As the two-boat flotilla makes its way north in Rosario Strait the fog thickens, and soon land shapes and forms less than two miles distant are not visible anymore. Sailing is not possible, there’s not a breath of wind, it seems like the fog surrounding them has taken away the wind, their sight, and their senses. Except for the gentle purring motors it is deathly silent. The little boats move closer together trying to stay in view of each other as the fog thickens even more. They motor along at 3 mph, but when the speed of the northward flowing current is added, they are probably making over 5 mph. Mike has previously determined he would follow a compass course of 300 degrees magnetic. This course would keep the boats pointed in the right direction and as long as they kept making forward progress they would eventually make it across the strait. The current is constantly pushing them north, so it is important they get across fast or risk being swept past James Island, their destination. As the fog thickens the two families feel more and more isolated. The laughter and joking give way to quiet as the seriousness of their situation becomes apparent. Mike is wishing he had radar, Rosario Strait is traveled by commercial vessels that not only could run them over but their wakes present a danger to small boats as well. The two boats squeeze closer together, they don’t want to lose sight of each other in the fog. Mike calls Tom on the radio and says to be sure to keep a course of 300 degrees if they become separated. About once a minute the kids ring the boat's brass bell. Ringing the bell keeps the kids occupied, plus fulfills Coast Guard regulations to sound a warning when navigating in fog. Tom’s family does the same. Hearing the bells is reassuring to them but does nothing to combat the unrelenting whiteness, Another hour slips by and the tension on board is taking its toll, the kids have gone below to stay warm and dry. Mike and Tom and their wives are standing at the helms in the boat’s cockpits, all of them are dripping wet from condensing fog. Everyone speaks in hushed tones saving their sense of hearing for the deep throbbing sound of an approaching ship's diesel engine, or the unique moving splash of an on-rushing bow wave. Sometimes they think they may hear the crash of waves on a nearby dangerous rock or reef. Keeping a constant eye on the GPS and compass is their only assurance of a safe passage.
Peering deeply into the white mist ahead of them Mike spots what appears to be a wall of white water or surf breaking on a beach. For a second he is in disbelief, how can they be headed for disaster? What has he done wrong? He quickly scans his depth sounder and GPS, the boats have 40 fathoms below them and they are in the middle of the strait. Suddenly, in a flash it comes to him, now in shock and scared witless it dawns on him that they are headed straight into a huge tide rip, a tidal bore; the incoming tide they are riding at 2 mph is meeting the outgoing tide. The recent minus tide must have created a monstrous opposing force and now they are heading right into the face of a six-foot over-fall created by one flowing mass of water flowing into and under another mass of water flowing the other direction. Any boat or anything unlucky enough to get caught in this breaking curling wave will be rolled over and over until finally released as scattered debris, floating flotsam, shattered dreams, another Rosario Strait statistic. Headlines will read Hapless Inexperienced Boaters Succumb to….. Snapping out of his shock, Mike swings his boat around and Tom also seeing the wall of water follows him. Both boats are now fighting the current but their little auxiliary outboards pushed to full throttle are unable to hold their own, and can't make headway against the incoming tidal rush. Precious minutes tick by and the current increases as they are dragged slowly backward, ever closer to the massive tide bore. Mike has read about tide rips in Rosario Strait sometimes extending across the entire 4-mile wide width. There seems to be no escape from their desperate situation. Trying to run away from the tide rip isn't working, they are steadily dragged backward towards it. In just a matter of minutes, the battle will be lost. It’s no longer quiet, and no one is whispering, for above the whine of their motors the ever-present thunderous roar of the curling breaking over-fall eerily beckons to them. The women have gone below, and the children wide-eyed in the little cabins are trapped and helpless unable to do anything but wait for their uncertain future to arrive. The skippers, their two boats running very close together in thick fog are not talking on the radio, Mike is at a loss for what to do, no amount of preparedness or planning can undo their predicament. The over-fall is only about 50 yards from them and getting closer. Mike decides letting the water crash into the cockpits would spell certain disaster, it would be much better, even survivable perhaps, to turn around and take the massive wave head-on, the high bows piercing the water, their enclosed cabins shedding the tons of green sea sure to crash upon them. He keys his microphone calling Tom. When Tom answers, Mike says, he’s going to turn around while there is still room and hit it straight on. Mike then yells for Jan to close the hatch and hang on. Inside the cabin Jan and the children, their life jackets secure, brace themselves on each side of the mast post ready for the ride of their lives.
“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.
