15. Etta
ETTA
The engine died at half past one.
I tried it twice more before I accepted it wasn't starting. The sound was getting rougher by the minute and the sky had gone from gray to black in the time it took me to pull the cowling.
Daniella was below. I'd sent her down ten minutes ago when the first real gust came through.
"How bad is it?" she called up.
"It's flooded. Give me a minute."
I pulled the plugs and checked them one at a time. Wet. All of them. Too much fuel in the cylinders from cranking it too hard when it first started to sputter.
I knew better than that.
I wiped each plug on my shirt and put them back in. Then I checked the fuel line and the connections and tried the starter again.
Nothing.
The boat rocked hard to starboard and I grabbed the rail. The anchor was holding but barely. We were in soft bottom up here and the wind was pushing us north toward the cut.
"Etta?"
"Still working on it."
I pulled the air filter and squeezed it out. Soaked through. I should've checked it first.
I put it back and tried the starter.
Nothing.
My hands were shaking now. Not from nerves. From cold. The rain was coming sideways and I'd been working the engine for twenty minutes with no cowling and wet hands.
I sat back and looked at it.
This was an engine I knew. I'd rebuilt it myself three years ago on Orrin's dock with Curtis watching over my shoulder and telling me when I was doing it wrong. It wasn't complicated. There were six things that could go wrong and I'd just checked five of them.
The sixth was time. A flooded engine needed to sit. Needed to dry out. Needed me to stop cranking it and making it worse.
I didn't have time.
I looked north up the sound. The cut was maybe a quarter mile off and we were drifting toward it. If we went through we'd be in open water and the storm was only getting worse.
Daniella came up from below. Her face was pale and her jacket was soaked.
"Is it fixed?"
"Not yet."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's flooded. Too much fuel. I need to let it sit."
"How long?"
"I don't know. Twenty minutes. Maybe longer."
"Do we have twenty minutes?"
I looked at the cut. Then back at her.
"No," I said.
"So what do we do?"
"I'm going to radio Orrin."
"And say what?"
"That we need a tow."
"Can he get someone out here in time?"
"I don't know."
She wrapped her arms around herself and looked out at the water. The sound was empty. No boats running. Nobody out here but us.
"My mama told me the weather was turning."
"She did."
"She told me not to go."
"I know."
"I went anyway."
"You asked to go. I said yes. That makes it my call."
She looked at me.
"I shouldn't have asked."
"Daniella, go back below. Stay out of the wind. I'm going to radio for help."
"What if nobody comes?"
"Somebody'll come."
"You don't know that."
"I know Orrin. He'll send somebody."
She didn't look convinced but she went back below anyway.
I went to the radio and switched it on. The static was bad. The weather was eating everything.
"Orrin, you there? This is Etta on the Charlene. You copy?"
Static.
I tried again.
"Orrin, this is Etta. Engine's dead. We're drifting north toward the cut. You copy?"
More static. Then his voice came through in pieces.
"—hearing you—what's—position?"
"North end of the sound. Maybe quarter mile from the cut. Engine's flooded. Won't start."
"—anchor?"
"It's down but we're dragging. Bottom's too soft."
Static again. I waited.
"How's Daniella?" he asked.
His voice was clearer now.
"She's fine. She's below."
"Yolanda know you're out there?"
"Not unless you told her."
"Christ."
"Orrin, I need a tow. Can you send somebody?"
"How fast are you drifting?"
I looked at the cut again. It was closer now.
"Fast enough."
"Give me twenty minutes."
"I don't know if I have twenty minutes."
"You have what you have. Sit tight. I'm sending somebody."
"Who?"
But the radio had already gone to static.
I put it down and looked at Daniella. She was watching me from the cabin door.
"He's sending somebody," I said.
"When?"
"Twenty minutes."
"That's too long."
"It's what we have."
She came up onto the deck and stood beside me. The rain was coming harder now and the wind was loud enough that I had to raise my voice.
"You should stay below."
"I'm tired of being below."
"You're two weeks out from surgery."
"I know how long I'm out from surgery."
"Your mama's going to kill me."
"My mama doesn't get to decide where I go."
"She does when you're two weeks out from surgery."
Daniella looked at me. Then she looked at the cut.
"Are we going to make it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes."
"You don't look sure."
"I'm sure."
"Your hands are shaking."
"My hands are cold."
"That's not why they're shaking."
I looked at her. She was pale and wet and holding herself like she might fall over if the boat rocked wrong. But her voice was steady.
"I'm scared," she said.
"I know."
"Are you scared?"
"Yes."
"You don't look it."
"That doesn't mean I'm not."
"What are we going to do if nobody comes?"
"Somebody's coming."
"But what if they don't?"
"Then we'll figure it out."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we will."
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For asking you to bring me out here."
"You didn't make me do anything. I said yes."
"You said yes because I asked."
"I said yes because you've been off the water long enough and you needed to be back on it."
"Not in this."
"We didn't know it was going to be like this."
"My mama knew."
"Your mama worries. That's what mothers do."
"She was right to worry."
I didn't have an answer for that.
We stood there for a minute not saying anything. The boat rocked hard and Daniella grabbed the rail.
"Go back below," I said. "Please. If we capsize I need you somewhere you can hold on."
"We're not going to capsize."
"We're not. But if we do, I need you below."
She looked at me for a long second. Then she nodded and went back down.
I went back to the engine one more time. Pulled the plugs again. Wiped them down. Checked the fuel line. Checked the choke. Tried the starter.
Nothing.
My hands were raw now. The split knuckle on my right hand was bleeding and I'd stopped feeling my fingers five minutes ago.
I put the cowling back on and sat down with my back against the rail.
The cut was closer now. I could see the whitecaps where the sound opened up into the bay.
We had maybe ten minutes before we went through.
I thought about Yolanda. About what I'd tell her if I got back and Daniella didn't.
I thought about what I'd tell myself.
Then I saw the boat.
It came around the south side of the cut moving steady through the chop. One man aboard. Nobody else.
Nobody sensible came out here alone in weather like this.
I stood up and watched him close the distance. He had the hood of his jacket up and his head down against the rain. I couldn't see his face.
The boat was Orrin's. I recognized the lines.
He brought it alongside without calling out first. Just brought it in close and threw a line.
I caught it and made it fast to the cleat.
He stepped across onto my deck.
Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Burnt dark and bearded with his hood up and his face in shadow. He moved like he'd been on boats all his life.
I almost knew him.
It went through me before I could catch it. Something about the way he stood. The way he took his weight. The way his hands went to the rail.
I'd seen it before.
"Engine's flooded," I said.
He nodded once and went straight to it. Didn't ask permission. Didn't wait for me to show him. Just pulled the cowling off and put his hands on the casing.
His hands were big and rough and they moved like they knew what they were looking for.
He checked the plugs first. Then the fuel line. Then the cylinders.
"How long's it been flooded?" he asked.
His voice was low and rough and something about it pulled at me.
"Thirty minutes. Maybe longer."
"You try starting it?"
"Five times."
"That's too many."
"I know."
He looked up at me. I still couldn't see his face clearly but I saw his eyes and they were on mine and then they weren't.
"It's not starting," he said.
"I know."
"You need a tow."
"I know that too."
He stood up and went back to his boat. Came back with a tow line. Heavy rope. Good condition.
He rigged it himself. Didn't ask me where to put it. Just ran it through the forward cleat and tied it off with a bowline.
I watched his hands work the line.
I knew those hands.
I didn't know them.
But I'd seen them before. I was sure of it.
"You got someone below?" he asked.
"Daniella Rooks."
He stopped moving. Just for a second. Then he checked the line again and pulled it tight.
"She all right?" he asked.
"She's fine."
"She shouldn't be out here."
"I know."
"She's two weeks out from surgery."
"I know that too."
He looked at me then. Really looked at me. And I saw something in his face I couldn't name.
"Why'd you bring her?" he asked.
"She asked."
"That's not a reason."
"It is for her."
He looked at me for another second. Then he turned back to the line.
"She needs to stay below," he said. "Stay centered. Don't let her move around."
"I already told her that."
"Tell her again."
"All right."
He finished with the line and checked it twice. Then he went back to his boat and paused at the rail.
"You'll need to stay on the wheel," he said. "Keep her steady on the line. If she swings we'll both be in trouble."
"I know."
"Don't let her swing."
"I won't."
"I'll handle it."
The words went through me.
Not the words themselves. The tone. That exact tone.
I knew it.
I'd heard it before and I couldn't place it and I didn't have time to work it out.
"All right," I said.
He nodded once and stepped back onto his boat and cast off the line I'd tied. Then he went to his wheel and brought the engine up slow and easy.
The tow line pulled tight.
The Charlene lurched forward and I grabbed the wheel and held her steady.
Daniella came up from below.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"We're being towed."
"Who is that?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know him?"
"No."
"He came out here alone."
"I know."
"That's not safe."