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Apr 3, 2011

Sailing & Boating Short Story's

San Juan Islands short stories
Keeping anchored


If you find yourself at this page, don't be alarmed, the Sailingthesanjuans website is where you have landed.  This page is simply some scary nautical (or not) stories at the very end of the postings.  To get back to the business of the site, simply click the heading at the top, or the home button on the bottom, or click on any of the many titles on the sides.  Or you could scroll down and read some stories. The stories are about boating and are set in the San Juan Islands.

Fueled by imagination, time to write, and drawing a little from real-life experiences, I have jotted down some quick stories.  They are more or less truthful except for the obvious deviations from reality.  

Coast Guard boat:

The sudden roar of high-speed motors throttling down sent a ripple of tension through the group. Heads snapped toward the sound just in time to catch sight of the sleek, fast-response boat from Bellingham dropping off plane as it approached the cove.

"Holy ****," Mack muttered, his voice barely audible over the fading engines. "There’s someone you don’t want chasing you." His gaze locked onto the vessel, his face grim. "That deck-mounted Gatling gun could empty this cove in seconds. And when I say empty, I mean send us all straight to Davy Jones."

A chill settled over the group as they turned their full attention to the Coast Guard boat, now idling into the cove with an air of quiet menace. Bristling with antennas, its hull gleaming in bold Coast Guard colors, the vessel was a study in efficiency and raw power. The gun on the bow, as ominous as it was silent, commanded respect—and more than a little fear.

Tension hung in the air like fog, dissipating only slightly as the crew disembarked and exchanged polite greetings. Tom caught Tracy eyeing his floral-patterned gloves, then broke the silence with a theatrical pirate growl. “Arrrgh, the wife’s bandages! Normally, I don’t bother with gloves.”

The group burst into relieved laughter, and the mood lightened as small talk took over. For ten minutes, they bantered, even fielding a daring question from one of the children. Pointing to the intimidating Gatling gun, the boy asked a wide-eyed crewman, “Have you ever shot anyone with that thing?”

The crewman’s response was curt but kind. “No.”

Still, the curiosity lingered. Questions about the boat’s capabilities followed, though many were met with deflections. “Top secret,” one of the crew said with a wink, thrilling the children but leaving the adults noticeably unsatisfied. What the crew was willing to share, however, was equally fascinating. They spoke about their rescue equipment, their mission to protect the country from enemies, and the relentless pursuit of smugglers.

The conversation ended abruptly with a single, sharp chirp from the pilothouse radio. Tracy straightened and gave a brisk command. “Let’s go, boys. Back to business.”

The crew moved with practiced efficiency as the vessel prepared to leave. Idling out of the cove carefully to avoid leaving a wake, the boat exuded a kind of controlled power. But once it reached the channel between James and Decatur Islands, Tracy gave the triple 400-horsepower motors full throttle.

The response was immediate and ferocious. The 33-foot craft surged forward, slicing through the water with a force that left jaws hanging. In a stunning display of maneuverability, Tracy spun the boat in a tight 180-degree turn that seemed straight out of an Indy car race. The engines roared again as the boat hit its own wake, launching into the air with a grace that belied its size.

For a breathless moment, the massive RIB hung in the air. Then, with a feather-light touch, its stern kissed the water before leaping back into motion. The acceleration was blinding, and in seconds, the boat was up on plane, a white streak against the deep blue sea.

“Holy ****,” Mack whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “I told you—you don’t want one of those things chasing you.”

As the Coast Guard vessel disappeared beyond the islands, the group stood in stunned silence, the image of raw power and precision etched into their minds.

    


 FIRST  PEA SOUP FOG:

As the two boats push northward through Rosario Strait, the fog thickens ominously, swallowing their world whole. Land shapes that had once been visible just two miles away vanish into the swirling, suffocating white. The wind has disappeared, leaving no breath to stir the air. The fog seems to have stolen not just their sight but their very senses. The silence is oppressive, the only sound being the low purr of the engines, a ghostly reminder that they are still moving.

The boats inch closer together, their crews desperate to stay within sight of each other, as the fog grows heavier, more oppressive. At a crawling pace of three miles per hour, the current pulling them northward adds an extra surge of speed, but they have no way of knowing if they’re still on track. The compass, once their trusted guide, now seems as distant as their destination. They are adrift in a vast, unseen sea, lost to the fog and the slow pull of the current.

Mike had been so sure of his plan—300 degrees magnetic to guide them across the Strait—but now he feels the weight of his uncertainty settling over him. The fog has turned the world into a menacing void. The laughter and chatter that had once filled the boats are long gone, replaced by a stifling silence that gnaws at their nerves. The reality of their situation settles like a cold stone in their stomachs.

Mike wishes desperately for radar, a lifeline in this endless fog. Commercial vessels pass through Rosario Strait daily, and they are a danger now more than ever. The thought of being blindsided by a ship’s massive wake or worse, run over, chills Mike to the core. The two families continue to inch forward, calling out on the radio to stay in line, but no one dares speak too loudly. The kids ring the brass bell every minute, a tiny beacon of normalcy in the midst of growing dread. But the bell only adds to the sense of isolation, echoing eerily into the white, with no way of telling where or when it will end.

Another hour slips away, the fog not relenting, and the tension aboard both boats is unbearable. The children huddle below, trying to stay warm, while the adults stand at the helms, their clothes soaked through by the condensing fog. The only sound is the whine of the engines and the gnawing fear in the pit of their stomachs, as they listen intently for any sound that might signal danger: the throb of a ship’s diesel, the creak of nearby rocks, or the terrifying rush of water.

And then, in the heart of the mist, Mike sees it—a wall of white water, churning violently ahead. For a moment, his mind refuses to believe it. How could this be? What’s gone wrong? Panic erupts in his chest as he frantically checks the GPS and depth sounder. Forty fathoms below them. They’re in the middle of the Strait. But that wall of water is real—and it’s heading straight for them.

Mike's heart skips a beat. The fog has concealed the incoming tidal bore, a force of nature too powerful to ignore. The incoming tide, pushing them at two miles per hour, is colliding with the outgoing tide, creating a monstrous wave. A six-foot over-fall, breaking violently, will tear through them if they don’t act fast. Any boat caught in the tide rip will be tossed like a toy, drowned in a relentless swirl of water. The thought of their families being shredded, helpless against the power of nature, paralyzes Mike for a split second.

But then he snaps out of it. Terror surges through him. Move, his mind screams. He turns the wheel hard, the boat swerving away from the tidal wall. Tom follows suit, but the boats can’t gain ground. The tide is dragging them backward, inexorably pulling them toward the menacing wall of water. The roar of the wave grows louder, more deafening with every passing second. They are trapped. The current is unforgiving. No amount of effort will get them out of this alive unless they face the wave head-on.

It’s too late to run. The tide’s rage is upon them. The two families, once filled with laughter and carefree chatter, are now gripped by terror. The roar of the tide bores through the fog, deafening, unrelenting. The women have gone below, and the children are wide-eyed and trembling in the cabins, unable to do anything but wait for whatever comes next. The skippers are locked in their own private hell, steering the boats closer together, clinging to what little hope they have left.

Mike’s voice cracks over the radio as he calls Tom, his words sharp and desperate. “I’m turning around,” he says. “We have to face it head-on.”

Inside the cabins, Jan shouts for the children to brace themselves, her voice thick with fear. She orders them to buckle their life jackets and hold tight. The boats are poised for the storm, and there’s no turning back now.

As Mike and Tom steer into the oncoming force, the current pulls them faster, the walls of water looming like a nightmare. The roar of the wave is deafening now, the air thick with tension. Fran, her face pale with terror, watches as the storm closes in, knowing that it’s too late to change their fate. Tom’s grip tightens on the helm, knuckles white, but his gaze is steady. He shouts his love to Fran as if saying it will somehow protect them, and she holds on tighter.

Mike watches in horror as the tidal wave rises before him. His heart races, a thousand thoughts flashing through his mind. What if they don’t make it? What if he’s the only one left? In that split second, Mike reaches for the safety line—but his hands fumble in a panic, the line slipping from his grasp. He grabs it again, but it’s too late. There’s nothing more to do but hold on and pray.

In a moment of pure terror, the boats crest the wave. The world shakes, the fog swirling in every direction. But as quickly as it came, the threat is over. The boats ride up and over the wave, hardly feeling the swell beneath them. Mike and Tom stare, stunned, as the tidal over-fall was barely a foot high—nothing but a trick of the fog, a cruel illusion of danger.

The adrenaline crash is intense. Their hearts are racing, their minds reeling from the terror they just survived. The fog has played its cruelest trick on them, showing them a world that didn’t exist. But the lesson it taught them is clear: Never trust the fog.

The silence that follows is almost worse than the roar of the tide. The boats move slowly forward, no longer rushing, no longer fearing. The children come up from below, eyes wide, but safe. And the bells ring out once more, a symbol of normalcy in a world that has just shown them how quickly it can turn into chaos. The fog may have receded, but the terror lingers.



Rosario Strait Tragedy:
 This story is a sad tear-jerker, Please don't read it to your children.  And I have left out the middle and surprise ending. If you want to read the middle and end, e-mail me and I will e-mail it back to you.

“Hang on,” yells Tom to his children, Jacob and Wendy, leaning against the mast, “We're going to tack, prepare to tack,” he yells down the companionway to Sandy.  “Helms a lee,” yells Tom as he swings the tiller hard over.  Fourwinds turns and heads up into the eye of the wind, and the sails luff while her bow carried by its momentum moves over to its new heading.  Before the sails fill, before they see it coming, before they feel the huge first gust, they hear the far-off low whistle signaling the coming of the Banshees, then with a much closer shriek the calm is broken, and Fourwinds is in trouble.

The first eerie whistling sound alerts Mike, and he looks south.  Less than a mile away the once smooth gentle swells of Rosario Strait have become steep waves with white caps.  He knows white caps form when the wind is around 10-12 mph, but further south he sees the tops of waves being blown off and spray is whipping across the surface indicating 30 mph+ winds, and beyond that, so much water is in the air that visibility is zero. The land Jan pointed at moments earlier is gone. The fast-moving micro storm has swiftly moved up the Strait and will be on them in minutes.

“You kids get below right now—hurry!” Yells Mike.

He grabs his radio mic to warn Tom,

Fourwinds, Fourwinds—Tom, get everyone in the cabin and drop the sails right now and hurry.”  Then Mike leans on the tiller and forces Bluebelle into the wind and pops the main halyard line clutch.  The main sail drops smoothly to the boom. Seconds later he lets fly the jib sheet and begins pulling in the furling line wrapping the headsail neatly around the forestay.  The whistling has increased a hundredfold; it’s been less than a minute, and now the wind sounds like the wailing scream of a thousand Banshees announcing the arrival of untold miseries handed out to mariners around the world. Some say that each time a mariner perishes at sea another banshee is added to the winds wail.  Others say a banshee wail foretells death.

Fourwinds, with sails still flying, is upwind of Bluebelle about a quarter mile so she will be hit first.  Mike is tying the last sail tie around the main, and he looks up just in time to see the first wind gusts slam into Fourwinds.  Oh my god, thinks Mike as he helplessly watches.  Tom hasn’t reduced sail and the kids are still on deck.  On Fourwinds, Sandy has heard Mike’s frantic warning call, but it’s too late.  Tom has slackened the main halyard but the sail does not come down, after tacking she has not yet regained speed and cannot turn back into the wind, Fourwinds stalls, caught in irons, her sails flat to the wind, and her sail slides jam.  The gusts swirl around and Tom doesn’t know which way to pull the tiller to regain boat speed and steerage.  A huge blast broadsides Fourwinds, with all sails flying she is knocked over so far her sails dip in the ocean, her mast almost touching the water. She begins to right herself but holds at a precarious angle, her slippery decks sloping toward the sea, the relentless wind pinning her down. Sandy is hanging on in the cabin where everything has slid off the table onto the cabin sole.  Tom knows he has to somehow release the pressure on the sails but is suddenly alerted to Wendy’s terrified screaming; she has one arm around the tilting mast and is holding onto Jacobs's life jacket with the other.  Jacob is halfway over the edge of the boat with his life jacket pulled off over his head.

 “I can’t hold him,” she is screaming, “he’s too slippery.” 

Trying to get a foothold, four-year-old Jacob is squirming and thrashing causing Wendy to lose her tenuous grip. With his father watching, Jacob slips over the edge and disappears into the water.  Seconds later, arms thrashing, Jacob appears off the stern of Fourwinds.  The buoyant life jacket pinning his arms as it works its way over his head. The Life Jackets floatation meant to save lives is now trapping the doomed boy, his head repeatedly going underwater. 

“Do something,” Sandy screams from the companionway, “he’s going to drown.” Her yell is barely heard above wailing banshee winds circling Fourwinds.

“Get the life ring and boat pole,” yells Tom, as he launches himself over the back of the boat. His dive is picture-perfect and would deserve applause in a different setting.  The cold water shock triggers involuntary convulsions, and he barely stifles screaming.  He surfaces one stroke from Jacob and pulls his face to the surface, but in the process, Tom forces his own head under water, now both of them are coughing and gagging seawater.  Jacob is hysterical, but when Tom yells—Close your mouth, and hold your breath—he obeys. Tom is choking but manages to stay in control. He holds his breath and with one hand under Jacob and the other on the life jacket, he manages to shove his son back into position.  Gagging and kicking furiously to stay afloat he manages to click closed the top buckle and tighten all the straps.  His son is now secure, but Tom is struggling to keep on the surface, and so he holds onto Jacob. The buoyancy of the small children’s life jacket is keeping them both afloat.  Hearing Sandy’s cry Tom looks towards the sound and sees she has tossed the life ring in their direction.  Pulling Jacob, he kicks and strokes with his free hand towards the white plastic and canvas ring.  With each stroke they lose ground, the rescue the floating ring promised is quickly being blown away as Fourwinds in the clutches of the powerful storm is pulled further and further from them, taking with it the life ring securely tethered to the rail.

“What should I do?”—yells Sandy, but the shrieking wind and Rosario has stolen any chance of him hearing her.   She is forced to watch her husband and son recede in the distance, helpless and scared; knowing this could end in tragedy.

Chapter Four

 By now the waves are five feet between the tops of the blown-off white caps to the bottom of each lonely trough. The spray is horizontal, in another minute Sandy loses sight of her boys.  Tom and Jacob can still see Fourwinds each time they rise to the top of a wave, and then as the swell passes, they plunge back down, wondering if the boat will be there next time.  The Williwaw wind that knocked Fourwinds off her feet and is pinning her down has conspired with Rosario’s current, to drive her away, and soon they are alone.  They have been in the water just a few minutes and both of them are shivering violently, Tom’s swimming is for the most part ineffective, he can’t stay above water without tremendous effort and he has no energy left, hanging onto Jacob to stay afloat is his only chance for survival, but each time a wave comes over them his added weight is causing Jacobs head to go under water and come up coughing.  “Keep your mouth closed; hold your breath,” Tom repeats, his teeth clenched to stop shaking, and his voice barely audible.

Chapter Five

Mike has lowered the outboard motor back into the water and has been running Bluebelle at full speed since watching the knockdown and his friends go overboard. Closing the gap takes only minutes, but with the big waves they can’t see the boys in the water, Mike is hopeful they are hanging onto a line or the life ring. They have been calling on the radio but Sandy has not responded.  As they approach, Sandy is wildly motioning towards the worsening storm, it’s obvious she wants them to go that way, and look for Tom and Jacob.  When the two boats are close enough to yell, Mike asks if she is sure that’s the direction she last saw them.  Sandy is beside herself and barely able to function.

She screams across the waves while waving frantically, “What are you waiting for, they’re dying.”

“Listen to me—loosen all the sheets, start the motor, and head into the wind at full power to get the sails under control.” He knows there isn’t much chance Sandy will be able to get the sails down and the boat upright until the wind lessons, he just hopes she doesn’t go overboard herself.

Mike and Jan have put on their safety harnesses and are clipped onto their jack lines. They head the way Sandy pointed scanning the waves and troughs, they can’t see much, a person in the water may be visible for just seconds before another wave blocks the view.  The boats are being blown south, literally being sucked into the low-pressure area of the storm, but the current is flowing north, persons in the water will be mostly affected by the current and not the wind, he alters course, and motors Bluebelle at full speed directly into the wind; he’s not sure they are making any headway. It’s been about two minutes since turning from Sandy, a quick glance shows that she appears to be getting the jib rolled up, that’s good he thinks, that will ease the pressure, stand the boat back on its feet and make it possible to get the main down.

“They’ll be ok,” he yells over the wind to Jan.

“May day, may day, may day, calling the Coast Guard, may day, may day, may day.”  Mike cups the microphone trying to block the roar of the storm.  After what seems like an eternity but is only about five or ten seconds the radio speaker crackles static and booms out. 

“Bellingham Coast Guard, May Day, please identify yourself and what is your emergency.”

 “This is the sailboat Bluebelle, we have gale winds and high waves, we have two people lost overboard, we are in Rosario Strait one-half mile offshore due west of the north end of Cyprus Island, over.”

“Sailboat Bluebelle, do you have the overboard people in sight, how long have they been in the water?”

 “Negative Coast Guard, we can’t see them, it’s been about five minutes.” Mike and the Coast Guard radio operator exchange information about the boats and all the people on board.  Mike had punched the mob (man overboard) button on his chart plotter when the microburst hit them so he had the longitude and latitude where Tom and Jacob went missing.

The Coast Guard “Cutter Terrapin” on patrol in Haro Strait some twenty miles to the west on the other side of the San Juan’s takes the dispatcher's call, and immediately launches off its stern a high-speed inflatable with a crew of six. The shortest and fastest route is through the San Juans where the RIB (rigid inflatable boat) finds short gentle swells and small wavelets, perfect conditions for going fast. The powerful triple engine half fiberglass half inflatable and aluminum craft swiftly skims the surface at over sixty miles per hour leaving hardly a ripple of a wake; ETA to Obstruction Pass is 20 minutes. Once the RIB clears the pass and enters Rosario Strait the large waves and gale winds will slow them, but not stop them. Bellingham Coast Guard also dispatches a helicopter with rescue swimmers; the Helo’s ETA is 10 minutes to the GPS coordinates Mike has given the operator. The Coast Guard Helo crew has been monitoring the deteriorating weather, they know what to expect.  As soon as they are airborne they can see the menacing micro storm between Orcas and Cyprus Island. They fly a few hundred feet above the surface at 165 knots, rapidly closing the distance.

                    

                                              Chapter Six

Sandy is overcome with fear and emotion, she is desperately trying to save her family but is helpless to do anything, she stares into the wind, and the raging windblown seas.  She sees Bluebelle, but Mike's not going the right way, she waves her arm to the right yelling.

“Over there, over there”. It’s no use, Mike can’t hear her and the airborne spray has blotted out any chance of him seeing her waving.

“Mommy, mommy” Wendy tearfully cries out, snapping Sandy’s attention back to the boat and her terrified daughter, are they going to be ok? I couldn’t hold Jacob, the sunscreen was too slippery—I’m sorry.”  Sandy works her way to the companionway, and huddles down  Wendy, and hugs her saying,  “I’m sure Mike will find them, it’s not your fault.” And then she bursts into tears and holds Wendy as tight as she dares.

Sorry to leave you hanging, e-mail me to receive the rest.


This story takes place in a small cove on the west side of Orcas Island

Excerpts from Orca Boy:   chapters one - and when Josh meets Sammie

 “It’s okay guys,” says Josh, trembling, his heart pounding, “we’re not going to hurt you.” He stops rowing and slowly drifts towards the bigger killer whale's snout. 

“My name is Josh; this other fellow is my Uncle Charley.  We live in that big old house up on the hill.  Over there, on the dock, is my Aunt Maggie with the camera, and Sammie and Sadie.   Sadie’s barking brought us to you.”  Josh’s constant patter is supposed to calm the huge animals and bolster his own courage.  So far, the orcas appear to be in control of their emotions.  

 

The two killer whales have brought an exciting nervous calmness to the cove, and then they both spout—ending the tranquil spell.   They exhale a foul-smelling steamy mist high into the air. Their breath erupts for ten long seconds from fist-size blowholes.  Everyone is caught by surprise. Charley swallows hard and dry; his neck muscles knot and won’t cooperate.  Their guttural inhales sound like the earth herself is drawing breath.

 

“Hi momma,” says Josh, still shaking a little, “that was impressive up close like that,” his voice barely above a whisper.  “Like I said, I’m Josh, this was your idea to come here for help, wasn’t it?  Do you have names? What do you call each other?  Has anyone ever told you your black and white outfits look formal? You know, like a penguin looks. This conversation is totally one sided, but I need to talk.  I know—you both look like salt and pepper, I’m calling you Pepper, and mom, I’m not calling you salt, you don’t seem like an old salt, you tell me what to call you?”  Josh pauses for his own deep breath; the quiet moment is Sadie’s cue to whimper her concern.

                 

Pepper moves her flipper fin in a circular motion pushing her blowhole and eye back above the surface. She is half resting, half perched on momma orca  ’s outstretched six foot fin. Without constant swimming or her mother’s support, the heavy net and weights tangling her body will pull her to the bottom.  She calmly watches the rowboat drift closer. 

 

Fifty feet away on the dock, Sadie whines, Sammie rubs her neck soothing her, maybe Sadie senses something, maybe dog and orca   have somehow connected.  Sadie was certainly drawn to the cove, bringing Sammie and Josh running.

 

The puny little boat offers no protection should the two orca  s suddenly thrash about. Josh rows directly in front of Pepper; with one eye, she watches him pull the oars in, and reach for his hiking stick.  Her left eye is dark blue the other is dark green.  Above each eye is a white eye-patch, nature’s subtle disguise.  She is black on top and white on her belly.  The black and white markings are duplicated on her mom.  Like mother, like daughter, Pepper is a ten-foot version of her twenty-two foot mother.

 

“Well Charley, so far so good,” says Josh, “It’s okay Pepper, I need to keep from banging into you and your mom so I’m going to touch your mom lightly with this stick, that’s okay with your mom—right?”  Charley holds his breath, he squeezes the edge of the boat with white knuckles.  Josh exhales slowly through pursed lips, and reaches the stick out to momma—he gently pushes. 

 “Oh jeez,” says Josh trembling all over again, “this is scary—pushing on her is like shoving on a piling or dock covered with old truck tires.  This momma is definitely a serious animal.”  The boat rebounds backward.  Momma’s eye follows them; ever so slowly, she strokes her fin on the far side.  Underwater, she flexes her broad tail fluke—Josh freezes while holding the stick hovering over her.

  “It’s okay momma, Uncle Charlie and I are your friends, I’m going to rub this stick over here on Pepper’s back.  He lightly touches the tip of his stick on her back between her blowhole and pectoral fin.  “Would you like me to scratch your back, Pepper?”

He rubs the stick back and forth and wonders what to do next. 

 

“You really are a brave girl Pepper; let me scratch you a little bit over here by your big back fin.”

Josh slides the stick over the ropes that are cutting into her skin and scratches in front of her dorsal fin.

 “What the heck is that noise,” says Josh, “Pepper, is that you squealing? No, you’re whistling—you sure are.  You like this scratching, don’t you?”  Josh lifts the stick and raps it in one spot like when Sammie smacks Sadie on her haunches as part of a good-dog back rub.  Pepper’s whistles continue with an occasional click sound.

 

“Josh, I think that whale likes you,” says Charley, loosening his grip on the boat while the strange almost unbelievable sight unfolds in front of him.  “If I didn’t know better I would say Pepper is purring.” 

“Uh, I hope not, I once had a cat that purred when I rubbed its back, but then it bit me.”

 

The scratching, whistling, and clicks continue while momma orca supports Pepper on her extended fin.  Her gentle fin movements hold their position opposite the floating dock.  His courage showing, Josh experiments and rubs the stick on different parts of Pepper's body.  He carefully shoves and manipulates the area where the ropes are cutting into her thick skin. Except for the clicks, she shows no preference nor displays any pain or displeasure; she tolerates his touching and doesn’t mind the boat bumping against her.  Momma orca is motionless just a few feet away, and except for the occasional tail and fin adjustment, she could be asleep.

 

Josh and Charley lock eyes, Charley shakes his head, “Josh again—you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do, Uncle Charley, now more than ever, I can’t not help them.” He clenches his jaw and with his hand, gently rubs the white patch above her open eye, comforting the small orca.  With his other hand, he wipes his own wet eyes.

 

 Using the hooked pole, he reaches into the water underneath Pepper and snags a piece of net.  He pulls the snarled mass to the surface.  With his Leatherman tool lanyard securely looped on his wrist, he slices into the netting.  He saws the serrated blade through a seaweed-encrusted line. He hooks more gobs and cuts through fifteen or more lines before coming to an extra heavy rope holding a lot of weight. It takes both him and Charley to pull the taught rope to the surface.  Josh braces himself up on one knee and leans out over the ten-foot orca  .

 

“This is horrible Pepper, how the heck can you swim with all this junk hanging from you?”

 

The knife cleanly separates the stretched rope and hundreds of pounds suddenly sink to the bottom of the cove.  When the weight falls, Pepper, Charley, Josh and the rowboat all rebound at once.  Big momma’s huge supporting fin snaps upward like a catapult unleashed, lifting and tilting the boat.  Charley falls over backward in the middle of the boat and rides it out, but Josh’s precarious position is impossible to recover from, and he sails over the side flopping onto Pepper's back.  Her dorsal fin trips him up and he slides into the water between mother and daughter. Sadie jumps to her feet barking her alarm.  Sammie pulls her down clamping a hand over her muzzle quieting her. Maggie yells Josh’s name.  Charley with the boat hook still in his hand pulls himself up and looks for his nephew.

 

“Oh my god,” says Charley, eyes wide, fresh adrenalin replacing stale fear.

“It’s okay Pepper,” says Josh, “It’s okay momma, just a little mishap—everyone remain calm.”

 

Josh has slipped between the two killer whales, one arm resting on Pepper, the other forced upward over the much higher mom. 

“Charley, you aren’t going to believe this, I’m kneeling on her fin.  I’m going to climb over Pepper and get back in the boat.” He crouches, ready to stand and straddle Pepper, but when he stretches for the boat, he doesn’t quite make it and falls on her again.  With both arms, he pushes off ungracefully rejecting sitting on her.  He lands with a flying crash back in the rocking boat.  The two orcas watch but remain motionless, unlike Josh and Charley their emotions and fear are still in check.

 

“Oh boy,” Says Josh, able to breathe again, “I thought that was going to do it, and we would be smashed to bits, or big momma’s tail would toss us over the dock.”

“Are you okay,” says Maggie, “what happened, did the big whale hit you?”

“No, everything is fine,” says Charley, “we just got off balance.”

 

Getting back to work, Josh says. “That last cut released a ton of weight, but it didn’t loosen these two tight ones around her body, we have to keep fishing for hanging lines.” 

In the next fifteen minutes, Josh and Charley manage to make another dozen cuts, removing a lot of netting and line but no more significant weight like the gob that threw him into the water.

 

“Okay, we’re almost done, this is the one digging in, I’ll slice—what the!!    This rope has a wire inside of it, it’s dulled my knife, I can’t cut it.”

“I should have told you, that some of these fishing nets are made with a thin wire cable in the top line.  It’s ultra-strong and doesn’t stretch,” says Charley.

“It’s also killing Pepper, we have to get it off somehow, but I can’t cut it or even reach it without cutting into her blubber.”

Chapter two:

Yesterday—on the ferry

“Hi!—Hellooo...... I said Hi!—”

“Oh . . . you’re talking to me?” Oh geez, you dweeb, what a dumb answer.

“Well yeahhh,” she says while twirling her sun-streaked hair around a finger.  “Do you see anyone else on the top deck of this ferry boat?”

“Well when you put it that way, just me I guess.”  Wow, she’s kinda pretty, her blue eyes sparkle—think, think, say something not too stupid, offer her a tic tac.

“My name is Sammie, what’s yours?” She looks straight into his face, he holds her stare for a second and then looks down.   His legs shake, his chest quivers, and his head swims.  She lets go of the hair twirl, setting the ringlet free, and starts another twist.  She tilts her head trying to make eye contact again.  His face flushes and his cheeks burn...


Excerpt from Death Watch:

The scene is somewhere off Cuba.  The sinister Bela is dead, after attacking Marissa he gets finished by a great white shark.  Kings Ransom is dead in the water, having fouled her propeller in an abandoned net.

            “It’s a mess down there,” says Freddy when he surfaces, “it looks like a big ball of net, The propeller is completely covered and there is a fine cable my knife can’t cut.”

            “I’ll find a wire cutter, you do what you can.” Says Jake. Ricky gulps a lungful of fresh air and drops below the surface a second time. Nic overheard everything, so Jake makes eye contact, shakes his head and makes for the engine room where he hopes to find a cable cutter. Seth is working on getting the transmission into neutral when Jake appears.

            “Any luck”

            “Good you’re here, I need a hand; I can hold it with this bar if you’all can pull on the shift linkage.”  Jake hesitates a moment then begins to trace cables and wires,

“Which one is it?”

“I think it’s that one right there.”

Jake grabs the heavy lever and tries to move it both ways,

“It's jammed up tight, go ahead and put pressure on the shaft.  As Seth moves the propeller shaft with the monkey wrench and cheater bar, Jake pulls on the linkage to no avail. 

“Try the other way, this isn’t doing anything.” As soon as Seth reverses the wrench and relieves the pressure, Jake easily slips the transmission into neutral.

“Got it, she’s free to turn now. We need to find Ricky a cable cutter, any ideas.”

“Right there in the tip-out bin,”  says Seth. “Grandpa used to say…”

“Hold it,” Jake cuts him short and points up and towards the door while bringing his finger to his lips.

“Oh, I was just going to say that I’ve been told that all sailing ships must have cable cutters in case they need to cut the rigging loose in a storm.”

Inside the bin are miscellaneous large and small bolt and cable cutters.

“Here’s a small, curved jaw cutter, it’s perfect and even has a lanyard ready to go.” Jake leaves Seth to put away the tools he had dug out and enters the passageway half expecting Nic to be there and question him about Seth’s almost slip-up.  He had already decided he would cover for the sudden change in conversation by saying he was in a hurry to get the cutters to Ricky, but thankfully Nic had not followed him.  At the aft end, Ricky is sitting on the generous swim step catching his breath, as Jake approaches his thoughts momentarily drift to the second transponder beacon he had hidden under the platform.

“Here’s a hooked cable cutter Ricky, is this what you had in mind.”

“I think that will work, but there is a lot of net,” says Ricky as he slips his wrist through the wrist loop.  Ricky has one tool on each wrist, the looped lanyards making sure he doesn’t accidentally drop a tool to the depths below.

Before Ricky drops off the swim step, Jake adds. “Seth got the transmission into neutral, you should be able to rotate the propeller now.”

“Ok,” and with a little jump, Ricky is gone again. Marissa and Jake are alone at the back silently contemplating the new predicament and ongoing issues with Nic.  Marissa simply thinks Nic is some sort of crazy Balkan state nut case up to no good whose association with Bela has ruined any chance of an acceptable explanation for his actions. Jake on the other hand knows Nic is a cold-blooded criminal in the midst of an international operation. Both now concerned with getting Kings Ransom moving again

Suddenly Nic's voice interrupts the calm, “Raise the sails, we must get moving again.”

“No,” yells Marissa, “We can’t sail with Ricky down there.”

“He can hang on, we will only be moving slowly.” Retorts Nic.

“No I won’t let you, he will die under there.” Nics pulls the familiar Luger from his waist once again, but before he points it or says another word, Marissa walks toward him yelling.

“I won’t let you, you can shoot all of us, and then who will run the boat? Are you going to shoot the only crew you have?  Marissa stops an arm’s length from Nic, he never does raise the gun and point it at her, and now she is so close he is afraid she might cause him to accidentally shoot her.  All he can do is stare her down.

“If you want to get moving so bad, why don’t you find a way to help Ricky.”  Marissa continues her confrontation.

Face to face, Nic stares at Marissa for a good long time, he wants to shoot her right then and there for opposing his authority in front of another man.  Her heaving breasts and slender tan waist excite him. He wants to drag her into his cabin tear off her clothes and show her who is in charge.  Marissa’s defiant eyes do not miss the lusty look; it’s always the same look and the same look Bela had the day she and Ricky killed him, feeding him to a shark. You bastard she thinks. You will get yours too.

“You help him, woman.” Nics puts the gun back in his pants, turns and walks to his cabin.

Jake and Marissa’s eyes meet, a mutual respect is already enjoyed between them. No words are spoken or needed, both peer into the water ready to help Ricky.

 

A short excerpt from, "Adrift"

Feeling abandoned, Tom and Fran and their two children silently climb into the dinghy. The quiet is peaceful yet ominous.  Pushing off with the oar Tom paddles into the darkness toward the boat.  The dock recedes leaving each person alone with their thoughts. Breaking the silence he says, I can’t see where to paddle, you will have to tell me where to go.  “Oh great” Fran yells at Tom losing all control, “First you almost crashed us on the freeway, then were lost in the fog while a huge wave almost rolls over us, then you lose a rope and can’t get the sail up on a sailboat, next your kids try to burn up a State Park, then your boat runs aground at the dock of all places and now were lost in our dinghy and can’t find the boat in the dark.”  Tom stutters and is at a loss for words, thankfully before he can say anything a blinding light pierces the night and cuts across to their boat.  With just a few more strokes the dinghy softly touches home on Blue Belle and they all climb aboard.  Mike's powerful spotlight goes out as fast as it had come on. “Thanks,” says Tom, and to Fran, “Let’s get to bed, this breeze is chilling me. In the morning everything will be great.”

Tom and the children went right to sleep, but Fran was awakened by every little noise, the wind banged and slapped the halyards against the mast, she could hear the boats at the dock squeal as polished fiberglass hulls rubbed against rubber fenders. She heard or felt the low deep throb as a ship or ferry went by, the smallest waves would rock their tiny little home. Several times she thought she heard something moving on deck. Afraid of the unknown and building on her own fears, Fran never looked out a window, perhaps that was best.  Finally, the noises subsided and Fran fretfully slept.  When she opened her eyes, it was daylight and she peeked out.  What she saw outside scared her plenty, but somehow yesterday’s events prepared her for the vast emptiness of swirling white misty fog now outside her window. She calmly tells Tom to wake up.  Not hearing a response from his so-called queen bed shoe box under the cock pit Fran tugs on his empty sleeping bag. “Tom” she yells, “where are you” “Do you kids see your father anywhere”? Squelching a scream and feeling a sudden emptiness in her stomach Fran throws open the hatch, she stands on the companionway steps where she can see the entire boat. Tom’s not on board, the dinghy’s gone.  Looking around a full 360 degrees, she has no idea where they are, but it is definitely not the cove at James Island.