Dead in the Water

by Robin Stevenson

  Dead in the Water

  Robin Stevenson

  Orca Sports

  Copyright © 2008 Robin Stevenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Stevenson, Robin H. (Robin Hjørdis), 1968-

  Dead in the water / written by Robin Stevenson.

  (Orca sports)

  Electronic Monograph

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978155439648(pdf) -- ISBN 9781554696000 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8637.T487D42 2008 jC813’.6 C2007-906807-3

  Summary: Simon gets a crash course in foul weather sailing, teamwork and environmental protection.

  First published in the United States, 2008

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007940554

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by David Lowes

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  11 10 09 08 • 4 3 2 1

  To Cheryl

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Ilse Stevenson, for suggesting that I write about abalone poaching; to Bryan Jubinville of the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, for sharing his experience and expertise on the subject; and to Barb Peck and Bjarne Hansen, sailors extraordinaire, for all their input.

  chapter one

  The sky and the sea were almost the same shade of gray, and I wasn’t sure which was wetter. Spray from the waves flew into the cockpit, cold and salty, and rain pelted down viciously from above. I shivered and gripped the wheel more tightly. Across the cockpit, the others were a blur of brightly colored Gore-Tex. I couldn’t see a thing through my glasses.

  The bow of the boat lifted on a huge wave and plunged down, landing with a shuddering crash. It felt like hitting cement. At least cement would be dry, I thought, as a sheet of icy water slapped the side of my head. My shoulders ached from hanging on to the wheel as ten tons of speeding fiberglass fought against me, trying to turn into the wind. We were heeled way over to one side, the starboard rail almost buried in the water. The sails needed to be adjusted, but no one was volunteering. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. If I threw up now, the others would never let me live it down.

  Then Patrick yelled, “Man overboard!”

  My heart leapt into my throat, and my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a chunk of ice. Who was it? I squinted through my rain-splattered lenses. The blur of Gore-Tex turned into Olivia and Blair. Joey was missing.

  We all sprang into motion. Olivia grabbed the man-overboard pole and threw it into the water. Its weighted bottom and float would hold it upright, and the bright orange flag flying six feet above the water would be a lot easier to spot than a person’s head. I swallowed nervously. Joey’s head. Olivia stood behind me at the stern, holding onto the rigging for balance and pointing at the flag. I couldn’t see Joey. I couldn’t see anything at all in the water. Just steep gray waves and blowing spray.

  “Don’t take your eyes off that flag and don’t stop pointing,” Patrick shouted to Olivia. His voice was almost drowned out by the wind. I tried frantically to remember the man-overboard procedure. I’m not stupid, but my brain sort of freezes up under pressure.

  “Get the boat on a beam reach,” Olivia hissed into my ear.

  “Olivia! Do your own job and let Simon do his.” Patrick sounded annoyed, but I could have kissed her. Not that she’d be likely to let me.

  Beam reach. I quickly twisted the wheel around, and the boat turned slowly to the right. Now the wind was coming at us sideways, or to use the correct sailing term, over our port beam. Instantly the boat flattened out to a more reasonable angle, the noise of the wind subsided to a muffled howl, and my brain started working better.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Behind us, the flag was barely visible, its urgent orange hidden in the troughs between the waves. I hoped Joey hadn’t been knocked out when he fell overboard. I hoped he’d swum to that pole and was just waiting for us to come back for him. My instincts were screaming at me to turn around and head back toward the flag before we lost sight of it, but I knew I couldn’t do it. If I tried to head back now, we’d pass right by Joey without getting close enough to help him. Jeopardy’s turning circle under sail was huge. I needed to give us some sea room to maneuver.

  Blair and Patrick were on either side of me, ready to adjust the sheets—the ropes that control the sails—as soon as I gave the order. Now all I had to do was bring Jeopardy close enough to that orange flag. I wished someone else—anyone else—was at the helm for this. What if I messed up? What if Joey drowned? I had no idea if I’d gone far enough. I glanced behind me again. I couldn’t see the flag at all now, just an endless jagged seascape of heaving gray water. I gripped the wheel harder, twisted it to port and took a deep breath. “Coming about!”

  As Jeopardy’s bow swung slowly through the wind, the jib sail started to flap slightly. Quickly, Blair released the jib sheets and let the wind push the sail across to the other side. Patrick braced himself against the boat’s motion, wrapped the port-side sheets around the winch and began cranking it in as fast as he could, his broad shoulders moving back and forth with the effort. We were now on a starboard tack and heading back toward that orange flag.

  Now the big rescue was up to me, Simon Drake, five foot six and 120 pounds soaking wet. Which I was.

  And I couldn’t see the flag. Couldn’t see a darn thing. I looked at Olivia for help. She shrugged, but she was still pointing, so I just kept heading in the direction where she’d last been able to see the flag. Patrick was right, I thought. Without a man-overboard pole, you’d never find a lost crew member. Not a chance. I imagined myself struggling in that cold water, mouth and eyes burning with salt, fighting for breath and seeing the boat sailing away, leaving me behind. I shuddered. Goose walking over your grave, my grandmother would have said.

  I hoped not.

  Suddenly the man-overboard pole appeared, riding a wave and flashing its orange flag against the rolling gray. My heart sped up. Blair sprinted up to the bow, ready for the rescue. We were flying along, the sails taut.

  Closer, closer. I caught my breath. Too close. We were headed straight for the flag and unless...

  “Heads up!” Patrick yelled. “Turn into the wind and ease the sheets to slow down!”

  Too late. Jeopardy plowed straight into the orange flag and it disappeared under the water. I couldn’t believe it. I was shaking so bad I could hardly grip the wheel. I hadn’t seen Joey, but if he was holding that flag... I thought I might be sick.

  “Nice one!” Blair yelled, a look of disgust on his face.

  Patrick shook his head in mock sorrow. “Lucky it was a drill. If that had been a real person in the water, you’d just have killed him.”

  “Or h
er,” Olivia put in. She sounded irritated, as usual.

  I stared at them. Nothing was making sense. “Real person? But what about Joey?”

  Then Joey’s head popped up in the companionway hatch, a big grin on his face. “Did I miss something? I was just taking a dump. Man, that toilet stinks.”

  “Simon thought you’d gone overboard,” Blair shouted. Everyone started to laugh. Even Olivia, who I didn’t think knew how.

  The boat gave a sickening lurch. I leaned over the rail to puke and tried to remember exactly what had made me think this sailing course would be a good idea.

  chapter two

  My family wasn’t the kind that owned boats or even the kind that knew people who did. Mom and Dad worked hard, but their money went toward paying the rent, buying the groceries and picking up a weekly lottery ticket. Unless one of those tickets turned out to be a winner, we wouldn’t be joining the yacht club anytime soon.

  Not that my parents would want to, Dad especially. He thinks all sailors are rich snobs. Whatever. He has no idea what it’s really like and no interest in finding out. It just annoys him that I want to sail instead of play football like he did. Personally, I think the sea is easily as tough an opponent as a whole football team.

  Anyway, sailing is more than a sport. It’s a way of life. For a guy with no connections, I’ve managed to log a fair number of hours under sail on racing boats. You start out as ballast—just extra weight where it’s needed to help the boat go faster. You get yelled at a lot but you learn fast.

  Racing’s not what I want to do though. I want to be a delivery skipper. I want to sail those rich folks’ boats across the oceans for them, deliver them to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. They can have their lazy holidays in the sun. Me, I want to be out at sea.

  At least I thought I did before this trip.

  It had started out okay. We had all met up at the marina in Port Hardy, four teenagers who had all come here for a sailing course. Blair and Joey, brothers from Vancouver, were tall, well built and dressed in expensive Helly Hansen rain gear. They were the junior version of the rich yachties my dad complains about. Olivia was all spooky black hair and major attitude. Patrick, our sailing instructor, greeted us with a crooked grin; then he took us down to the boat for a quick tour. It was a thirty-six-footer, a lot bigger than the racing boats I was used to.

  “Choose a berth and leave your stuff there for now,” Patrick told us. “If you need the head, it’s on the port side, just aft of the V-berth. And here’s the galley.” He pointed at a sink and stove top.

  “Uhh...” Joey looked lost.

  “Head equals toilet. Berth equals bed. Galley equals kitchen,” Olivia said, not even cracking a smile.

  I snagged a narrow single berth tucked away at the stern and tossed my bag on it to stake my claim.

  Olivia bent close. “You picked the coffin,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  She nodded at the bed. “Just what it’s called. ‘Cause of the shape, I guess. You can’t sit up in it.” She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Hope you aren’t claustrophobic.”

  I met her eyes. Lime Slurpee green and just as icy. “Nope. Not me.”

  She shrugged. “I am.” She glanced around the boat, and I followed her gaze. Joey and Blair were arguing over who would get which berth.

  “I’ll arm-wrestle you for this one,” Joey said.

  Blair started rolling up his sleeves.

  “You two can share the V-berth,” Patrick told them. He was leaning back against the stove, listening and watching with a half smile on his tanned face. I wondered what he was thinking and whether he was dreading being stuck on the boat with us.

  “This boat is going to drive me nuts,” Olivia informed me.

  Cry me a river, I thought. I’d worked two crap jobs—at a gas station and a diner—and saved my ass off to get here, so she was looking for sympathy from the wrong guy. “Why did you come then?”

  “My dad made me.”

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t help it.

  She didn’t miss a thing. “What’s your problem?”

  “What’s yours?”

  Olivia stalked off, skinny shoulder blades practically twitching with irritation as she climbed the companionway steps.

  Patrick chuckled. “Let’s all go get some dinner. We have an early start tomorrow.”

  We trudged along in the cold drizzle, following Patrick down the docks. I was relieved when he stopped at a small restaurant near the harbor. I was starving.

  My heart sank when we stepped inside. White tablecloths, candles, glossy hardwood floors. I didn’t even have to look at a menu to know that I wouldn’t be able to afford much more than a Coke.

  I guess Patrick caught my expression, because he jumped in pretty fast. “Dinner’s included. Halibut burgers and fries.” He winked at me. “This is my family’s restaurant.”

  “Sounds great,” I said, surprised.

  Olivia was looking at the menu. “Abalone? Abalone? Please tell me it’s not...”

  I stared at her. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Baloney? You want baloney?” Joey asked, bewildered.

  Patrick cut in. “Relax, honey. It’s imported.”

  She ignored me and Joey and kept talking to Patrick. “Would you mind not calling me honey? My name’s Olivia.”

  Man, she needed to chill out. I nudged her. “You allergic to shellfish or something?”

  She looked at me scornfully. “For your information, abalone in BC is a threatened species.”

  “Lots of places serve it,” I argued. “The Chinese place we go to back home does.”

  “Yeah? Well, you should ask where it’s from. Make sure it’s not local.”

  I doubted anything they served was even fresh, let alone local. Anyway, now that I thought about it, it might have been mussels or clams or something. I shrugged. “So don’t eat it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Olivia said. “I wouldn’t.”

  The halibut burgers arrived at our table—big, juicy, dripping tartar sauce and

  surrounded by huge piles of steaming hot fries. I licked my lips. Joey and Blair dug in.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” Olivia announced. “Are the French fries cooked in animal fats?”

  I sighed. It was going to be a long week.

  chapter three

  The next day, we got up early and sailed out of the harbor. It was awesome: a gentle breeze was blowing, the water was calm, and we hummed along under full sail. A curious seal popped its head out of the water and watched us go by. Fishing boats motored past. I couldn’t stop grinning. Patrick told us we were headed for Bull Harbour, up on Hope Island, and that we’d spend the night there. Tomorrow, he said, we’d round Cape Scott and start working our way south toward our eventual destination of Tofino. Wind and weather permitting, he’d added with a wink. That’s why the course was eight to ten days—with sailing, you can’t predict exactly how long a journey will take.

  We had all signed up for an intermediate cruising course through the yachting association. We had to learn a whole list of practical skills as well as a book full of theory—everything from adjusting the sails to anchoring the boat to tying an unbelievable variety of knots. If I passed, I’d be qualified to bareboat charter—which basically means I’d be allowed to rent a boat from a charter company anywhere in the world. Of course, I couldn’t afford to do that. Still, the official sailing qualification would help me to convince someone to take me on as crew. I’d be one step closer to my goal of becoming a delivery skipper.

  We practiced man-overboard drills that morning—Patrick kept calling them that, despite Olivia’s insistence that the correct term was “crew overboard.” We practiced a ton of other stuff too—tacking and jibing to turn the boat, reefing sails to keep control in heavy weather and adjusting sails for maximum speed and comfort. The wind picked up around lunchtime, and the water got rough, kicking up a steep chop. Jeopardy started to pound into t
he waves, and suddenly lunch lost its appeal.

  That was when Patrick yelled, “Man overboard!” and I made a total ass of myself. Joey couldn’t stop laughing, and Blair kept punching my shoulder for some reason.

  “You really didn’t realize it was a drill?” Patrick finally asked, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  I shrugged sheepishly. “You sounded real serious, and then I couldn’t see Joey...”

  “Man.” He shook his head.

  “Spacey Drake,” Joey said, cracking himself up.

  After that, everyone started calling me Spacey instead of Simon. Everyone except Olivia, that is. I’d say she was being nice but I think she just wanted to do the opposite of what everyone else did. She was like that.

  We made it up the channel between the islands and into Bull Harbour late that afternoon. I was glad when we got out of the waves and into the protected water of the anchorage. Sailors don’t talk much about it, but seasickness is utter hell. Your mouth gets all gross feeling, like you have too much saliva. You yawn until your jaw aches, and you feel irritable and tired and achy and nauseated. And then you throw up, and you think that might help, but it doesn’t help at all. It just goes on and on and on.

  I didn’t want to let on how lousy I was feeling, though obviously everyone noticed that I kept leaning over the edge and chucking up. Still, when we got into Bull Harbour I was the one up on the foredeck, lowering the heavy Bruce anchor into the calm dark water.

  It was beautiful there. The water was so still it was shiny, and the trees along the shoreline were reflected as long dark fingers reaching out across the bay. The sky was a pearly gray, and once our engine was switched off, it was incredibly quiet. There was only one other boat there—a cabin cruiser, maybe a forty-footer, anchored a little closer to shore—and not a person in sight.

  I wrapped the anchor rope around the cleat in a figure-eight pattern, twisting the last loop once to secure it.

  Olivia appeared beside me. The girl had cat feet: even in the silence of this anchorage, I hadn’t heard her coming. She nodded toward the cabin cruiser. “Odd, don’t you think?”