Chapter 8
T
hey lost all power just after midnight.
Brian had been nursing the
Tangled Blue
south-by-southeast, having long ago lost hope he could run back to Gloucester in the building seas. The
Archos
’s hull had punctured the side of the
Tangled Blue
below the waterline and in close proximity to the fuel tank. Either the lines or the tank itself had been damaged, maybe both, and the Chryslers were both missing, the port on one cylinder, the starboard engine spitting unburned diesel and smoke and backfiring, missing on two, perhaps three cylinders. Water in the diesel, Brian thought. Son of a bitch.
He stared out over the dark sea, taking stock of his situation. Gilly was mildly hypothermic and the old man was drifting in and out of consciousness, his arm broke, sick with shock. The current was pulling them ever farther south, and he could only get about six knots out of
Tangled Blue,
not enough to break free of the Kaala and reach shore. Above 3000 RPMs, the engines would misfire and threaten to stall.
He shifted his gaze from the endless dark waves to the GPS screen. His original goal had been to head into Massachusetts Bay, get out of the worst of the waves and current, then limp his boat in to Quincy and see how much room was left on his Visa for the repairs. But the seas and the current had swept them far offshore, and when he tried cutting hard to the coastline the ocean smashed against the long sides of the
Tangled Blue,
causing more water to pour over the damaged hull.
Just before midnight he checked the GPS route projections again. At their current heading they would slide past Cape Cod, miss the last protuberance of North American rock by more than a mile, and drift off into open seas.
He closed his eyes, imagining the vast open seas off the coast, marked only by the underwater geology, the ridges and trenches, darker blue over light blue in his mental map. The
Tangled Blue
pitching and bobbing in the offshore seas, her engines too weak to make it back to shore, not powerful enough to navigate through the monstrous swells.
He opened his eyes, breathing shallowly. After a moment he nudged the throttle forward, ignoring the popping and backfires, and turned toward shore. Eight knots, then nine. The
Tangled Blue
’s engines labored as the icy water splashed against her starboard side, and the bilges hummed as they pushed seawater out of the hold. Brian spread his legs to absorb the pounding, gritting his teeth as his boat crashed into the huge swells.
After a few minutes Gilly came up from the cabin, wrapped in his thick sleeping bag.
“We could call for a tow,” he hollered over the noise of the Chryslers. He moved next to Brian and scanned the instrument panel.
“Not in this slop.”
“We could just wait and—”
“No, Gilly.” It wasn’t just stubbornness; with the number of wrecks in the past week, and the heavy fog, the Coasties wouldn’t respond unless they were in a life-threatening situation. That meant a private ship, which would demand a salvage fee, and if Brian gave up a piece of the
Tangled Blue
’s worth he would have to give her all up.
“Anybody know we’re out here?”
“Doubt it,” Brian said. “I sent in a disabled vessel alert a half hour ago and got static. You feeling better?”
Gilly nodded. “Still got the shivers, but I can think again.”
“When did it start?”
“The shivers?”
“You thinking,” Brian said.
“Stick it,” Gilly said. He leaned over to peer at the GPS map and tapped the speed. Eight-point-three knots. “Won’t win any races, will we?”
“No.”
“Tank cracked? She got hit pretty hard down there.”
“Maybe,” Brian said, cutting the
Tangled Blue
into a twelve-foot-high roller.
They chugged eastward in the pitch-dark seas, picking up speed slowly, the engines lugging and hitching, the swirling air on the deck rich with the smell of unburned hydrocarbons. The waves were hitting them broadside now and the boat rolled from side to side, coming down with teeth-snapping impact on the bigger waves.
“Easy,” Gilly said, tapping the RPM needle. “Starboard engine’s gonna shit the bed.”
Brian glanced at the course projection. If they could hold this heading for just five, ten more minutes it wouldn’t matter. They could simply float south, and the big open mitt of Plymouth Harbor would catch them sometime around dawn.
“You’re at five thousand,” Gilly said. “And hotter than hell. Cracked something, Cap.” Brian did not reduce speed and Gilly stared at him, eyes bleary behind the wet tendrils of hair spilling out of his knit cap. “Gonna burn her up.”
“My boat,” Brian said. “Go downstairs and warm up.”
“What’s got your panties in such a twist?”
Brian pressed down slightly on the throttle. The bottom had come up fifty feet, and the current was strengthening as the water became more shallow. The Kaala was like a massive river, and the current was stronger the closer they got to the coastline. Ahead of them, the spotlight of the
Tangled Blue
reflected against the surface of a towering blue-black wave. Without a word both men braced themselves for the impact.
The boat slewed sideways and then tipped hard to the port side, the massive roller lifting them on a twenty-degree angle. There were breakers on top of the rollers, the frothy water catching the running lights just before they hit. They went into the trough and water flooded over the gunwales. It surged across the deck as they descended the wave, surging around their ankles and cascading down the steps to the cuddy.
“Check the bilges,” Brian said, hauling hard on the steering wheel. They had spun almost ninety degrees and were broadside to the waves. The ship pitched and rolled, more water splashing over her sides.
Gilly leaned over the side. “Still spitting,” he shouted. “Couple more like those and they won’t be able to keep up. We lose engine power—”
“I got her,” Brian said, and gave both engines more throttle. The boat surged forward, engine sputtering, the bow swinging around so they quartered into the waves. The sea caught them, pushed them back where it wanted them. Brian swung the nose of the boat back around, zigzagging against the brute strength of the current, his face stony. They were close to the vectored route he was seeking; another half mile and they would be on the inside curve of the shoreline.
“Look,” Gilly yelled, and Brian saw the bright green blotch on the radar. Land. They both grinned, and at that moment the starboard engine stalled. Brian twisted the ignition and the engine sputtered, started, and died. He turned the key again and again, but the engine would not catch. After a while he switched the key to the off position and turned the boat so they were running with the waves again.
“What’s the port engine status?”
“Missing,” Gilly said. “On one, maybe two cylinders.” He looked up. “We lose power on both, we lose charge on the batteries. Don’t got enough juice to run the bilge.”
Brian took a deep breath, hand tensed on the throttle, and glanced at Gilly.
His first mate shook his head. “No, Brian.”
Brian exhaled, then rubbed a hand across his face and turned to Gilly. “That was a stupid plan you had.”
“Well,” Gilly said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a crumpled cigarette, the paper stained dark with moisture. He tossed it overboard. “I’m sorta impetuous at times. What now?”
“We’ll leave her right here,” he said, tapping the throttle. He glanced at the GPS, the thin green line of their course now headed back out to sea. “And call it in.”
Gilly picked up the marine radio. “This is
Tangled Blue
transmitting in the blind,” he said. “We are dead in the water, repeat dead in the water, and requesting assistance. Coordinates are 42.30 north, 70.29 west. Again, 42.30 north, 70.29 west and heading south-southeast at three-point-five knots. This is the
Tangled Blue
requesting assistance.” He released the transmit key and listened to the reply of static. “You want a May-day, too?”
“No,” Brian said. “Wells doesn’t need a doctor, does he?”
Gilly waved it off. “I got plenty of cure for that old fart in my duffel. He’s fine.” Brian frowned and Gilly held up his palm. “All legit.”
Another wave rocked the boat and they both grabbed onto the dash. Brian studied the seas for a moment, then opened one of the aft hatches and pulled out a drift sock, a large nylon cone with ropes attached at five points along the circumference. “We need to straighten out.”
Gilly held out his hand. “I got it.”
“Just steer the boat.”
“You sure?”
Brian climbed onto the starboard gunnel, bracing himself against the side of the cabin. Feeling the motion of the sea, trying to find the rhythm in the sets of waves. He considered slipping on a life preserver and dismissed it. If he fell overboard, the
Tangled Blue
could not turn back into the waves to recover him. The cold water would kill him within minutes.
“At least tie on a rope,” Gilly shouted. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Brian edged his way around the cabin toward the enclosed bow of the boat. He didn’t believe in tying ropes to people while they were onboard; like most captains, he abhorred tripping hazards, and ropes made it difficult to swim. If he fell overboard, he would have to make it back onboard with his own strength, just like any other sailor.
He knew he was being reckless, even foolish. It felt good, and that was foolish, too.
He edged forward. It was quieter outside the cabin, the sound of the waves breaking against the
Tangled Blue
’s hull almost peaceful. The boat surged and rolled under him. He put a hand on the front corner of the cabin, working his way onto the enclosed bow. He swiveled his body around the corner, lost his grip on the cabin, and dropped to his knees, the railing pressed against his side. He licked his lips, tasting the salt.
Low and slow, that was the ticket.
He inched along the bow, staying inside the bow rails. The boat reared and bucked under him and he dropped to his stomach, worming toward the bow cleat. He fumbled in the darkness, hand groping, and finally looped the rope over the cleat. A quick clove hitch, yank it back to cinch the knot. Good, now double-check the knots. Still good. Now toss the bitch overboard.
The drift sock floated out to the end of the rope, sank a few inches, and flared open as it filled with water. The rope snapped tight, spinning the ship around in a half-circle so the bow was facing the waves.
He inched backwards to the front of the cabin, got to his feet, and worked his way back around the cabin enclosure. A wave splashed over him, the spotlight illuminating the cold water a second before it fell on him. He let it wash over him, concentrating on his feet and his hands, keeping three points of contact on the side of the cabin. The wave subsided, and he scuttled forward before the next one could hit and dropped back onto the floor of the boat.
Gilly grabbed him before he could fall. “Dumbass,” he said, pushing him back to arm’s length. “What are you grinning about?”
“Been a while since I’ve done anything right,” Brian said. “Get an answer on the radio?”
“I got static,” Gilly said. “I think we fucked up, partner.”
Brian looked through the windshield. The spotlight was bright enough to see the endless sets of waves barreling down from the north, riding up on the bow of the
Tangled Blue
and breaking around her. He clicked it off to save the batteries.
“Well,” he said. “Any other bright ideas?”
“One,” Gilly said, heading toward the cabin. “Let’s go get drunk.”
* * *
Wells was huddled in a bunk, shivering under several blankets. Gilly had wrapped his broken arm in a bum sling, then draped several blankets over the old man. Wells shook and mumbled, a shrunken man with salt rimed on his ears and the edges of his nostrils. The hand on his broken arm was cold to the touch.
Brian wiped the seawater from his own face. He figured Gilly was right—Wells was in pain, but he wasn’t in any immediate danger. Gilly held out a tumbler of Seagrams and Brian swallowed it in two gulps, the whiskey tracing a fiery path down his throat.
“Another?” Gilly said.
“In a minute.” He ducked into the aft cabin while Gilly poured himself a drink. He put on dry clothes, taking a moment to revel in the feel of his shriveled toes inside his wool socks. Then he took his cell phone off the charger, saw the
no service
message, and went back into the cuddy. Just in time to catch Gilly with the bottle to his lips.
He held out his hand. Gilly passed him the bottle, and Brian took a long drink himself before setting the bottle on the table. “No more.”
“Hypocrite,” Gilly muttered.
Brian walked over to the old man and put a hand on his bony shoulder. “You doing okay?”
“Sleepy,” Wells mumbled. “Arm hurts.”
Brian helped Wells into a sitting position, then took the glass and poured it a quarter-full. “This’ll cure what ails you.”
Wells opened his cracked lips and Brian poured the whiskey in, noting with satisfaction when Wells’s eyes widened, losing some of his dopey expression, and the old man spluttered and tossed his head.
“Whoa,” Brian said. “Easy, big fella. Breathe in nice and slow.”
Wells sniffed loudly several times, his mouth working. “Can I have another?”
“Hell yes,” Gilly said. “That’s the spirit.” He had been watching the old man’s contortions with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. “Hair of the dog, right, bro?”
“Where am I?” Wells said. He made as though to motion with his right arm and grimaced. “I think my arm’s broken.”
“You’re on the
Tangled Blue
,” Gilly said.