Find My Brother

by David Chilcott

  Chapter Twenty Five

  “What do you mean, the radar isn’t working?”

  “There’s no power. All the instruments are dead.”

  McBride glanced up. The navigation lights, the port and starboard lights beamed out. The masthead light was on.

  “Must be a fuse gone. Unless the navigation lights are on a different circuit.”

  “I can go back and look for a fuse box.”

  “No, you probably won’t find it. Is the cabin light on?”

  “Shit, no. Now you come to mention it. Is there a torch anywhere?”

  “Probably near the chart table, but I don’t remember seeing it.”

  “I’ll wait for a lull, and pop back into the cabin.” But for the next forty minutes no lull came. It was a series of waves breaking over the deck, water pounding the cabin bulkhead. The yacht was moving fast, carving through the wave tops.

  McBride had his eyes everywhere, straining in the near dark, wind and spray obscuring the horizon. No sign of lights from other boats. It was tiring searching the seas and trying to handle the boat as well.

  “Ben, while you’re waiting for a chance to get in the cabin, do me a favour and keep a watch for other vessels. I’m having difficulty handling the yacht, as well as scanning for boats.”

  “Okay,” said Ben “I’m on to it now.” His eyes roamed the water ahead and to port and starboard.

  There was a slight break in the weather, maybe the wind had switched from the quarter, but fewer waves reached the cabin door.

  “Quick,” said McBride. “Into the cabin now.”

  Once inside with the door closed it was near total black. Ben used his hands over the chart table, up on the walls close by, down the sides of the chart table. His hand struck something round, hanging on a peg. Eureka, it was a torch. He lifted it up; found a switch on the side. The beam nearly blinded him, lighting nearly the whole cabin. He swung the beam up to the instrument shelf. On the back was a row of plugs set in the plywood. Ben reached up, and swung the door closed. A wire led out near the hinge, and under the cupboard, then down the wall beside the chart table. He pointed the torch lower.

  The wire ran into a box down on the floor of the cabin. Ben reached down, tried to find out how to open the box. Got his fingers below the box, tried to lever it up. No luck. Moved his fingers to the side. There was a click and the box swung open sideways. Inside the were three glass encased fuses. One each for the plug sockets on the shelf. Impossible that three would blow at once. Statistically, that is.

  So he had to trace back even further. But the wire ran under the floor, and try as he might, he couldn’t lift the floor boards at this end of the cabin.

  “Ben come out quickly.”

  Ben opened the door, and some water came through. Then he was out into the maelstrom. Water in all directions, spray and solid water. Ahead, spray leapt vertically. To the south the rain lashed horizontally.

  McBride was battling with wheel, his face grim.

  Ahead, Ben saw a sudden flash of light up in the sky. Then nothing. Then another flash.

  “John, there’s a lighthouse.”

  “I’m trying to turn the ship but the current and the wind’s too strong.”

  Ben vaguely wondered why the water should be not only so broken ahead, but why it should spouting like it was.

  The yacht lurched and suddenly stalled. A shudder coming through the soles of their shoes. A terrible grating sound could be heard above the noise of the wind whining in the rigging.

  The sea pounded the hull, broke with even more strength not only over the exposed deck, but over the cabin top, water rolling over the boat, and running off in foaming streams, before the next wave engulfed the boat. They clung on, the water trying to wash them away into the foaming sea.

  “We’ve run aground, hit something, rocks I suppose.” McBride said, his face streaming with water running down from his hair.

  “We’ve got rockets in the cupboard.” Ben said, reaching over.

  Ben passed one of the two rockets to McBride.

  “How do you work them?” asked Ben.

  “I’ve done it before, you hold it in the hand, outstretched away from your face, pull the string.”

  He was explaining and doing it at the same time. A sudden flash and a red ball of fire climbing into the sky arcing over against the wind, and then a parachute deployed, and the flare climbed even higher in the gale force wind.

  Looking round, McBride could see, in the light from the flare, rocks ahead of the boat, and to each side. He had sailed the boat into an inlet, and they appeared to be held by rocks on either side of the keel, perfectly upright. If the tide was still rising it might free the boat, and that could be good. But if the boat didn’t drift free, if the lead weight on the keel had got caught, then a rising tide could completely swamp the yacht. At this stage of tide, it would be possible, though dangerous, to get out onto the rocks.

  It was possibly safer to stay on the boat.

  “Ben, I’ll just go down below, try to rescue some belongings.”

  “Don’t go, too dangerous. If the boat shifts, it could spring a leak, drown you trapped inside.”

  “Maybe so. We’ll go in the clothes we stand up in.”

  The flare above them blinked out. They were back in darkness.

  “Do we fire the other one straight away, or wait awhile?”

  “The rule is do it now,” said McBride. And held his arm out and pulled the string.

  The second flare rose up in the air. They both stared around in the light of the erupting flare. This time McBride was making out more that made sense. Ahead was a big flat rock formation, with the outline of a lighthouse, abandoned, only part of its tower remaining. The intermittent beam of light came for a newer lighthouse farther away. Maybe nearer the shore, maybe not. He was disorientated, not knowing which way the shore lay, Straight ahead, or to their left? From the compass reading it had to be one of the two. To the east definitely lay the sea that they had come across from Denmark.

  The storm was still raging as strongly. It was nearly half an hour since they fired the flares. McBride was making a decision about abandoning the boat. The large plateau of rock he had seen in the light of the flares, was grey and flat. That surely meant it was above the high tide mark. No seaweed clung to it.

  “John, there’s a boat, a lifeboat.”

  The boat emerged from the spray and rain. One of the crew, using a loud hailer, spoke above the noise of the storm.

  “If we attach a rope, do you think we can pull you off safely?”

  McBride cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted back.

  “You can try, but I think we are trapped down at the keel. Is the tide rising or falling?”

  “Rising.”

  “Then I think it’s worth a try.”

  The crew member sent a rope expertly thrown, Ben caught it, much to his apparent surprise. McBride secured it to the cleat on the stern, and signalled the lifeboat with a thumbs up.

  The lifeboat revved up its powerful engines, and the rope tautened. For a while, nothing happened. Suddenly the boat began to shift an inch at a time until it finally broke free and floated free.

  The same crew member, now abandoned the loud hailer, and since they were a lot closer said, “Just check you’re not shipping water. Have you got an engine?”

  “Yes, I’ll try it,” said McBride, while Ben went below. McBride started the engine, and it ran fine.

  Ben came back up. “It’s bone dry in the cabin.”

  McBride shouted the information to the crew member and added, “Can you escort us into port?”

  “Yes, but as a private boat, you can only go into the outer harbour. The inner harbour is for commercial boats.”

  McBride read the name on the lifeboat. Grace Darling. Of course they must have gone aground on the Farne Islands. A lot further south than they were aiming. They were motoring at a comfortable speed behind the Grace Darling, McBride feeling on top of t
he world. Nearly journey’s end, and the boat still afloat. He shuddered at the thought of having to phone the news of Nigel’s boat sunk off the Farne Islands, insured or not.

  The lifeboat stood off the Seahouses harbour entrance, whilst the Belinda berthed in an empty space on the quay. Then with two sounds of its horn, it moved away. After they had tidied the boat, got all their luggage off, and were standing on the quay, they could see outside the harbour a sand beach, and a tractor towing the lifeboat on a trailer, back to its boathouse.

  “Let’s go over and thank them,” said McBride.

  By the time they had walked along the road to the lifeboat house, the crew were just easing the boat inside, still on the trailer.

  “That was a first-class job you did,” said McBride, shaking hands with first one then another of the crew. “Especially as it wasn’t my boat. The owner would have been sorry if we’d lost it.”

  “Were you in trouble before you went into the rocks, I mean apart from the storm?”

  “We lost our instrument power. We had no radar, no GPS. The storm was too bad to spend time tracing out the wiring, being only two handed. And tired. We’ve just sailed from the Baltic.”

  “Where are you staying tonight? On the boat?”

  “We don’t know. Newcastle would be good, then we can get a train down to York. Final destination.” McBride grinned. “If we do leave, can you speak to the harbour master in the morning? I’ll contact the owner, and he’ll be in touch, settle the fees.”

  The larger crew member nodded. “I don’t see you getting to Newcastle tonight. The last train left at five o’clock. The last bus, as well. You’ll get a couple of rooms at the Olde Ship in Main Street, it’s out of season, always have rooms then. You can virtually see it from here.” He pointed, “Just past the harbour.”

  “Then you’ll be able to talk to the Harbour Master in the morning before you leave. Better that way.”

  Still wearing their oilskins, or rather Nigel’s oilskins, they trudged through the lashing rain towards the High Street.

  The Olde Ship was indeed the first building on the left, and overlooked the harbour. They went into the bar, full of pictures and memorabilia on the walls, not an inch of wall space left. Even at this early hour, shortly before seven, there were a few men drinking pints.

  McBride asked if they had a couple of rooms left for tonight, and the girl handed him a rate card.

  “There’s two en suite rooms on the first floor, executive, at fifty five pounds each, breakfast included.”

  “We’ll take them,” said McBride, not stopping to consult with Ben. “Do you serve dinner?”

  “Just bar meals tonight,” she said, handing him a menu. “There’s a few restaurants up the street, if you prefer.”

  McBride paid with his credit card. The girl showed them up to the rooms, and gave them the keys.

  “See you down in the bar in twenty minutes,” said McBride to Ben.

  McBride went straight to his shower. Once in fresh clothes from his rucksack, he was back in the bar in twenty minutes, and the first thing he did was get a pint of beer. He was so tired, he could barely keep his eyes open. The pint went down fine though.

  Ben was another half an hour before he joined McBride.

  “What kept you?”

  “Let’s order, and then I’ll tell you. I must have some food, it feels as though I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Maybe you haven’t. I can’t remember, it was a busy time.” He signalled for the barmaid, waving his bar menu.