Chapter 18 #2
At least that’s what one of her makeup-artist friends on the soundstage in Studio City used to say. But she was really struggling to remain calm right now.
As the skiff pulled away, dragging the net back out, Keegan turned on the hose and washed the blood from the fish off the deck. A gull dive-bombed the stern, screaming, and someone swatted it away.
“Cork line’s clear! Set, set, set!” a voice bellowed from the wheelhouse. Another boat nearby echoed with its own orders—“Watch that lead! Keep it off the drum!”—the sound turning into a choir of captains, each voice cutting through rain and engine noise.
The skiff’s engine roared and the net arced out again, white floats popping in a dotted curve. The wind buffeted her face and Scottie tasted salt on her lips, cold and raw. Her shoulders ached from holding the camera high, and her lower back burned from standing on the deck.
She caught Elise in frame—jaw set, braids plastered, eyes bright—and felt a pang of protective pride. No matter who won, everyone participating today had brought their A game.
“Coming tight!” Theo shouted.
The net billowed, then drew in, heavy with another catch. Fish thrashed, their silver tails drumming. A crewman swore as a line snagged. But another guy was there instantly, knife flashing, problem solved.
The rain turned mean, flung sideways, bullets on Scottie’s cheeks. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Her thighs trembled from bracing. Somewhere under the adrenaline, nausea returned. Not now. Please, not now.
“Hold your positions!” the captain barked. “Nobody get sloppy.”
Scottie swallowed, forced her focus inside the frame to the curve of the net, the churn of the skiff’s prop, Keegan’s bright-orange gloves. She shot tight, then wide, then panned across the flotilla—boats heaving, crew members buzzing about like worker bees, the mountains looming in the fog.
“Bag’s full! Bring her up!”
The winch screamed again. The boat listed just a hair under the sudden weight, and Scottie’s stomach fell through her boots.
This is so dangerous, she thought again.
The captain wanted one more set, and if he called for another after that, would anyone say no?
Would she? She pictured Tate’s steady hands on a wheel, the sweet text he’d sent that morning, the prayer she’d read then reread, his words like a shelter over her.
She adjusted her grip, wiped the lens with the back of her glove, and kept filming.
“Competition on starboard side.” The captain’s voice came through the speakers mounted above her head again.
What did that mean? She turned and panned the bow of another boat, the Esmeralda J, white with bright green stripes on its bow. It cruised straight for them.
What in the world? She kept her camera on. Shivers danced down her spine.
“Hey, Dad?” Keegan glanced up at the windows and pointed.
Theo turned. “Hey!” He waved his hands above his head in wide arcs. “Turn around! Back it up!”
“Reverse throttle now!” The captain’s voice grew urgent, but the Esmeralda J didn’t show any signs of backing off.
“Hey, stop!” Keegan screamed again.
A sickening crunch rang out as the bow of the boat slammed into their starboard side.
The impact boomed through the hull—metal on metal, a bite that vibrated in Scottie’s teeth.
The boom overhead broke free, crashed down, and knocked Keegan into the fish hold.
Their stern swung wide. Shouting and chaos ensued.
Keegan writhed, pinned under the steel beam, his breath coming in harsh, panicked gasps. “I’m okay—no, no—leg, my leg!”
The Esmeralda J reversed engine and drifted away, chopping the water into angry peaks. Diesel exhaust blew across them, acrid and hot.
Scottie had to keep filming, right? Her hands shook so hard the image jittered.
“Hold on! Hold on!” the captain barked. “All hands—positions! Check the hold! Get eyes on that boom!”
A tearing groan ripped through the deck, a sound like fabric and bone being wrenched apart. Something sheared along the vessel in a place Scottie could not see. Water gushed in. She turned. The vessel listed as the weight shifted, fish and seawater sloshing in the hold.
“Help Keegan! Somebody help my boy!” the captain shouted.
The engine roared, then the stern kicked and the boat lurched into reverse.
“Watch your stern!” someone screamed from another deck, voice thin.
The current grabbed them, shoving the bow of the boat. Hard. An abrupt, grinding stop jolted her spine. A horrid vibration rattled through her boots and up her ribs.
“We’re on rock!” someone yelled. “We’re on rock—she’s listing!”
Scottie’s heart pounded as she surveyed the horrific scene.
Keegan’s face, white with pain. Theo braced over him, straining under the beam.
Elise on the skiff, yelling something Scottie couldn’t make out.
Her camera view featured a slanted horizon, rain streaks, a smear of blood on fiberglass.
The smell hit harder—raw fish, wet metal, and hot oil.
“Pump! Get the pumps on!” the captain barked. “Secure that gear! Get that boom off him!”
The deck canted farther. Her feet slid. The nonskid surface might as well have been ice.
She clutched for balance. “No, no, no—” The camera slipped in her grip.
She couldn’t stay upright. She clawed at nothing.
Her fingers went slick on a cable. It jerked away as the boat tilted again.
Someone’s elbow clipped her shoulder. Pain flashed, hot and bright. Her hood whipped back.
“Mayday, mayday!” a desperate voice squawked over a radio. “Starboard damage! Listing! Persons injured!”
Then the deck dropped under her like a trapdoor. Her camera banged her knuckles, tore free—gone in a single wet blink.
Panic ripped through her as the world kept tipping. Then the rail rose toward her face. Her body chose instinct over thought—reach, grab, hold. But her hands found only spray.
And then she plunged into the icy-cold depths of the ocean. Water closed over her head like a fist. Sound vanished into a thundering hush. Salt clamped her throat. The shock stole her breath and everything except one simple thought. Up. Up. Up.
This storm was way worse than predicted.
Tate clung to the handles on the ladder, the bottom rungs swaying as he struggled not to fall off. An icy wind blew hard, shoving him against the hull of the cruise ship. Up above, one of the ship’s crew members leaned over the rail, yelling something. There was no way Tate could hear him.
Below, Anthony tried to keep the pilot boat flush against the cruise ship.
The rubber bumper squeaked and the water churned around the vessels, frothy and angry.
Tate didn’t want to climb back up. That wasn’t an option, really.
This ship was bound for Seattle, and he had zero interest or permission to make that journey.
He’d have to just make the leap. He squinted, his hand over his eyes. Philip stood near the pilot boat’s bow, the current so strong that he’d clipped himself with a carabiner to a D-ring mounted on the deck. Thankfully, his bright-orange flotation device made him easy to see.
“I’ve got to go for it,” Tate yelled. Philip motioned for him to move. Tate let go of the ladder, pivoted, and jumped. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he hit the deck, slipped, and fell on his hip. Pain arced through him, hot and electric.
“You all right?” Philip yelled.
Tate nodded, swallowing back a groan. He reached out and clasped Philip’s hand and let his buddy pull him to his feet.
They slipped and stumbled through the storm until they got to the back door of the cabin.
Philip tugged it open and the wind nearly ripped the door from its hinges.
Somehow they managed to get inside. Tate wrestled with the door until he slammed it shut.