Apocalypse Drift (33 page)
The last of the five larger motorboats managed to set anchor as the rest of the fleet began arriving. The first boats in line had just motored into safe positions when the squall line slammed into the group. Wind gusts topping 50 mph whipped across the water, quickly followed by stinging sheets of ice-cold rain. Wyatt was on the Boxer’s bridge wearing a raincoat, but it didn’t do much good. The storm blasted a nearly horizontal torrent at the boaters, each individual drop feeling like a needle pricking flesh. The gale whipped the wave tops into an airborne mixture of sandblasting froth and biting salt spray.
Flying water found every nook and cranny in Wyatt’s rain gear, immediately soaking his freezing cold body from head to toe. Vi
sibility dropped to nearly zero, and it was difficult to stand without support. The bay waters instantly turned black, swelling into confused whitecaps that tested every captain’s skill.
The blow was howling so loudly it became impossible to hear the radio
, and bedlam set in. Out of the blinding rain, Wyatt made out the running lights of a small cruiser headed directly at Boxer. A ringing alarm began sounding from the dash as the radar’s collision avoidance system engaged. Wyatt double- checked that his anchor light was on and functioning and then grabbed a large flashlight from under the captain’s chair. He shined the light at the approaching boat, attempting to use the beam to warn it off.
At the last minute, the captain of the charging boat recognized Boxer and swerved off, avoiding a collision by mere feet. Wyatt got a glimpse of the man as he went by, observing as he tried to steer the small boat in the
screaming wall of wind and rain. Wyatt tried to yell for the man to tie off on Boxer, but his shouts were like trying to hear a mouse squeak at a rock concert. The clearly shaken and partially blinded helmsman of the offending cruiser went past at an angle pointed directly at Boxer’s anchor line. “Noooooo!”
Wyatt would never understand how, but the intruding vessel missed his anchor rope. The captain realized at the last moment where he was and swerved sharply to avoid tangling the line in his propellers. That catastrophe avoided, Wyatt then watched in horror as a crewmember attempted to climb forward onto the deck.
This guy is going to try and anchor his boat right there
, Wyatt thought.
He’s going to sink both of us
.
Even with the protection of Redfish Island, the
sea had built to a three-foot slop. Morgan managed the climb onto the bridge, observing the offending boat while shielding her face from the blistering rain. She bellowed out something, but Wyatt couldn’t hear. He stepped closer, and she tried again. “No life jacket!” Wyatt followed her pointing finger to the crewman bobbing violently up and down at the front of the nearby vessel. Sure enough, whoever was out on that precarious perch didn’t appear to have on a flotation device. He instinctively knew this wasn’t going to end well.
The crewman pulled the safety on the cruiser’s anchor, and Wyatt could make out the silver-colored hook dropping into the sea. The line started playing out rapidly as the wind caught the boat and shoved it backwards. The crewman started to move back toward the cabin and slipped, banging hard into the safety railing surrounding the deck. The captain left the wheel to help, and the small cruiser started to spin around in the wind.
It only took a few seconds for the pilotless boat to spin 180 degrees, centering the propellers directly over the boat’s own anchor line, wrapping the thick cord tightly round the shafts. Before the captain could even turn back toward the helm, the torque on the shaft pulled it clean away from the transmission, ripping a two-foot gash in the bottom of the hull. The sound of splitting fiberglass sounded like a bomb exploding and was audible even over the storm. The other engine immediately stalled.
Now the small boat was without power and taking on water
, flooding the engine compartment. There hadn’t been enough anchor line out for the hook to catch on the bottom. Wyatt watched as the crippled, out-of-control vessel started to pass Boxer. He literally slid down the ladder into the cockpit, almost falling overboard himself. He grabbed a curled dock line and heaved one end to the other boat, screaming at the top of his lungs for the man to “Tie this off!”
By some miracle, the rope landed along the transom of the wayward boat, and the captain managed to see it. Wyatt immediately began wrapping the sizable line around his aft cleat as the looped coil unraveled.
Wyatt had just moved his hands out of the way when the rope snapped taunt. The fiberglass surrounding Boxer’s cleat moaned and popped, but the line held the small cruiser, the tension pulling it so that Boxer’s superstructure blocked some of the driving wind. Wyatt threw a second line to the captain. Once it was secured, Wyatt relaxed and tried to catch his breath. After a few deep inhalations, he yelled over, “How much water is she taking on?”
The other captain immediately began moving cockpit carpeting out of the way
, and Wyatt watched as he lifted the engine hatch. After a few moments, he returned to the transom and yelled back, “She’s taking a lot of water! The bilge pumps can’t keep up. I can’t get at the breach to stuff it with anything. She’s going down.”
Wyatt could see the bilge pump working, its efforts discharging a solid stream of water overboard. He could also tell the boat was becoming heavy in the back. It wouldn’t be long before the water rose over the batteries and cut off the power to the bilge pump. Then she would sink quickly.
He held up one finger to the other man and lifted a seat cushion to access a storage area. Another blast of wind caused him to momentarily lose his balance, almost falling to the deck. It took a bit of digging, but he finally located a small bag containing an emergency pump. Boxer’s previous owner had known his boats, or better yet, his emergencies. The kit contained a long battery cord and a hose of similar length. He held up the bag, motioning for the other boater to catch.
One for the money – two for the show – three underhand practice
s, and away she goes
. The three pounds of pump, cord and hose flew, caught by the deft hands of the crippled boat’s master. He looked inside, and quickly motioned a thumbs-up sign to Wyatt.
It took the man a few
minutes to unwind the hose and plug in the emergency pump. Through the sheets of driving rain, Wyatt could see the engine hatches opened again, and then the exit-hose was propped over the edge of the vessel. He exhaled as a second stream of water joined the already hardworking built-in pump.
Wyatt waited a bit, and then yelled back at the man to start his undamaged engine in neutral, so as to keep the batteries fully charged. The fellow nodded and did just that, the reassuring hum of the motor barely audible over the howling wind.
After a few minutes, the captain checked the water level in the engine compartment again. He smiled at Wyatt and then shouted across, “The water has stopped rising. I think we are holding our own as long as the pumps hold out.”
Morgan brought up a steaming cup of coffee from the galley, and it was a lifesaver. The two stood
with their backs to Boxer’s superstructure, a reasonable attempt at blocking the stinging rain. The hot liquid tasted great, the warmth spreading though Wyatt’s freezing-wet torso.
The rain began to let up after an hour; the wind quickly followed suit. While the air temp had fallen into the 50s, the calmer breeze didn’t chill the bones quite as badly. Visibility improved, and Wyatt started counting boats while keeping an eye on the crippled vessel behind him. He relaxed somewhat after verifying all were present and accounted for.
The sky remained gray and overcast, low clouds threatening to dump another deluge on the flotilla at any moment. Wyatt heard a new engine noise and looked up to see Todd and David coming over on a jet-ski, the small craft having weathered the storm tied to a nearby trawler. David was soaking wet as well, but forgot all about his discomfort after Wyatt explained what was going on with the crippled vessel behind them. “I’m going to have Todd take me over and see if I can help out,” he said.
A few moments later, David was climbing aboard the
damaged boat, the owner and he peeking down into the engine compartment while Todd circled nearby on the waverunner. Wyatt couldn’t hear any of the conversation, but within minutes, he could see the captain rummaging around in the cockpit while David shooed Todd further away from the boat.
Before Wyatt or Morgan could voice their protest, David dove into the water and disappeared under the surface.
The jolt of the cold water searing through his body surprised David, despite mentally preparing for the shock. The wetsuit he was wearing was designed to provide some insulation, but it sure didn’t feel like it was working. He didn’t have a mask, gloves or fins, but that shouldn’t hamper things since he did plan on going
to a great depth.
His first task was to locate the gash in the bottom of the hull. Judging by the force of the torrent of water insistently pushing its way topside, David figured this shouldn’t be too difficult.
He mentally inventoried the list of potential risks involved with the exploratory mission. First and foremost was avoiding the anchor line. Getting tangled up might trap him below the surface where he’d suffocate before being able to free himself. That potential death-trap was closely followed by the sharp edges of the functioning propeller. Lastly, he wanted to circumvent any damaged gear that might still be hanging beneath the vessel.
The process was agonizingly slow, having to feel his way with numb fingertips, along the curved hull of the boat. There was zero visibility in the chocolate-colored water. He hands rubbed along the smooth shell until he identified the opening. There was some good news – the damaged shaft was clear of the hull.
David kicked hard to swim out from under the boat and surfaced slowly so as not to strike his head on anything above. It was so easy to lose one’s sense of direction while submerged in the black water. He popped up a few feet behind the swim platform and treaded water while taking a few deep breaths.
“Give me that sheet of plastic, and I’ll stuff it in the hole. We can repair it from the inside as soon as the pumps remove the standing water.”
The owner of the stricken vessel handed David a folded sheet of blue plastic tarp and then stared at the murky surface, as the young man took one last breath and disappeared under the water again.
Once more, David fingered the hull until he felt the rip. He unfolded the stuffing material and began tucking it into the breach as tightly as possible. He sealed as much of the gap as he could in a single breath and quickly resurfaced, lungs aching for air.
Allowing a few seconds for his body to readjust, David addressed the captain of the incapacitated vessel, “Okay, now give me the knife. I’m going to try and clear the line around the good shaft.”
The older man paused, reflecting briefly on one of the most treacherous hazards of his own youth – having believed himself invincible, coupled with a complete lack of respect for the inherent limitations of the human body. In his experience, such a condition had often precipitated poor decisions. He shook his head at the brave man before him. “David, I’m not so sure about that. That’s dangerous, son. If you get tangled up in the line, we might not be able to get you out before you drown. Are you sure?”
Something about the confident manner in which he spoke the words, “I got this,” convinced even the jaded captain. A few additional lungs full of oxygen, and David was again surrounded by a black, silent world underneath the boat. He realized that additional precautions were required on this trip, as the sharp blades of the propellers could slice off a finger or sever a tendon. Despite his carefulness, David’s knuckle found the prop first, the gash almost causing him to cry out in pain. He paused to recover his bearings for a moment, thinking about how screaming out while under water wasn’t a bright idea.
Gently, he probed with his open hand until he knew the general locale of the razor-like edges. Finding the rope twisted around the propeller’s shaft was easy. He
fluttered his arms around until he found a loose end and began unwinding the cord. Before he could make much progress, it was again time for air.
On the fourth trip under the boat, he finally worked his way to the end of
the line. He dropped the worthless rope to the bottom and felt all around the propeller’s gear and rudder to make sure it was clear, resurfacing for the last time.