The biting October wind whipped across Mike Rollins’ face as he steered his weathered fishing boat, *The Hope*, through the choppy waters of the Pacific Northwest. The forty-year-old fisherman from the small coastal town of Fisher’s Cove knew these waters like the back of his hand—every sandbar, every current, every hidden rock. The Pacific, unpredictable and vast, stretched out between the rugged Oregon coastline and the distant horizon.
These waters were once teeming with salmon and halibut, but the sea was a fickle mistress. During the autumn storms, the water temperature plummeted, and by winter, the swells grew so violent that most local boats stayed docked for months. Mike was a third-generation fisherman. His grandfather had worked the canneries back when the industry was the backbone of the county. In those days, the local cooperatives provided steady work for the whole town, with trawlers returning to port with hulls overflowing.
But times had changed. The big commercial fleets moved in, the cooperatives folded, and independent fishermen were left to fend for themselves. “Empty nets again,” Mike muttered, hauling in his last line. It was the third day in a row. His wife, Susan, was waiting at home with their two kids: ten-year-old Alex and seven-year-old Mia. Money was tighter than it had ever been.
The *Hope*, built back in the late eighties, was a constant drain on his wallet. The old diesel engine was temperamental, the hull needed a fresh coat of anti-fouling paint, and his sonar was practically prehistoric. The fish were moving further out, chased away by industrial-scale operations that used satellite tech to sweep the ocean floor clean, leaving nothing for the little guys.
Mike checked his watch: 4:00 PM. In October, the light faded fast, and he hated going home empty-handed. The family budget was at a breaking point. They were two months behind on the electric bill, and Mia’s braces were going to cost a fortune. Susan was pulling double shifts at the local diner, but her tips barely covered the groceries.
He made a split-second decision that would change everything: he turned the wheel toward Ursus Island, a rocky outcrop about 30 miles offshore. The island was a jagged piece of land, barely two miles long, covered in scrub brush and battered by the surf. Most sailors avoided it because of the treacherous shoals and unpredictable riptides, especially when a storm was brewing.
As the island came into view, Mike spotted something unusual on the northern shore. A metallic glint flashed between the gray rocks and tangled kelp. Through his binoculars, he could see a large, man-made object. Curiosity won out over caution. Navigating the rocks carefully, he dropped anchor and rowed his skiff to the beach. There, half-buried in the sand and gravel, sat a massive shipping container…
