The Sinking of the Angie Piper

by Chris Riley

  “Oh, shit!” the captain said, the panic in his voice as disturbing as the sound of the bilge alarms. “Right now—somebody get me some rags! Danny,” he added, casting a stern look at my friend, “make sure he doesn’t move. You got that? Keep him steady, Danny, pin him down if you have to.”

  Danny responded by pinning Dave’s shoulders to the floor, while the captain cut away the remaining raingear and then the pant leg. Loni was out the door and back again before I knew it, holding a bundle of clean rags from the galley. He stooped down near the captain, and the two of them swabbed away some of the blood around Dave’s leg. I felt helpless, unsure of what to do. We had the whole crew crammed in this stateroom, except for Salazar, who was upstairs steering the boat. The air was getting hot and clammy. My knees felt brittle, my breathing shallow. Dave’s moaning did not hide the horror. His mashed leg, the fractured bone with all that blood—he was on the verge of passing out. I hoped for his sake he would do it soon.

  “I’m gonna need a tourniquet,” Fred declared, shaking his head, his voice bleak and hollow. “Ed … go get me some line.”

  Finally, something to do. I dashed out of the room and down the hall. Finding a large coil of rope in the ready-room, I cut off a four-foot piece and headed back.

  “Good enough,” said the captain, taking the rope from me. “Now get in the galley and heat up some water … a big pot,” he added, on my way out.

  For almost fifteen minutes I braced myself in the galley, holding the pot of water steady on the stove. What a hell of a night. And when the hell would it ever end? Once I had a boil, I handled the pot with rags and carefully made my way back to the stateroom. It was slow going, to say the least, as I had to slide the pot on the floor to keep from losing it against the pitch of the boat.

  “Bring it here,” said the captain, once I made it back.

  Dave was lying in a bunk now, Fred squatting beside him. I hoisted the pot up to him. Fred dunked a handful of clean rags into it, and then gave me a look. The situation wasn’t pretty, and his face said as much. He didn’t have to tell me that Dave would likely lose his leg. But he did tell me to clean the man up as best I could.

  The captain stood and exhaled deeply. “I think it’s time to set off the EPIRB, guys.”

  The Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, otherwise known as an EPIRB, is a commercial fisherman’s last ditch effort for survival. Mounted on the bridge, it looks like an oversized walkie-talkie. Most EPIRBs will automatically activate once submerged below ten meters of water, in the event of a sinking. However, they can also be activated manually. Either way, activation results in a digital transmission sent to orbiting satellites, which are monitored worldwide. The information is passed on to local search and rescue units—in our case, the United States Coast Guard. It contains details such as vessel identity codes and approximate location. It also contains the assumed message, “Someone please get the hell over here, we’re in trouble!”

  No one argued with the captain. No one even said a word. I think the idea of alerting the Coast Guard to our predicament sat well with everyone.

  “It’ll be some hours before they show up,” said the captain, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Loni, take Danny with you outside and do a good sweep of the deck. Get it all secured—the picking crane, whatever else that needs to be tied down. But make it quick.” Then he turned to me and said, “Stay here and keep an eye on Dave. Try to clean up his leg, but keep him covered. There’s a good chance he might go into shock. And loosen up that tourniquet every twenty minutes.”

  Fred hesitated for a moment before he left the room. I heard him climb the stairs up to the wheelhouse, and in my mind’s eye, I pictured him walking over to the EPIRB to activate it. Finally I let out a deep sigh myself. A sigh of relief, knowing that the Coast Guard would be alerted to our situation.

  “Okay, Danny-boy. Let’s buckle things up.” Loni slapped Danny’s shoulder and made for the door. He gave me a wink, and said, “You let the captain know if Dave gets worse. If he starts spitting up more blood or blabbering like a mad man. Understand?”

  “Sure thing,” I replied. And then Loni slapped my shoulder too and gave me that wonderful, warm smile of his, which said that everything was going to be all right. I smiled in return, watching him leave the room. I smiled, but I felt a sudden, dim current of sadness ebb within me. I wondered if everything really was going to be all right. And what exactly was the definition of “all right”? We had a badly injured man, our ship was failing fast, we’d lost half our gear …. Fleeting yet powerful, the emotion left me confused and worried. “Be careful out there, guys,” I said.

  A minute later, I knelt down next to Dave. Deep in thought, I stared at the man’s face, which looked tense and strained, his eyes shut tight. “I suppose I should clean you up, some,” I mumbled. I took a rag from the pot of water and wrung it out. Then I lifted the blanket covering his legs. Grim, I thought. His broken leg was lying on a bloody rag, which I replaced with a clean, dry one. Then I took the wet rag and made an attempt at gently cleaning away some of the blood on his leg, fearful that I’d hurt him more and send him into another howling fit. I spent a good ten minutes at the job, making little progress, it seemed. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but my thoughts still clung to the image of Dave’s mangled leg.

  After I finished cleaning the leg, I wrapped it in bandages and covered it with the blanket. Then I sat on the floor. I got to thinking. The Coast Guard would be here in a few hours, hopefully, and at least then they’d know about the kind of shit we were riding through. More than likely, they would take Dave away, fly him to a hospital. But the rest of us, we’d stay aboard the Angie Piper and try to get her to port. Without a doubt, we’d get us some radios, maybe from the Coast Guard, or perhaps a nearby vessel. As I sat there thinking, a few other things dawned on me. The storm had decreased quite dramatically over the last few hours. There were still big waves, and big wind, and lots of rain, but it was manageable. I realized that I was cold, hungry, and dying of thirst.

  Dave was asleep, so I stood and walked into my stateroom across the hall. I changed into some dry clothes, which felt so good I almost wanted to get wet all over again, just to relive the comfort replacing them provided. But I felt guilty, also. I was the driest person on the boat, and that just seemed wrong.

  In the galley, I took a plastic bag and filled it with candy bars and Mountain Dew. This would satisfy me for a few hours. Then I went back to keep an eye on Dave.

  I had about thirty minutes of quiet thinking as I ate and drank while sitting on the floor next to Dave’s bunk. Then I looked up to the sound of the man coughing. He was awake. His face seemed more relaxed but showed intermittent signs of stress: a wince here or there, probably from a stabbing pain in his leg brought on by his coughing. Or worse.

  “You gonna just sit there and stare at me all night?” Dave’s comment startled me out of my thoughts. “Make yourself useful, Ed. Get me a fucking beer already.”

  “Huh? Oh, sure,” I replied, staggering up and out of the room. Down the hall and into the galley, I thought about what I was doing—getting Dave a beer. Alcoholic or not, that man never drank while aboard the Angie Piper. Never. But to my knowledge, he had never been crushed by a crab pot, either. In light of that, I brought him four beers.

  “You probably shouldn’t be drinking, you know,” I said, sitting on the floor, popping the lid on a Budweiser.

  “Shut up, and hand it over,” he replied.

  I gave him the beer then helped him with a pillow. “Captain set off the EPIRB,” I said, shoving a second pillow under his leg to keep it raised above his head.

  Dave nodded, unsurprised. “Yeah … I figured as much.”

  “Just think,” I said with a smile, “in a few hours you’ll be in a warm bed in Kodiak.”

  Dave sneered and gave me a sidelong glance. “Just think,” he replied, “in a few hours I might be losing my leg.” He lifted the covers and strained forward, taking a pe
ek, then closed his eyes and sat back. I searched for something positive to say, something “chipper,” but then changed my mind, realizing that I should just keep quiet.

  After a long pause, Dave said, “So, was our greenhorn the one who got that pot off of me?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Pretty much.”

  Dave chuckled. “Pretty much,” he echoed with sarcasm. He drained his beer, tossed the can to the side, and reached for another.

  “I’m serious, Dave. This isn’t a good time to get drunk and all.”

  “Four beers aren’t gonna make me drunk, kid.” He flexed his hand open and closed, gesturing for another. I popped the lid and passed it over. “Who are you anyways, my fucking mother?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Nah, I’m just saying.”

  A few awkward minutes passed, and then Dave laughed again. “Pretty much,” he repeated, still sardonic. “I bet. That little fucker probably threw it right over the rail.” He looked at me with a sour expression on his face, his eyes tight and narrow. “Okay, Ed,” he continued, “you win, you son of a bitch.”

  “What do you mean, I win?” I asked. “Win what?”

  “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” Dave paused, and kicked back another long swallow of beer. “Fine, then. I guess Danny ain’t that bad after all. There you go. Happy now?”

  I might have smiled at that moment, feeling a bloom of warmth radiate throughout my core. I shivered, throwing off the last of a cold night while Dave turned away and rubbed his face with his hand. And then there was more awkwardness, as time stretched out between us.

  “Forget about it, Dave,” I offered, absently opening one of those beers for myself.

  “Nah,” replied the man. I could see the strain in his face, and that he was struggling with what I presumed was a tough moment for him. “I, ah … I shouldn’t have been so hard on you guys.”

  I kept quiet, letting his words sink in. Then, humorously, Dave added, “You were about ready to kick my ass out there.” We both laughed, loosening the tension on the invisible tug of war we’d been waging ever since Danny came aboard. “I guess you should have.” He sighed, glancing at his leg. “Knock some sense into my thick skull. Then maybe I wouldn’t have fucked things up with that pot.”

  After a long gulp from my own can, I figured it was time to venture forth with the nagging question that had been lingering in my mind. “So Dave … why were you so hard on Danny, anyways?” My thoughts were running circles around the obscurity of Dave’s history, and what he and the captain had argued about a few days prior.

  Dave considered my words in silence, staring at the beer in his hand for a few minutes, scratching at the label. The need to change the subject pressed down on me like a thousand-pound crab pot. “I wonder how long it’ll take for the Coast Guard—”

  “I had a brother like him, Ed,” Dave interrupted, his eyes swimming across the blanket covering him. I noticed his hands were trembling, and then he gripped the can a little tighter and took another drink before continuing, “That’s right. I had a brother just like Danny. His name was Paul. Fucking Paul. We never got along, him and I. The little bastard got all the attention, and I hated him for it. He was spoiled rotten, fucking cried every time he couldn’t get his way. Cried every time he couldn’t eat what he wanted, or play with his toys—or my toys. And that fucker cried every time our parents said so much as a word to me.” Dave took another swallow, and then ran the back of his hand across his lips. “I hated that asshole, Ed. He got all the attention. I used to call him Downy Dick, you know. I called him lots of names, but that one was my favorite.” Dave paused, shaking his head. “He’d always give me a weird look, troubled like, and then he’d reply with, ‘My dick doesn’t have Down syndrome. I do.’ ”

  Dave laughed, but then he grimaced and closed his eyes. I could see the pain from his crushed leg writhe through the wrinkles of his face. “Just take it easy,” I said. “Try not to move.” And then I thought about the words he had just spoken. I guess it didn’t surprise me much, him having a brother like Danny. It seemed a reasonable enough explanation for his resentment.

  Several minutes passed before Dave opened his eyes again. He drained his second beer, and then I opened the last one for him. “Thanks,” he said, accepting it.

  “You know,” I said, cautiously, “I’ve seen kids like your brother. At school, in Danny’s classes …. There were always a few rotten kids, I remember.”

  Dave shook his head. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Ed.” He turned, then looked me square in the eye. His jaw clamped firmly shut. “I used to beat the shit out of him, Ed.” And this, this moment here, was when I did become surprised. “Every chance I got,” Dave continued. “I tortured my brother. In the backyard, I would rub his face in dog shit, then make him eat it. And he would cry. And before he could go tell our parents what I did, I’d buddy up to him real quick-like. He was a stupid fuck, so it worked every time.”

  I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I don’t think I need to hear this, Dave.”

  “The hell you don’t.” Dave pierced me with his eyes. “You don’t fool me, Ed. You never have.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dave paused, as if searching for the right thing to say. “We’re too much alike … you and me.”

  I felt a cold, dull ache bleed in the bottom of my gut, and it made me shiver.

  “You wanted to know my history, right?”

  Avoiding his eyes, I remained silent.

  In response, Dave nodded, turned away, and said, “Yeah, I thought so. So anyways … Paul Jenkins, my stupid brother with Down syndrome, was strong as a fucking bull when he put his mind to it—just like Danny. Makes a kid jealous sometimes, don’t it? Jealous enough to give a little payback, eh?” I caught Dave’s sidelong glance in my direction.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Dave,” I replied.

  Dave chuckled, and then said, “Yeah, I bet you aren’t. Like I said, Ed, we’re too much alike, you and me.”

  “Dude, I’m not anything like you.” A surge of heat ran up and down my neck. “I don’t drink and pick on people like you do. And I’m no bully, either.”

  “Relax, kid. Don’t get your panties in a bind. I never said we’re exactly alike.” And then he gave me another suspicious, sidelong glance that just about made my blood boil. “But someday, perhaps, because here’s the thing, Ed: there isn’t a bully alive who isn’t a fucking coward.”

  “So what is your point, Dave?”

  He sighed, and then clenched his teeth and eyes shut, the pain ripping across his face like a strong tide. “Oh … what is my point?” he said, letting another minute of silence pass. A long minute, before he unloaded on me.

  “I almost killed my brother, Ed. When I was seventeen. Our parents were gone for the night—Saturday night—and I had to stay home and watch the asshole. I was so mad. I played football, and we’d won our game the night before. A bunch of the guys from the team were having a party on Saturday, and there I was, at home, with Paul. Anyways, I got into my dad’s liquor cabinet and just let loose. I got so hammered, I didn’t care about anything anymore. I sure as hell didn’t care about watching Paul. And when he started bugging me to play checkers with him, I just …. Well, I fucking snapped. I wanted to kill him so bad, Ed. But I didn’t. Instead, I just beat him silly. I blew up on him with all my rage, punching and slapping, kicking. He didn’t fight back, as usual, so I gave it to him good. I remember screaming at him, and cursing. I said terrible things, told him I wished he were dead. And I saw it in his eyes, all the pain and suffering I’d caused him, which only made things worse, somehow. I beat him within an inch of his life, which was pretty damn far, ’cause some of these Downy kids are fucking tough as nails. But I beat him, Ed. I almost killed him before I went outside and passed out on the porch.”

  My mouth went dry and my body trembled. I felt a storm of emot
ions. I was angry with Dave. I was disgusted. But also, I felt desperate and helpless. Surprised. Even hopeless. His words had taken hold of me. Black as the storm outside, they haunted my mind. We’re too much alike, Ed, you and me.

  He looked at me then, a river of tears running down his cheeks. Dave was crying, almost bawling. He said, “My point, Ed, is that I’ve never forgiven myself for what I did to my brother.”

  Chapter 26

  What was there to say, at that moment, when the awkwardness hung in the air between us, thick and grotesque, like a massive rusted ship run ashore?

  Dave’s hand shaded his eyes and then he looked out from under his fingers. “So there you go. There’s my history, Ed.” He guzzled the last of his beer and then slowly crushed the can. “Maybe that’s the reason I’m such a fucking asshole.”

  I cast about in my mind for something to say. “I, ah … I’m not sure what, um ….” The door to outside opened just then. The wind was whistling across the deck, echoing down the hall. I heard Danny mumble something, incoherent, gibberish, thinking out loud as he was wont to do. I heaved a sigh. “I’ll go check on him,” I said, rather lamely.

  When I rounded the corner, I saw Danny bending over, fidgeting with the cuff around his rain boot. And beyond him I saw the deck, still half-laden with crab pots, the colors of brown and black washed white from suspended lights and shaded like ash from the fading night.

  Looking at Danny, seeing him there in the hall, I felt the pang of guilt tear at the old wound. “How’s it going, buddy?” I asked.

  He stood erect, his hands working against themselves, peeling off gloves. “I gotta go to the bathroom, Ed,” he replied.