Poppy
“We’re going to die. We’re all going to die.” She rocks backward and forward in her life vest. Wind buffets them as the craft creaks and swings out on the davit arm. Cables rattle as they begin to lower and sway down the side of the boat.
On the other side of her raft, a woman cries softly. A man sitting right across from her murmurs the Hail Mary over and over and over.
The lifeboat jerks. Everyone gasps. Someone starts sobbing loudly. Mostly everyone sits in collective silence, holding their breath. The boat lowers a few more feet, jerks, scrapes against the hull, tips slightly, then drops a few more feet and stops with a hard jolt and a bang.
Someone swears.
Poppy smells sweat—it’s sour with fear. She smells her own blood, and the rubbery-plastic tang of the life vests and the craft itself.
Helicopters thud outside. Through the window in the steering area, she can glimpse people trying to clamber down the starboard side of the ship, using ropes strung from balconies.
A man slips, loses his grip, and goes spinning and screaming down the hull toward the sea.
She scrunches her eyes shut tight. Alarms blare constantly. Diesel engines growl below as rescue boats maneuver and pull survivors out of the water.
Their lifeboat drops another few meters, then slams to a hard stop against the side of the ship. The Orchid is canted too far over to port for their life raft to drop cleanly to the water—they’re stuck against the hull.
“I know it—we’re going to die. We’re all going to die,” Poppy’s neighbor mutters.
“Shut the fuck up, will you,” snaps the Hail Mary man.
Poppy places her hand on the woman’s leg and says gently to the man, “We’re all scared—in our own way.”
He glares at her, but says nothing.
Their lifeboat commander reaches for two sets of oars secured to the inside of their craft. He keeps one oar, and hands the other three to the strongest-looking passengers near him.
“I need you to help me push us away from the ship. If we get enough of an angle, we can lower farther.”
They lean out the door hatch, ready.
“Okay—on three,” the commander calls.
They shove their oars hard against the hull. Their lifeboat eases off the side of the ship enough to drop a few more meters; then it shudders to a stop, resting against the Orchid.
“Again,” the commander grunts, sweating. “On three.”
They heave once more, groaning with the effort. The boat lurches free, drops sharply.
Cheers and applause erupt. The mood shifts. They all fall silent.
“Again! One, two, three!”
They shove with all their strength.
Passengers shout encouragement. “You can do it! We can do this! Go. Go! Heave!”
The lifeboat moves, and slides, and drops and jerks as the cables clang and whine above.
More cheers erupt inside.
The commander’s helpers swap out with three other volunteers. Gradually they inch and budge their craft down the canted flank of the Black Orchid—push, shove, drop. Cables rattling ahead, another drop. Cheers. More cheers.
A chant starts among passengers. They clap a beat in time with the effort.
Then suddenly—impact as they crash onto the waves with a violent slam. Everyone grabs onto anything they can—the benches, rails, each other—as the shock reverberates through the boat and into their spines.
The waves surge, banging them against the ship. Wind lashes into their craft. Salt spray comes through the opening and wets Poppy’s face. Some guests begin to sob with relief. Mr. Hail Mary thanks the Lord.
With a metallic snap, the crewman releases the hooks that attach their craft to the davit cables. And they’re free.
“Clearing hull!” he yells. “Engines on!”
He yanks the starter cord. The diesel engine sputters, coughs, then dies.
For a moment no one breathes.
He tries again.
The engine rumbles to life. Cheers rise as diesel fumes fill the air. The commander seizes the tiller and steers them away from the ship.
“It’s crucial that we get away from the Orchid as fast as we can,” Poppy hears a man say behind her to his wife. “A ship her size will create suction—drag us under if she shifts or sinks suddenly. Or she’ll crush us.”
The Orchid towers above them at an incomprehensible angle.
Their lifeboat commander deploys a sea anchor to help keep their bow facing the brunt of the waves, and to minimize risk of going broadside and capsizing.
The small engine fights against the push and surge of the tide and driving wind as their commander guides them away.
As they gain distance, the Orchid’s moans and groans deepen.
He checks his radio. Nothing but static. He tries again. Still nothing. He steers them slowly toward other bobbing orange lifeboats glowing faintly under red and amber flares across the dark water.