by the Rev. Grace Pardun, SCI Supervisory Chaplain, Ministry on the River, Upper Mississippi & Ohio River Region 

From the February Quarterly Activity Report

It was Friday night, and I had just fallen asleep. My dog was curled up next to me, snoring away. I was drifting off to dreamland when, in my dream, an alarm was going off. It took me a few groggy beats to realize that it wasn’t an alarm, but my phone on my nightstand being paged by our dispatch answering service. At 12:41 am, I answered the phone and was quickly briefed about a man overboard, which resulted in a fatality on the lower Mississippi River.  

I sleepily plodded over to my kitchen table, desperately trying to remember all the details that I needed to respond to the crisis. Company and vessel name. Phone numbers for the shoreside, the port captain, and the boat. Approximate location of the vessel, and is it underway? Where is it headed? What time would you like a chaplain to be there? Has the Coast Guard completed their investigation? How many crew members? What is the name and position of the deceased? 

The vessel was currently a five-hour drive from my house, nowhere near a port or a dock. The port captain had boarded it from a crew boat and relieved the captain. The plan was that they would come upriver to a dock, and I would meet them there. He would call me when he thought I should start driving. I was on standby until I heard from him again. 

By this point, I was fully awake. I didn’t know how long it would take the boat to come upriver, but I wanted to be prepared to leave the moment I heard back. So, I packed my suitcase, took the dog out, texted the dogsitter, canceled my weekend plans, set out my clothes for the day, and prepared as much as possible to leave when I got the call. I checked the vessel’s location in the app and made sure my phone’s notifications were all on. And then I waited. 

Eventually, I went back to bed, but my mind kept going. It ran the numbers like a ninth-grade algebra problem: if a vessel is heading upstream at 4.8 knots, pushing twelve barges, and a Seamen’s Church Institute vehicle is traveling down the highway at 70 miles per hour, where and when do they meet? I would doze off and wake up, checking my phone each time. Nothing. I checked the vessel’s location again. 4.8 knots isn’t very fast, is it? No follow-up text came that night. 

The sun came up, and I moved through my usual morning routine. Not long after, the message finally arrived: “Start driving now. I dropped what I was doing and headed out, beginning what would become a four-and-a-half-hour drive. I reached the dock just as the boat rounded the bend. Soon after, I was seated at the galley table with the crew, guiding them through the CISM process, holding space for them to remember, to grieve, and to tell stories about their friend. 

As a crisis response chaplain on call 24/7, there’s a strain that comes with always being on standby. When my phone rings, I never know whether it’s a routine question or news of a critical incident. In my early days at SCI, every notification made me jump. Over time, though, a simple piece of wisdom settled in: find harbor when the waters are calm.

I have a responsibility to steady my own nerves, especially while I’m on standby. Self-care has to be intentional and proactive. Because when I step onto a vessel on what may be the worst day of a mariner’s life, I am called to embody a calm, grounded presence—one that gently reminds them that I am there for them, that God is with them and holding them in the midst of shock and grief. 

As I write this reflection, my dog is stretched out on the couch, blissfully snoring. She offers me a peaceful, nonanxious presence, and through her quiet trust, I am reminded that God is watching over me. I know I will be ready when the phone rings again.