Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  The danger wasn’t sinking or capsizing, even the smallest of the fleet’s craft could handle all but the worst weather. The risk was collision, equipment malfunction, grounding, and exposure by the crew. Boxer could handle anything short of a hurricane and survive relatively unharmed. Wyatt had piloted the boat through extremely bad weather and didn’t want a repeat event. He had once likened the experience to driving a convertible car through a tornado with the top down and no windshield wipers. The driving sheets of rain had reduced visibility to the point where he couldn’t see the front of the boat. The waves had slammed her so violently, Morgan had become ill. Later, she claimed to know firsthand what a pair of sneakers felt like in the dryer. The crews of the smaller boats would take an ever worse beating.

  As Wyatt mentally pictured this end of the bay, there were only a few options that would provide shelter from a north wind. Of those, only one was isolated from sizeable human populations, and after what they had witnessed in the channel, avoiding other people seemed like a good idea.

  “How about Redfish Island? We can anchor and then raft up on the southeast side and ride it out,” Wyatt suggested, all the while scanning Morgan’s expression for evidence of her true reaction.

  Morgan took her finger and measured on the chart. At their current speed and distance, they just might make it. Without a weather report, there was no way to tell how fast the front was coming on, but the boiling clouds behind them appeared to be catching up. “I can’t see or think of anything closer unless we turn around and go back to the channel,” she said.

  Wyatt reached for the radio and asked if anyone had a problem heading for Redfish. After a few moments with no response, he continued, “Let’s make for the southeast side of the island.”

  Morgan waited to see if anyone responded on the VHF, and after a period of silence, her voice was calm, but serious. “We are just over eight nautical miles away. At our current speed, it will be 70 minutes before we get there. I suggest the faster boats move ahead because it will take a bit to secure the anchors. By the time everyone else catches up, we can be ready for them.”

  “That’s a good idea. It’s hard enough to set the hook without worrying about running into another boat. If we have everyone drifting around all over the place, there’s a good chance for a collision.” Wyatt glanced over his shoulder again, watching the churning, black clouds that were chasing the fleet. He picked up the microphone and announced, “We all can’t arrive and anchor at the same time – there’s not enough space, and we’ll be crashing into each other. Every boat should make its best speed. If possible, the smaller vessels should raft up to the larger ones.”

  A few of the captains came back with comments such as, “Good idea,” and “Good luck.”

  Wyatt pushed Boxer’s throttles forward, and the big diesel engines increased their thunder. The heavy fiberglass hull rose slightly when she began to plane across the top of the water. As they passed the slower vessels, many of the captains signaled their support. Nobody wanted to be in open water during a northerner.

  As Boxer and five other large powerboats surged past the fleet, their wakes created a bouncy ride for the vessels they passed. There wasn’t time to follow the rules and slow down, but no one seemed to care. The wakes produced by the passing craft were nothing compared to what the bay would kick up with a stiff northern wind.

  After fifteen minutes, the outline of Redfish began showing on Boxer’s radar. At twenty minutes, he could see the northernmost tip of the island.

  Redfish had been a natural oyster reef for thousands of years. An extension of Eagle Point, the small island housed trees and even a few buildings many years ago. Really more of a peninsula than an actual island, it was said that a person could walk across from the mainland at low tide.

  Many people thought the island had a primitive feel to it. Some described it as being similar to wandering around ancient ruins of long-lost civilizations. Part of this was no doubt attributed to its being an isolated place where people once tread, an experience similar to visiting a ghost town. All kinds of seaborne debris was known to wash up on the unhabituated speck’s shores - containers from the passing vessels, bottom refuge washed up by storms, and of course, everyday items blown from the decks of passing pleasure craft.

  The Houston Ship Channel was less than a mile to the east. As this major shipping artery saw more and more tonnage, Redfish began to erode and shrink. The huge ocean-going tankers, freighters, and tugs plying the waters of the bay generated bow wakes that could exceed 10 feet in height. Dozens of these commercial vessels journeyed up and down the ship channel every day, and the small island couldn’t handle the change from the normally tranquil waters of the bay. Throw in the occasional hurricane, and the small patch of dry land didn’t stand a chance. By the 1970s, there were no longer any trees. By the 1980s, the island was nothing more than a crescent moon-shaped spot, less than an acre in size. By the 1990s, the island was below the surface except at the very lowest tide.

  Wyatt felt the wind shift out of the north just as Boxer turned out of the ship channel toward Redfish. In a matter of moments, the air temperature dropped several degrees, and Morgan scrambled down the ladder to fetch jackets. The dark line of ominous clouds was now almost directly overhead and moving quickly. On the horizon, flashes of lightning illuminated the sky.

  Pointing Boxer the right direction was tricky through this section of the bay. Numerous shallows, oyster beds, and mud reefs dotted the area, many of them randomly shifting position over time. Boxer drew almost five feet of water, and the charts carried warnings of one to three foot depths at mean tide. Hitting a razor-sharp oyster bed, even at slow speed, could peel away the hull of the big boat. More likely, the outcome would be a broken propeller or two. If Boxer lost a wheel, she could continue with a single shaft. If she lost two, they would have to abandon her and all she carried.

  Wyatt’s eyes constantly moved from the depth gauge to the chart plotter to the water ahead. The numerical depth readings were accurate, but under the hull of the boat. It was like trying to drive a car through a hole in the floorboard – by the time you ran over something it was too late.

  Still, he could identify and anticipate trends, and right now the line indicating the bottom of the bay was going the wrong way. He watched as the numbers read 8…8…7…7…6, and reached up, pulling the engines into neutral. If he hit bottom, it might save the propellers if they weren’t spinning. As Boxer coasted, the numbers began to increase, finally reaching nine feet of water again. He threw the engines into gear and turned toward the leeward side of Redfish’s protected anchorage. This area had been dredged and was a known depth of 10 feet.

  After navigating the shallows, Wyatt had a moment to study the island. When a Corps of Engineers project to widen the Houston Ship Channel had been announced, several groups banded together, asking the government to use the dredged materials to rebuild the now all-but-submerged landmark. Several preservation groups, as well as the recreational boating community, thought it was worth the endless petitions and emails to their congressmen. Finally, after an exhaustive effort, the proper authorities agreed, and Redfish was slowly rebuilt. Ever since, the small strip of dry land had served as a bird sanctuary, natural tidal break, and great weekend gunk-hole for the pleasure boaters.

  The engineers dumped thousands of tons of soil onto the old island, topping it off with loads of basketball-sized rocks. While not exactly a sandy oasis for swimming and walking, the authorities had ensured all of that soil didn’t wash back into the nearby ship channel. Almost three acres of manmade land reappeared in the bay. Barely fifty feet wide and stretching almost two football fields in length, the island made an excellent breakwater. A small cove was protected from the large wakes rolling in from the ship channel and was enjoyed by dozens of craft every weekend. Right now, Wyatt wanted protection from the wind-driven waves that would soon start howling in from the north.

  Typically, a layer of soft mud covered the bottom
of the bay. Anchoring in such material was difficult at best, and often next to impossible. One of the reasons why Redfish was such a popular destination was that the bottom contained a bit more clay than was normal in the area. The sticky, thicker material increased the chances of setting the hook securely.

  Wyatt nudged Boxer’s bow toward the center of the island and watched until the depth began to decrease. He flicked the safety cover off of the anchor chain’s release while Morgan made her way forward to release the manual safety on the heavy links. More than one vessel had been sunk by an accidental release of the anchor while underway, thus the redundant safeties.

  Boxer’s engines were again shifted into neutral, and in a few moments, the wind started pushing her back from the island and over deeper water. When the depth returned to 10 feet, Wyatt signaled Morgan, and she released the safety and stepped back. Wyatt flipped the switch, and the anchor fell free of the pulpit, splashing into the dark water below. The first 20 feet of anchor rod was chain, and that fed out quickly, rattling noisily over the pulley. After the chain, a heavy rope started playing out as Boxer continued to drift backward.

  Proper anchoring normally involved some ratio of depth to the length of the line. In calm waters, a ratio of five or six to one was acceptable. In rough seas, over seven to one could be required to hold a vessel in place. Boxer was in ten feet of water, so over 70 feet of anchor scope needed to unwind to provide a secure hold.

  The rope had markers every ten feet. Morgan watched and counted, holding up fingers so Wyatt would know how much line had played out. At 90 feet, Wyatt flipped the switch on the dash, and the pulley seized the line. Now began a waiting game to see if the hook had caught and buried itself in the mud. It took a few more moments for the line to pull tight, halting Boxer’s backward drift. Wyatt set the waypoint on the GPS and then pushed the throttles into reverse, giving the engines just a touch of power while watching the readouts on the screen beside him. She held! There was no movement at all except the expected side-to-side drift on the line. They had a good anchorage. Wyatt picked up the radio and let the other captains know.

  The follow-on boats behind Boxer had to be aware of how far she was swinging to and fro on her line before they could repeat the same process. Any boat at anchor can swing several degrees port to starboard, and collisions were always a concern when anchoring in tight proximity.

  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. Visibility 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 practices, 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.