by Jack Dey
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CHAPTER 7 - PRESENT DAY
The galley alarm blared as plates slid off the table and crashed to the floor. Johnny grabbed onto the stove to stop himself from becoming the first Japanese missile launched inside a charter boat galley. Fortunately for him, the stove was off and cold.
Charlie grasped onto Pooch’s arm, trying to keep from being thrown across the table, the fear showing as she locked eyes with him. Pooch jumped up from the table and steadied himself, then easily ascended the stairs to the wheelhouse in three easy bounds, with Charlie seconds behind him. Pooch broke through the metal hatch into the darkened wheelhouse, groping around until his eyes adjusted. The sounds of multiple alarms and flashing red warning lights beeped and flashed in the room, painting an eerie kaleidoscope on the wheelhouse walls and Damon’s worried face.
Back in the galley, Knots was turning in circles wondering what to do, when a frightened Elishia burst from her cabin, demanding to know what was happening. It was evident her cabin had suffered from the sudden surge from Annemarie's engine. Johnny prised himself off the kitchen stove and made his way over to Elishia.
“All will be okay, Missy. Skipper have it under control.”
The galley was strangely quiet now that the main engine was stopped. The power generator could still be heard as a faint hum through the vessel’s hull, steadily delivering power to the stricken vessel. The hatch from the wheelhouse opened again and Damon, Pooch and Charlie all made their way into the galley. The wheelhouse lights had been turned on and the alarms and warning lights had been silenced.
“What’s happening?” a white faced Elishia demanded of Damon, as he strode past her through the galley and towards the aft deck.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied, his voice disappearing out of the aft galley doors, Pooch and Charlie close behind him.
The engine room was accessed through a door in the air inlet duct, on the port side. The air inlet duct towered above and was part of the aft deck and made up a part of the galley wall, also. The purpose of the air duct was to ram clean, cool air in vast quantities into the engine room via giant suction fans. They were encased in the duct work on the engine room floor, keeping the engine room cool. The hot waste air was forced out, through openings in the sides of the roof of the engine room.
Damon turned the handle on the engine room door and pulled it open. The sudden noise of the power generator assaulted his ears and incoming duct air blew his hair around. He swung his foot over onto the perpendicular ladder and descended the two deck levels onto the engine room floor, closely followed by Pooch and Charlie. There was no apparent reason for Annemarie's trouble.
Damon shouted in Pooch’s ear, “I AM GOING TO START THE ENGINE FROM DOWN HERE AND SEE IF WE CAN SEE ANYTHING!”
Pooch just nodded and gave Damon the thumbs up. It was pointless trying to talk. Damon walked around the engine, located the engine’s remote starter panel and turned the key to start the engine. The engine burst into life. He opened and closed the throttle manually, via the linkages on the engine and it responded quickly to the manipulation of the throttle lever and increased or decreased its engine’s R.P.M. accordingly. The gauges all read normal. Pooch motioned to manually engage the transmission. Damon understood his mime and engaged the transmission, but the prop shaft did not turn and the engine laboured. Pooch nodded, then pointed up, beckoning Damon upstairs. They climbed back up the stairs and out of the hot and noisy engine room and closed the door behind them. The din suddenly quietened, allowing them to speak again.
“What are your thoughts, Pooch?” Damon’s face was expectant.
Pooch responded, “There is something wrapped around the prop shaft.”
Charlie gasped. All of a sudden, it made sense. The sudden engine surge, as whatever it was wrapped tighter and tighter around the propeller and the propeller drive shaft. The engine choked, trying to wrestle with the slowing propeller shaft, finally dying in defeat, as the prop shaft refused to turn. Damon walked to the stern and looked down over the back of the boat into the inky, black water below. The waterline was only three feet away. Charlie and Pooch followed his steps in the darkness with their eyes.
Someone has to go over the side and have a look, Damon thought.
“Come on up to the wheelhouse. We need to make a plan, Pooch,” Damon ordered.
They pulled on the glass galley doors and entered the galley, where they were met by three enquiring faces sitting at the table. Johnny had managed to calm Elishia and Knots by placing cups of hot coffee in front of them. Elishia was the first to speak.
“What’s happening, Damon?” her voice quavered as she fought to hide her fear.
“We think there is something tightly wrapped around the prop,” he responded wearily.
“Can it be freed?” she asked.
“We are just about to sit down and make a plan,” he replied resentfully. For the first time, he looked directly into her pretty face, noticing the darkening lines around her tired eyes. “It looks like someone will have to go over the side and have a look.”
“Out here?! In the middle of the night?!” Elishia was horrified.
Charlie stared at the redhead, biting back the contempt and envy. If it wasn’t for you, she thought, none of this would be happening!
Damon replied, “We might not have any choice. We are fifteen miles east of Morris Island and these waters are littered with reef, shallow enough and sharp enough to rip Annemarie open. With no engine, we have no way of manoeuvring around them. We are safe at the moment, currently in the deep waters of the shipping channel, but the channel is only narrow through these parts and disaster is everywhere outside the channel. If we continue to drift on the incoming tide like this, we will most certainly end up on a reef. If we send out a distress call, it may be several hours before we can be taken under tow and the same thing may happen.”
“What about the anchor?” Elishia suggested.
“We are in about a hundred and fifty feet of water at the moment. If we drop the anchor, it may just hit bottom, but there wouldn’t be enough angle on the rope to allow the sand ploughs to dig in and it would just drag,” Damon explained simply.
Before Elishia could detain him with more questions, Damon motioned for Pooch to follow him into the wheelhouse, bounding the stairs and leaving the others discussing the situation among themselves. The wheelhouse hatch slammed shut, with a bang, adding to the gravity of their situation and making it clear they weren’t to be disturbed.
Damon and Pooch thrashed out a plan for just on half an hour, checking their position, drift, water depth and radar for any approaching vessels. It was all clear for the moment and they were definitely on their own. They decided to check the damage to the prop first, before radioing in to the authorities... a last resort. If the damage wasn’t too bad and they could fix it themselves, they would forego a tedious Marine Safety Queensland inquiry and they could continue on with the charter, as if nothing had happened.
According to his tide chart, they were approaching high water. Good timing, Damon thought. With the tide at high water, the tidal current would stop for around twenty to thirty minutes. Annemarie would not drift far, buying them precious time before the tide turned and began to fall again. The current would pick up speed once the tide started to run out again, making it difficult for a diver to stay under the hull of Annemarie without being swept away.
“Run out speed on a falling ten-foot tide would give us a drift of fifteen to twenty knots,” he calculated. Annemarie would drift too fast and there was a lot of reef not far from here, he thought to himself.
Time was short.
Damon turned to Pooch. “If we use the old net lights above the aft deck, that should throw enough light on the water for you to keep watch for anything nasty. If I tie a waterproof torch to my belt, that should give me enough light to see under the boat to the prop shaft. I think I can hold my breath for about two minutes at a time. I will have to feel around to
get an accurate idea of the damage, though.”
“Damon, I don’t think it’s wise for you to do the dive. I think I should go. If anything happens, you are the skipper and you are needed onboard,” Pooch returned.
They began to argue about who was going to tackle the dive, discussing the pros and cons, when Damon held up his hand.
“We’ll toss a coin.”
Damon reached into his pocket and drew out a coin, then tossed it into the air and let it clatter to the floor. Pooch won.
“Better luck next time, mate!” Pooch teased.
Feeling the gravity of the situation, Damon reached into a locker behind his seat and brought out his shotgun.
“I’m not taking any chances if you are going over the side, Pooch.”
Damon again felt around the locker and finding the object of his search, drew out a box of shotgun cartridges. There was a sizeable coil of rope there, as well. Damon tussled with the idea of tying one end around Pooch’s waist and the other back onto the stern railing. That way, if Pooch got into trouble, he could tug on the rope and be pulled back up.
The hatch burst back open with a sudden movement, startling the people gathered around the galley table. The crew followed Damon and Pooch out to the stern, but Elishia returned to her cabin and closed the door.
I can’t afford any part of this, she reasoned.
Knots flicked on the powerful, old net lights. They threw eerie shadows on the gently rising and falling swells directly behind the boat. The light beams penetrated the sea surface for about ten feet, sending light prisms streaming down into the darkness. A fearful unknown existed beyond the reach of the beams. The rolling movement of the swells gave the light beams a smoky, swirling appearance in the deep water. Tiny fish were attracted to the light and chased the light beams, darting to and fro. Beyond the powerful light, it was dark.
So dark, you could feel it.
The sky was illuminated by starlight and the night air had a faint hint of coolness. Just under the reach of the powerful beam, the aft deck was covered in dark shadows, most of the net lights illuminating the sea behind Annemarie. The galley threw a fine dappled light through the glass doors, adding to the confused shadows on the deck and making it hazardous to move around.
Damon tied one end of the rope around Pooch and the other around the railing. Pooch tied the torch to his belt, pulled off his shirt and kicked off his shoes.
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CHAPTER 8 - PRESENT DAY
“How deep it here, Skipper?” Johnny asked from the shadows of the aft deck.
“About a hundred and fifty feet, Johnny,” Damon replied.
The crew peered into the inky blackness under the boat and Damon told them to keep a sharp lookout for anything that moved. Damon loaded two cartridges into the shotgun and slapped the breach closed, his eyes scouring the darkness. Pooch lowered himself over the side, took three deep breaths and disappeared under the boat, the rope gently feeding from Charlie’s hands as Pooch went further under. The seconds seemed like hours, the crew, tense and quiet, straining to see anything unusual.
Charlie jumped as Pooch’s head popped up and blew out the air he had trapped in his lungs and gasped to pull in new air.
“It’s an old fishing net and it’s tightly wrapped around the prop shaft,” Pooch gasped again.
“A ghost net!” Damon said angrily.
Pooch grabbed hold of the deck rail and heaved himself back onboard, the rope trailing behind him. “Man, it’s creepy down there! I can only see a foot in front of me with the tiny flashlight and the rest is by feel. I can see a curtain of light towards the stern from the net lights, but that fades out about ten feet down and the rest is just... blackness!” Pooch exclaimed. “If I take a sharp knife down with me, I think I can cut the net free enough to loosen it. By the feel of it, it is pretty old and slimy. Then we can start the engine and try unwinding the net by putting the transmission into reverse,” Pooch explained breathlessly, trying to regain his normal breathing.
“Sounds like the plan,” Damon agreed.
“How much time before the tide starts to run out?” Pooch glanced at Damon.
Damon checked his wrist watch, pressing the little button to illuminate the watch face. “About five minutes.”
“We had better get a move on then,” Pooch figured.
Damon ran to the wheelhouse and found his diving knife in the shotgun cupboard. It was old and the scabbard was discoloured, but it still had an edge that would make most new filleting knives look blunt. He ran back to the aft deck and handed the blade, still in the scabbard, to Pooch. He took the knife and tucked it into his belt next to the torch lanyard.
“Let’s hope this works.”
Pooch lowered himself back into the dark water, smiling at Charlie as he flipped on the torch, breathed deeply three times and disappeared. The rope gently pulled from Charlie’s hands as Pooch went further under.
Time was fast running out.
The seconds ticked away. One minute, then two. It was almost three minutes later when Pooch’s head popped up, blowing and gasping, his face tinging blue. He gulped several long breaths before attempting to speak, the colour returning to his face and all the while treading water to keep his head above the swells.
“I think I’ve got it enough to try it, but I will need one more dive to check, once we put Annemarie into reverse,” Pooch gasped.
Pooch heaved himself back onboard, pulling the rope back in with him, while Damon ran to the wheelhouse, started the engine and put the transmission in reverse. The engine strained and began to die. He pushed the throttle all the way open and Annemarie’s engine bellowed like a wounded elephant with the strain.
“Come on, baby, come on!” Damon pleaded with Annemarie.
There was a sudden surge; the engine picked up speed and Annemarie shot backwards. A loud cheer came from the aft deck as the crew celebrated. Charlie threw her arms around a wet Pooch and kissed him on the cheek. Damon shut down the engine, raced towards the aft deck and threw his arms around Pooch too. The tension had released and relief was written on all their faces, even in the semi-light afforded by the galley lights.
“I have to go back down one more time and make sure the net is released properly, otherwise it might do the same thing again,” Pooch warned.
Damon didn’t like the thought of another dive, but he also knew the wisdom of what Pooch was saying. “Pooch, the tide is starting to turn and the current is picking up speed. You will find it difficult to stay under the hull,” Damon said worriedly.
“Will be just a quick look and I’ll come straight back up. If I start to drift, you can pull me in with the rope,” Pooch declared.
Damon reluctantly agreed and Pooch lowered himself over the deck rail into the watery blackness again for one last look. The current was pulling hard at his body and he had to tread water vigorously to stay in one spot. He took three deep breaths, his eyes caught Charlie’s, he nodded and he was gone.
The rope pulled out faster from Charlie’s hands than before and then suddenly stopped. Pooch was in position. The seconds ticked by, the crew tense with concentration. One minute gone, then two minutes.
The rope suddenly jerked hard in Charlie’s hands, throwing her off balance. She fought hard to hang on to it as Damon reached over her, to steady her from being pulled into the water. She let go when the rope began feeding through her hands so fast, it burned. Horror was written across her face. Damon tried to grab the rope and stop the fierce feed out, but it just burnt the skin from his hands. The rope suddenly came to the end of its length, snapped tight like a piano string, pulling down hard on Annemarie's stern and then just as suddenly, went slack.
Damon pulled feverishly at the rope, but there was no resistance and it came in easily. The frayed end suddenly appeared and dropped onto the aft deck.
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CHAPTER 9 - TORRES STRAIT 1881
The newly launched steamer left a trail of black, sooty smoke
hanging behind it, like a dirty curtain. The smoke gently floated down and settled onto the surface of the sea like misty black raindrops, becoming too heavy for the cool, outside air to support.
The fireman onboard cautiously tested the boilers to see what speed the new vessel could attain on its maiden voyage before reaching dangerous steam pressures. He shovelled more and more coal into the open mouth of the boiler and cranked up the pressure safety valve. The large steam piston, seemingly happy to oblige being tested, made a choof-choof-choof noise as more pressure built, the huge spoke flywheel spinning ever faster while the engineer kept a watchful eye on the stressing machinery.
The vessel reached 15 knots and the captain was thrilled. He jubilantly reached for the steam whistle cord and held it down while the whistle shrilled for a long blast, the signal to the fireman to cut back on boiler pressure. The fireman let the boiler temperature drop and backed off the steam pressure, sending white clouds of steam out over the vessel and onto the surface of the sea, a loud hissing noise accompanying the escaping steam. The steamer settled back to 10 knots, while the steam pressure fell below the red danger line clearly marked on the boiler pressure gauge, well within the manufacturer's safe operating guidelines.
The chatter at the table started up again after Ken Davis had been introduced. Robert Jennings turned his head towards the young man sitting beside him.
“And what is your line of work, sir?”
“I am an entrepreneur, sir,” was Davis’ reply.