Chapter 1 #2
The boat rocks slightly as I step aboard, and I stow my field kit in the waterproof locker before moving to the helm.
Pre-departure checks are second nature now.
Bilge dry, navigation lights working, radio charged and monitoring the emergency channel.
I run through the list the way my father taught me years ago on his fishing vessel, back when tide pools were playgrounds and the ocean was just something wonderful to explore.
Everything looks good. Everything always looks good until it doesn't.
I turn the key in the ignition, and the engine coughs once before settling into its normal rumble.
Fuel gauge shows three-quarters of a tank, more than enough for today's survey route.
I'll be running a grid pattern about two miles offshore, collecting water samples and bathymetric data to track how the last storm system affected the seafloor topography.
Exciting stuff, if you're into coastal geomorphology and sediment transport dynamics. Which I am, professionally speaking. It's one of the few things I trust myself to care about anymore.
My hand goes to the throttle, ready to ease away from the dock, but something makes me pause. Some instinct that has nothing to do with marine biology and everything to do with learning that gut feelings exist for a reason.
I step away from the helm and move to the engine housing, popping it open to expose the machinery beneath. Probably nothing. Probably just old conditioning whispering that nowhere is truly safe and everyone is a potential threat.
But Seattle taught me that sometimes paranoia is just pattern recognition wearing a different hat.
I lean over the engine, checking the obvious components first. Fuel lines are intact, no visible leaks or tampering.
Battery connections are solid. Belts and hoses look normal.
Everything appears exactly as it should be for a well-maintained survey vessel assigned to a civilian contractor on a military base with decent security protocols.
I close the engine housing and straighten up, annoyed with myself. This is the problem with rebuilding trust. You can't just decide to start believing the world is safe again. The belief has to be earned back, piece by piece, survey by survey, morning by morning when nothing bad happens.
Reclaiming that has been harder than finishing my doctorate, harder than landing this contract position, harder than starting over with a different name in a place where nobody knows my story.
The sun is fully up now, painting the water in shades of gold and blue. High tide is at eight-thirty this morning, which gives me a solid three-hour window to complete my survey grid and return before the tidal current gets too strong for safe navigation near the shoals.
I return to the helm and cast off the dock lines, letting the boat drift free before engaging the throttle.
The engine responds smoothly, pushing the bow toward open water as I navigate out of the marina.
Morning light sparkles on the small waves, and a few gulls wheel overhead, probably hoping I'll throw them scraps.
Sorry, birds. Fresh out of fish.
The coordinates for my first sampling station are already programmed into the GPS, and I set a course that will take me past the northern edge of the base's restricted training area.
Naval exercises aren't scheduled for today, according to the maritime coordination brief I reviewed last night, which means I should have clear access to my survey grid.
Should have. Military schedules change, and civilian contractors are expected to adapt.
I'm about a quarter mile from the dock when the engine sound shifts. Just slightly, a subtle change in the rhythm that probably wouldn't register if I hadn't been running this boat multiple times a week for three months. My hand goes to the throttle, pulling it back to idle as I listen.
There. Something wrong in the mechanical heartbeat beneath my feet.
Probably just debris caught in the intake. Happens sometimes in coastal waters, especially after storms churn up the bottom and send all kinds of material drifting through the shipping channels.
I put the engine in neutral and move to the stern, leaning over to check the lower unit. Water flow looks normal from the cooling system. No visible obstructions around the propeller. But that off-rhythm is still there, quieter now at idle but definitely present.
I should go back. Turn around, return to the dock, and report the issue to base maintenance. They'll pull the boat, inspect it properly, and have it back in service within a few days at most.
But I'm already behind schedule, and the weather forecast shows another storm system moving in by Wednesday. If I don't collect this data today, I'm looking at potentially two weeks before I can get back out here. Two weeks of falling further behind on a research timeline that's already tight.
The base commander has made it clear that my continued contract depends on demonstrable progress. Budget justification requires results, and results require data. Good data, collected systematically and analyzed rigorously.
I return to the helm and advance the throttle slightly, listening to the engine response. The irregular rhythm is barely audible now, and everything else sounds normal. Maybe it was just temporary. Maybe debris worked its way through the system and I'm worrying about nothing.
The coastline is receding behind me now, and I'm approaching the boundary where the Chesapeake Bay's relatively calm waters transition to the Atlantic's deeper swells.
This is my favorite part of the survey route, where the two bodies of water meet and create complex current patterns that affect everything from sediment transport to marine organism distribution.
This is where the ocean shows its true nature. Powerful, dynamic, and utterly honest about what it is.
The engine shudders, and this time it's not subtle. A definite grinding accompanied by vibration that I can feel through the deck and up through my legs.
I pull the throttle back immediately, heart hammering as I scan the instrument panel. Oil pressure is normal. Temperature is normal. But something is definitely wrong.
I should turn back. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to turn this boat around and head for the dock right now.
But the tide is rising, and I'm already behind schedule, and the base commander needs this data for the quarterly briefing that determines whether my contract gets renewed for another year.
I advance the throttle carefully, just enough to maintain headway. The engine responds, grinding and all, pushing me toward the sampling coordinates.
My first sampling station is less than a mile ahead now. I could make it there, collect the data quickly, and head straight back. Thirty minutes, tops. Then I'll report the engine issue and let maintenance figure it out.
Thirty minutes. I can manage thirty minutes.
I maintain course toward the sampling coordinates, one hand on the throttle and the other hovering near the radio. The vibration thrums through the deck like a second pulse, wrong and getting wronger with every revolution of the propeller. My gut says turn back. My contract says keep going.
I grip the wheel tighter and hold my course, even as the grinding beneath my feet grows louder.
The ocean doesn't lie about what it is—powerful, indifferent, and utterly honest. That sound is just as honest. Something is very wrong with this engine.
The question is whether it's bad luck or bad intentions.
Whether mechanical failure or sabotage. Whether three thousand miles was far enough, or whether he found me after all.