A pilot for the National Geographic show Wicked Tuna died in a boating accident.On Sunday night, Charlie Griffin was boating with a friend in the Outer Banks of North Carolina when he went missing.According to the Coast Guard, two boaters who left Virginia Beach were late getting to Wanchese, North Carolina,
where their boat needed repairs on Sunday night at 11 p.m. According to a Coast Guard spokesperson to The Virginian-Pilot, they hadn’t been seen or heard from since 6:15 that night.
Coast Guard members and local first responders found the empty boat on Monday. They went inside and found Griffin and his dog’s bodies.Officials are still looking for the second person who was supposed to be on the trip as of Monday evening.A heartbreaking post on Griffin’s Facebook page, Reels of Fortune, confirmed that he had died.A photo of Griffin smiling and getting some sun was posted with the words, “It is with the deepest sadness that we report that Charlie Griffin and his beloved dog, Leila, have died in a boating accident today.”“Please keep family and friends in your thoughts and prayers.”Griffin started working as an actor in North Carolina in Season 2 of Wicked Tuna and stayed until Season 5.The ongoing reality TV show on National Geographic follows experienced fishermen who make a living by catching huge fish that can be worth tens of thousands of dollars.
At the end of the season, the fisherman who did the best is called the winner, which guarantees them bragging rights for life.The fourth season ended with Griffin winning.Celebrity fans shared their condolences and heartbreak over the terrible news on social media.A fan wrote, “One of my all-time favorite guys.”“Rest easy Griff.”Others said, “This is very sad for all show fans.”“He will forever be one of my favorites.”Some fans shared a heartbreaking picture of Charlie and Leila that they said they met last summer on a boat ride.“Charlie was very knowledgable and friendly, a great captain,” a fan wrote.
Lisa, Leila was a great dog. Familie and friends of him are in our thoughts and prayers.An organization that supports commercial fishermen called NC Watermen United also said that Griffin was “well loved and will be missed by many.”An organization said in a statement, “We will always be grateful for the difference he made in our lives.”
My 81-year-old grandma started posting selfies on Instagram with heavy filters.
The notification popped up on my phone, another Instagram post from Grandma Rose. I sighed, tapping on the icon. There she was, her face smoothed and airbrushed beyond recognition, a pair of oversized, cartoonish sunglasses perched on her nose. A cascade of digital sparkles rained down around her. The caption read, “Feeling my vibe! #OOTD #YOLO #GrandmaGoals.”
My stomach churned. At first, it had been a novelty, a quirky, endearing quirk of my 81-year-old grandmother. But now, weeks into her social media blitz, it was bordering on unbearable.
It had started innocently enough. She’d asked me to help her set up an Instagram account, intrigued by the photos I’d shown her of my travels and friends. I’d thought it was a sweet way for her to stay connected with the family, a digital scrapbook of sorts.
But Grandma Rose had taken to Instagram like a fish to water, or rather, like a teenager to a viral trend. She’d discovered the world of filters, the power of hashtags, and the allure of online validation. Suddenly, she was posting multiple times a day, each photo more heavily filtered than the last.
The captions were a whole other level of cringe. She’d pepper them with slang I barely understood, phrases like “slay,” “lit,” and “no cap.” She’d even started using emojis, a barrage of hearts, stars, and laughing faces that seemed to clash with her gentle, grandmotherly image.
The pinnacle of my mortification came when she asked me, with wide, earnest eyes, how to do a “get ready with me” video. “You know, darling,” she’d said, her voice brimming with excitement, “like those lovely young ladies on the internet. I want to show everyone my makeup routine!”
I’d choked on my coffee. My makeup routine consisted of moisturizer and a swipe of mascara. Grandma Rose’s “makeup routine” involved a dusting of powder and a dab of lipstick.
The worst part was, my entire family was egging her on. They’d shower her with likes and comments, calling her “amazing,” “inspiring,” and “a social media queen.” They were completely oblivious to my growing dread.
I was trapped in a vortex of secondhand embarrassment. What if my friends saw these posts? What if my coworkers stumbled upon her profile? I could already imagine the whispers, the snickers, the awkward attempts at polite conversation.
I found myself avoiding family gatherings, dreading the inevitable discussions about Grandma Rose’s latest post. I’d scroll through my feed, wincing at each new notification, my finger hovering over the “unfollow” button, a button I couldn’t bring myself to press.
One evening, I found myself sitting across from my mom, the glow of her phone illuminating her face as she scrolled through Grandma Rose’s profile. “Isn’t she just the cutest?” she gushed, showing me a photo of Grandma Rose with a digital halo and angel wings.
“Mom,” I said, my voice strained, “don’t you think this is… a little much?”
My mom looked at me, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? She’s having fun. She’s expressing herself.”
“But it’s not her,” I argued. “It’s like she’s trying to be someone else.”
“She’s adapting, darling,” my mom said, her voice gentle. “She’s embracing technology. She’s living her best life.”
I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument. My family, in their well-meaning attempt to support Grandma Rose, were completely blind to the awkwardness of the situation.
I decided to try a different approach. The next time Grandma Rose asked me for help with her Instagram, I sat down with her and gently explained the concept of “authenticity.” I showed her photos of herself, unfiltered and unedited, her smile genuine, her eyes sparkling with wisdom.
“You’re beautiful just the way you are, Grandma,” I said, my voice sincere. “You don’t need filters or slang to be amazing.”
She looked at the photos, her eyes softening. “Do you really think so, darling?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“Absolutely,” I said, squeezing her hand.
Grandma Rose didn’t stop posting, but she did tone it down. The filters became less intense, the captions more genuine. She even started sharing stories from her life, anecdotes that were both heartwarming and hilarious.
And slowly, I began to appreciate her online presence. I realized that it wasn’t about trying to be an influencer; it was about Grandma Rose finding her own way to connect with the world, to express her joy, to simply be herself. And in the end, that was more than enough.
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