They fished through the entire next day. Hank had planned to stop at the thirty-six-hour mark, but when the time arrived he kept going. They were maintaining their pace. Let them speak up when they’d had enough. The longer they stuck it, the less it appeared that anyone would take the initiative to stop. The second night passed, at full work push. During breakfast the third morning, Hank broke the silence to say, “Guess we could knock off for a few hours.”
“You had it already?” asked Steve.
They continued.
During it all, Jones remained in the pilothouse, but any conversation he had with Hank was monosyllabic. Hank found himself dozing and turning sick from all the coffee he drank to keep awake. He took his bellyache tablets surreptitiously so Jones would not see, as well as pills for headache. At least it would have to end when the tanks were full. But that could be another three days. His headache grew worse, until nothing reached it.
On deck they moved slower and slower, their actions the jerk of automatons. He knew they hurt worse than he did. What if any one of them got careless? If only Jones would intervene.
“The guys are ready to drop,” he ventured.
“Steve and Ivan, they’re tough as bricks. I don’t know about your man Seth, but he seems to be keeping up.”
Finally, at dinner, as the third night without sleep approached, he declared: “Okay, we’ve worked more than sixty hours and you’ve shown me up for an asshole. You re better men than I’ll ever be. Let’s sleep.”
Seth sighed, lay back at once, and sank into a doze. He was haggard and he had begun holding his mug with both hands to get it to his mouth.
Steve picked his teeth and considered. Except for the soggy filth of his clothes and the raw salt blisters on his hands and lips, he seemed little affected. “I don’t see no sense in stopping this close to full tanks. You want to stop, Ivan?”
“Shit, no.”
“Seth here’s okay, he’s held his end. Let him sack out a while and Ivan and me can handle deck.” He nodded offhand at Hank. “You can let Jones take his wheel back. We’ll wake you when we get to port in a couple days.”
Hank rose, dizzy. “Let’s get fishing.”
Steve and Ivan started pulling on their rain gear, and Seth with a quiet groan reached for his.
Hank stopped and looked them over. Was he to risk a boat so they could all act like children? “No,” he said firmly. “It’s over. You’ve won. I’m taking her in, and I’ll drop the hook myself if I have to. If you want to sleep or not is your own damn business.”
They steamed to the closest bay and anchored. Hank pushed aside the life jackets in a vacant crew berth, leaving Jones the cabin. Nothing was said. Ivan and Seth fell asleep at once, in their clothes. Hank numbly peeled his pants as he shut his eyes against the headache. All that mattered was the bunk. Steve, standing alongside, tapped Hank’s shoulder and offered a puff of his cigarette. They smoked it together without talk. Afterward Hank lay sleepless, he thought forever, listening to Ivan’s long-forgotten snore. But by the clock he drifted under in three minutes.
When he awoke next afternoon, his first sensation was the odor of Ivan’s feet. Steve, scratching his chest comfortably as he dressed, met Hank’s glance and winked. Hank grinned. What had he done to himself, to leave the warmth of the fo’c’sle for the loneliness of the cabin? His legs felt too heavy to lift to deck. Neither Seth nor Ivan had stirred. He started to roll over and return to blessed sleep, then thought better of it and forced himself to stand and pull on his clothes.
In the galley Jones had made coffee. Hank drew his mug and settled beside Steve. The constraint was gone. All three talked cheerfully as they made themselves sandwiches from a pack of baloney.
Jones yawned. “Anchors holding. I figure tomorrow morning’s time enough to pull the next string. I’m going to sleep the whole day through.”
“Me too, Boss,” said Steve.
“Sounds good,” said Hank.
Sunrise next day was at five, but nobody bothered to untangle until about eight. It was gray and foggy, with the temperature around thirty-five degrees and, according to the weather report, a thirty-knot westerly in open water that might build while shifting to north. They loitered over breakfast. Hank insisted on doing the dishes. Nobody mentioned the angry push of two nights before; it already seemed that a month had passed since then.
“Anybody got a corn plaster?” asked Ivan.
“No little thing like that’s going to help your feet none, you Aleut,” said Steve.
Seth offered a Band-Aid, and Ivan, who could refuse anything from someone he disliked, took it and thanked him.
They had slept through the fishery news the day before, and only learned that morning that the area where their pots were laid had just been closed for the season by the Department of Fish & Game. It meant that they could pull their pots and harvest the tanners inside, but then would have to move to one of the areas that remained open. “Them Fish and Game biologists,” said Jones with irritation, “they sit in their office uptown and play games with arithmetic. Anybody out here could tell them the pots are still coming up full.”
“Too full,” said Hank. “They count the crabs delivered, and the quota’s probably been reached sooner than expected.”
“Then they ought to raise the quota, since anybody can see there’s more crab than they figured.”
“Tricky business. You’ve talked yourself often enough of how they disappeared in sixty-seven.”
“That was different.”
The other boats fishing the area had already left. They pulled a deckload of pots and headed for the new grounds about three hours away. Everyone was relaxed. It was a different boat than a few days before. They all lounged in the pilothouse and took turns at the wheel. Only Seth, who had just came from deck rounds, wore anything but T-shirts and deck slippers.
Three Saints Bay, where they planned to anchor after setting their pots, was surrounded enough by close mountains to have poor radio reception, so Jones made his daily call to Adele as they cruised.
Hank talked to Jody at the same time. “Pushing hard out there?” she asked. “Ought to see you back soon, at the rate you go.”
He shrugged at the others around him, taking his lumps cheerfully. “Don’t look for us until you see us.”
When they had signed off, Jones said, “Why not go hunting? We’ve earned a vacation.”
Everybody agreed, even Hank, although he couldn’t resist saying, “Vacation? You just got back from Hawaii.”
“That was with Adele.”
There was a muffled explosion within the wall of the pilothouse. Before they knew what had happened, flame and smoke poured inside. The odor caught in their throats with a brass taste. Steve grabbed a fire extinguisher and sprayed wildly. Jones headed the boat full gun in the direction of shore, shouting orders, as Ivan and Seth beat the flames with a cushion and Seth’s jacket. Hank raced outside and leaped to the main deck to scoop a bucket of water. By the time he threw it against the outside of the pilothouse the others were tumbling out, gagging. Flames licked from crevices all over the structure. They burned from beneath the outer sheeting—the insulation?—and roiled against the windows inside. With the boat pitching into the wind, the acrid smoke blew back over them.
Steve and Jones raced to the afterdeck and started unbolting the lazerette hatch to get the portable pump. The others formed a bucket chain, with Ivan scooping water in the deck bucket and bait tubs, Seth raising it to the wheeldeck, and Hank throwing it into the fire. The flames divided like amoebas wherever he doused, then grew, fanned by the wind.
Hank glanced with fright across the gray water. The waves rolled in crests and black troughs, and he saw no other boat. The first line of mountains was at least five miles away. He bit his lips as he remembered the feel of it when the water once closed over him like lead.
At last the fire abated under the slosh of his buckets. The burned surface of the pilothouse still sizzled, but it was under control. On deck Jones
and Steve were just clamping the hoses to the pump. He was about to call down a joke about their pace. Then he felt heat through the soles of his slippers. The fire had sucked down into the bunkroom and galley. It burned straight beneath him with an empty roar.
Instinctively he wrenched free the big mounted canister that held the life raft. He checked that the halyard was secured, then struggled the canister through rigging and shrouds and threw it overboard. The motion pulled the CO2 pin automatically. With a bang and hiss a wide surface popped into shape.
“It’s upside down,” cried Jones. “What’d you do?”
Ivan grabbed the halyard and struggled to steady the raft against the side.
“Nothing, no directions,” Hank sputtered. “Took care of itself, supposed to.”
The boats forward motion beat the raft. Jone’s voice rose. “She’ll foul the screw, why’d you throw too soon?”
Hank looked around irrationally, clenching his fists. “Why’d you speed in the wind and fan the fire?” He held his breath and rushed inside the hot pilothouse, slowing the engine control in passing. The radio mike burned his hand. He pressed the switch and called, “Mayday, Mayday, Adele Three on fire, five miles east of—” The blackened cord fell loose.
Steve’s deck pump sputtered water into the galley below. It pushed the fire like a live creature back up the stairs to the pilothouse. Flame scorched Hank’s bare arms and started his T-shirt smoking. He rushed outside, doused his shoulders from a bucket of water, then doubled over, choking and retching helplessly.
“The bilge pumps.” Jones had been adjusting the deck pump while Steve hosed. He rushed to the switch on the deck housing, listened for the sound, leaned over the rail to check the scupper, flicked the switch again and again. Steve’s water continued to pour inside. “Ain’t working. We’ll flood the engine.” Jones disappeared through the galley door toward the control box, into the smoke, ducking Steve’s spray. A minute later he staggered out, popeyed and gasping. Unable to speak, he gestured for Steve to stop the hose.
Fire immediately billowed again through the living spaces. The pilothouse had become a huge candle. Beneath Hank’s feet on the wheeldeck the paint bubbled and steamed. Still retching, he jumped to the main deck with the others.
With the boat slowed, the wind brought it broadside to the waves. They were no longer pointed toward shore. The boat rolled with increasing sluggishness, lingering to far port and far starboard as if it were icing. Their freeboard had lowered a foot.
“Sinking, oh, Jesus Christ,” groaned Seth. “My life jacket’s in my bunk.”
Jones flicked and flicked the bilge-pump switch.
Seth cupped his hands and bellowed “Help! Help!” in all directions of empty ocean.
The engine stopped. The sea was no rougher than they had lived with a thousand times, but the boat without way rolled in it helplessly. As the deck righted from each slow tilt the icy seawater washed over their legs—only Seth wore boots rather than slippers, since they had been lounging—and sloshed into the galley to continue down to the engine room.
Ivan had knelt on deck to pray, the water gurgling as it swept around him.
“What’ll we do now, Boss?” said Steve in a hushed voice. Jones brushed him aside as he pried off the plate of the bilge-pump switch and pulled at the wires.
Hank staggered to the raft and started tugging at the halyard to right it. Steve was quickly beside him, then the others. They grasped the slippery edges and lifted with all their strength. When a wave trough brought air to release the suction, the bulbous side bounced up in their faces. The orange canopy to the life raft, which would have been free in the air if the raft had opened right side up, formed a heavy bucket. They had to maneuver the raft by the edge to release the water.
When it was righted, there was still two feet of water trapped inside. Hank, shivering in his T-shirt, looked at it in dismay, then found a bucket, slipped into the raft under the dripping canopy, and started to bail as he squatted in the frigid water.
Jones continued with the pump switch as he called over in an even voice, “Don’t slice that raft bottom, don’t use no metal that might cut.”
Hank stopped and looked up at Steve on deck. Steve took the metal bucket from him, returned with two perforated plastic bait cans, and climbed in alongside.
Everyone had quieted. The fire roared softly throughout the boat. With their weights concentrated on the port side the boat had settled in a permanent list.
“Will we be all right?” asked Seth.
“Of course,” said Hank calmly. “Just stand by.”
Jones chuckled. “This bilge pump, she’ll work in a minute, but keep bailing.” He had braced himself on the tilting deck. “You know what I think happened? I’ve heard that damned eurythane insulation was flammable if it got too close to heat, and mebbe the exhaust pipe got tilted over too far, thing can scorch your hand sometimes.”
“Anybody got coats?” asked Hank. “Any coats or rain gear on deck? Any boots? Seth, look around.”
“What do you mean?” asked Seth, his eyes wide with sudden terror. “What do we plan to do?” He himself wore the scorched jacket with which he had beaten on the fire. “We’re not going to abandon?”
Steve, as he bailed with one hand, dislodged two folded aluminum oars with the other and opened them.
“Just do it, Seth. Ivan, you look too.” Hank felt calm, in control. The worst had happened. No longer any suspense about it. If they managed not to panic but huddled in, a boat or plane was bound to find them, or they’d make it to shore.
The wind gusted. It fanned the flames so that they bellowed like a furnace inside the housing and jetted sideways in the air through bumt-out openings. Heat covered the men, as did choking fumes. The boat listed slowly further to port. Jones lost his balance and slid toward them. The slight additional weight dipped the portside rail into the water.
“Everybody into the raft fast,” said Hank. “Jump.” Jones, Steve, and Ivan complied.
Seth remained on deck, wide-eyed and trembling. “Don’t want to leave the boat. Come back.”
Hank gazed at him firmly. “It’s your choice. But it may be final if we cut loose.”
“Don’t cut loose. Please.”
The two friends stared at each other desperately.
A new gust roared the fire and started the deck steadily into the water. Jones pulled his knife and sliced the line.
“Jump!” pleaded Hank. Seth leaped. Hank grabbed him aboard and held him tightly, hugged him, before letting go.
The boat kept heeling. A wave surged between and moved the raft forward. “Row,” said Jones, “row fast, away.” Steve already had his paddles in the water. Slowly the burning superstructure turned toward them. Burning fragments fell into the water alongside. “ROW!” They moved only inches as the pilothouse headed down on top of them. Because of the canopy of waterproofed canvas over their heads, they could see little. A cinder burned through and fell on Ivan’s knee. “Don’t let it hit bottom!” Ivan took it in his hand and tossed it out. “ROW!”
They crested on a wave. It carried them free of the boat. Before their eyes the Adele III rolled sideways and the superstructure dipped hissing into the water. The hull floated at a crippled tilt, ready to sink any minute.
“Maybe we ought to stay tied alongside,” Hank ventured.
“What, and have her drag us under?” said Jones. “Besides, we don’t want to spend the night out here.”
They watched in awed silence as distance separated them. Hank forced a chuckle. “All those tanner crabs we busted ourselves to get.” Nobody answered.
Hank looked at his watch. Two hours at most before dark.
Steve continued to row. With the canopy, it was difficult to see direction. They peered under it, watching the shore, where mountainsides sloped up to disappear in the low gray clouds.
“Must be only three-four mile,” said Jones. “Well make it easy. Steve, say when you’re tired.”
�
�I’m fine, Boss. Somebody keep me pointed. I’ll do better if somebody holds my legs steady.”
They were cramped. The space for the five of them was five feet wide and seven feet long, with the canopy about three feet above their heads. Their legs and shoulders twisted against each other however they moved. They could only sit or lie flat. None could move without affecting the others. Their motion in the seas was also unstable, so that when they tilted on a wave crest they pressed against each other. However much they bailed, pockets of water remained. They were all soaked.
The rubberized fabric of the raft was only a thin layer between their buttocks and the sea. With action stopped, the cold beneath them began quickly to sap their body warmth wherever it touched.
“Everybody okay?” asked Hank.
“Real good,” said Seth. “Somebody want to borrow my coat?”
Each wanted it, but none spoke.
“A long time ago,” said Jones, “I saw one of these life-raft buggers demonstrated. I thought enough to pay fifteen hundred dollars for it, but not enough to pay attention. There should be a false bottom. Look for a valve. She’s made so we can blow air between the layers like a mattress.” They found the valve, and took turns inflating as the others raised on their arms to allow the air to flow. It made a difference immediately. “What I call comfort,” said Jones. “Just need a little booze to help it along.”
“Funny thing,” said Hank. “I’ve read you shouldn’t drink booze in a situation like this. It might make you feel warm for a while, but it drains the circulation from your legs and arms in the long run. The one thing we’ve got to watch is what happened to Nels.” The statement had been meant to keep up conversation, but it ended quieting them all.
Jones and Hank, pressed together, opened the raft’s survival kit and laid out the contents. Each piece was in a separate package: flashlight, tablets, and bandages, one parachute flare and several hand-held flares, a knife blunted to prevent puncturing, cord, and other small accessories. Hank’s arm was red from the bum in the wheelhouse, and any wind that caught it through the canvas made him wince. He found ointment and applied it. Once the seal of the package was broken, there was no easy way to store the remainder. The same applied to the other equipment. They returned it all together into the bag. Hank glanced at Jones and shrugged. No water in the kit, no food.
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