail. It was built for one thing: oil. The tanks inside it were separated by walls to keep the cargo stable. If the oil sloshed around too much, it could unbalance the ship. That kind of movement could be dangerous. But all of that had been accounted for.
The weather was calm. No icebergs in the water. No strong winds. Nothing to set off alarms. A ship of that size could handle a rougher night than this.
Back onshore, workers who had helped load the oil were finishing up. A few were heading home. Others were grabbing coffee from a small diner still open near the docks. Most of them weren’t thinking about the ship at all. It was already out of sight. And they had done their jobs.
The Exxon Valdez was now in the hands of its crew. That meant the officers on the bridge—the part of the ship where steering and navigation took place—were responsible for guiding the ship safely out of the Sound. Radar screens lit up, maps were spread out, and the radio was on standby.
A harbor pilot had helped guide the ship out of the terminal. That was standard. The pilot knew the tricky parts of the port, and once the ship was in open water, the pilot would leave and let the ship’s captain take full control. That had already happened. The pilot was gone. The Exxon Valdez was on its own.
There were a few more hours left before the tanker would be out in the Gulf of Alaska. Most of the trip so far had been smooth. The ship had made a turn to avoid some ice reported earlier, and that was allowed. Adjustments were sometimes needed. As long as they didn’t stray too far from the safe path, there was no reason to worry.
But even the calmest trips depend on every person doing their job, every system working correctly, and every choice being the right one. A single moment of carelessness on a ship that massive can mean more than just a late delivery.
Not everyone was on duty. Some of the crew had gone to their cabins to sleep. On a vessel that big, people worked in shifts. The ones resting would take over later, giving the current team a chance to rest.
The bridge, though, had to be staffed the entire time. At least two people were required to be up there to watch the controls and keep an eye on navigation. On this trip, the ship’s third mate was on the bridge. He wasn’t new to the job, but he wasn’t the captain either. And that night, the captain wasn’t there.
Captain Hazelwood had turned in for the night. It wasn’t unusual. Captains often rested while experienced officers handled routine stretches of the route. The third mate had orders to steer the ship through the next part and then call the captain later when it was time to make the next turn.
Below deck, the engines rumbled steadily. The ship glided through the dark water. It looked peaceful from the outside. Quiet. Still. But inside, the ship was a floating machine—one that depended on constant attention.
Not far from the ship’s path lay Bligh Reef, hidden beneath the waves. It didn’t move. It didn’t glow. It didn’t make a sound. It had been there long before ships like this existed. The only warning was a spot on the map—and the assumption that every ship crew knew exactly where they were.
Cold air hung low over the water, the kind that made you see your breath even in late March. Prince William Sound, tucked into the southern coast of Alaska, was still in the grip of winter. Ice clung to rocky shorelines, snow dusted the mountains that stood tall behind the forests, and the sea was quiet—too quiet to hint at what was coming.
This place was more than just beautiful. It was alive. Eagles circled above the spruce trees. Sea otters floated on their backs, paws tucked on their bellies, drifting gently with the currents. Humpback whales sometimes passed through, their huge tails splashing as they dove deep. Beneath the surface, salmon darted in schools while crabs scuttled between underwater rocks.
The sound wasn’t just a name. Prince William Sound was a maze of deep blue water, inlets, and tiny islands. It was surrounded by mountains and covered in mist on many days. It looked peaceful. Untouchable. But it was also working—hard.
This was a place where fishing boats cast their nets for halibut, where native communities relied on the sea for food, and where giant ships moved through narrow channels carrying oil. Lots of oil. Thousands of gallons passed through the region every single day, traveling from a pipeline that crossed Alaska down to the port at Valdez, at the edge of the Sound. From there, the oil was loaded onto tankers and sent across the ocean.
Oil was big business here. The people working in the industry were paid well. The towns around the Sound had jobs. Stores, restaurants, docks—it was all connected. But not everyone was excited about it. Some people worried. They knew how easily a ship could crash in the tight curves of the Sound. They wondered what would happen if just one mistake was made.
Even with all that activity, the Sound was mostly quiet at night. Most people had gone home. The forests hushed. The animals rested. The lights from Valdez twinkled faintly across the water. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad could happen.
From the surface, you couldn’t tell that something was moving through the dark.
Somewhere far from town, in deeper water, the Exxon Valdez tanker was making its way out. Its engines rumbled beneath its metal deck, but no one in Valdez could hear it. The ship carried millions of gallons of oil, and it had done this trip before. This was routine.
Prince William Sound had seen thousands of ships pass through its waters, but it had also seen thousands of years of nature without them. Before the tankers, before the docks, before even the first fishing boats, this place belonged to the animals and the plants and the people who respected them.
The Alutiiq people had lived in the region for centuries, building their lives around the rhythm of the sea. They caught salmon, carved canoes, and shared stories about the land. They knew the tides. They knew the winds. They treated the Sound as something sacred. Even today, many native communities still live nearby. Some fish for their families. Some guide tourists through the wilderness. Many still pass down stories of the land and water, stories told for generations.
To them—and to many others—Prince William Sound wasn’t just a spot on the map. It was home. It was heritage. It was a wild, unpredictable partner.
It was also a place that didn’t forgive easily.
The waters looked calm, but the Sound was filled with rocky reefs hidden just beneath the surface. If a ship didn’t follow its planned route carefully, even a small mistake could lead to disaster. That’s why there were rules. Shipping lanes were marked. Maps were studied. Ice patrols gave updates. There were people trained to help navigate these waters.
But even the best systems can fail.
And that’s what was about to happen.
It’s strange to think about a place moments before everything changes. That night, the otters floated. The birds called to one another. The fish moved through the kelp beds, unaware of anything unusual. The mountain peaks stood watch, the same way they always had.
But under that still surface, the balance was about to break.
The Exxon Valdez was large, but the Sound was larger. What made this place special—its beauty, its wildness, its life—also made it vulnerable. Oil and oceans don’t mix. And when they do, it’s not just about water getting dirty. It’s about lives—human and animal—being flipped upside down.
Nobody on shore heard the scrape when metal met rock. No sirens blared in the night. The snow kept falling. The cold kept creeping in.
The Exxon Valdez prepares for a routine journey
Lights blinked along the docks of Valdez as the night shift moved steadily through their tasks. It wasn’t loud—just the quiet clanging of tools, the hum of engines, and the soft voices of crew members checking and double-checking their gear. On the edge of the harbor, a giant tanker named the Exxon Valdez sat waiting.
She was long and heavy, stretching out over 1,000 feet from front to back, and loaded with crude oil—over 50 million gallons of it. Not a single drop of it had spilled yet. Everything was normal. Everything was quiet. This was just another voyage.
The crew didn’t seem nervous. They had done this before. Captain Joseph Hazelwood was in charge. He was known to be experienced, someone who had been with Exxon for years. Other crew members moved across the deck, checking the pipes, gauges, and communication systems. A ship this size didn’t just “leave.” It needed clearance. It needed paperwork. And it needed everything on board to be running the way it should.
Tugs guided the ship through the narrow opening in the port. The process wasn’t fast. Tankers are slow to steer and even slower to stop. But there wasn’t a rush. The Exxon Valdez would head into deeper water once she cleared the harbor. Then she’d follow a shipping lane through Prince William Sound, turn south, and make her way out into the open ocean.
The route had been mapped out already. Tankers were supposed to stay away from Bligh Reef, a sharp ridge of rock beneath the surface. Every ship’s crew knew it was there. Maps showed its location clearly, and there were traffic lanes to guide vessels around it.
The Exxon Valdez wasn’t carrying food or packages or mail. It was built for one thing: oil. The tanks inside it were separated by walls to keep the cargo stable. If the oil sloshed around too much, it could unbalance the ship. That kind of movement could be dangerous. But all of that had been accounted for.
The weather was calm. No icebergs in the water. No strong winds. Nothing to set off alarms. A ship of that size could handle a rougher night than this.
Back onshore, workers who had helped load the oil were finishing up. A few were heading home. Others were grabbing coffee from a small diner still open near the docks. Most of them weren’t thinking about the ship at all. It was already out of sight. And they had done their jobs.
The Exxon Valdez was now in the hands of its crew. That meant the officers on the bridge—the part of the ship where steering and navigation took place—were responsible for guiding the ship safely out of the Sound. Radar screens lit up, maps were spread out, and the radio was on standby.
A harbor pilot had helped guide the ship out of the terminal. That was standard. The pilot knew the tricky parts of the port, and once the ship was in open water, the pilot would leave and let the ship’s captain take full control. That had already happened. The pilot was gone. The Exxon Valdez was on its own.
There were a few more hours left before the tanker would be out in the Gulf of Alaska. Most of the trip so far had been smooth. The ship had made a turn to avoid some ice reported earlier, and that was allowed. Adjustments were sometimes needed. As long as they didn’t stray too far from the safe path, there was no reason to worry.
But even the calmest trips depend on every person doing their job, every system working correctly, and every choice being the right one. A single moment of carelessness on a ship that massive can mean more than just a late delivery.
Not everyone was on duty. Some of the crew had gone to their cabins to sleep. On a vessel that big, people worked in shifts. The ones resting would take over later, giving the current team a chance to rest.
The bridge, though, had to be staffed the entire time. At least two people were required to be up there to watch the controls and keep an eye on navigation. On this trip, the ship’s third mate was on the bridge. He wasn’t new to the job, but he wasn’t the captain either. And that night, the captain wasn’t there.
Captain Hazelwood had turned in for the night. It wasn’t unusual. Captains often rested while experienced officers handled routine stretches of the route. The third mate had orders to steer the ship through the next part and then call the captain later when it was time to make the next turn.
Below deck, the engines rumbled steadily. The ship glided through the dark water. It looked peaceful from the outside. Quiet. Still. But inside, the ship was a floating machine—one that depended on constant attention.
Not far from the ship’s path lay Bligh Reef, hidden beneath the waves. It didn’t move. It didn’t glow. It didn’t make a sound. It had been there long before ships like this existed. The only warning was a spot on the map—and the assumption that every ship crew knew exactly where they were.