Chapter 79
In the dark hours before dawn, Gemini found a lull in the weather.
The wind dropped to what Tug guessed was a little under twenty knots, the sea state settled somewhat, and the rain cleared.
Stars reappeared and when he turned to face the stern, he saw the eastern sky lightening.
It was possible the worst of the storm was over.
More than once, in the time since the skipper and Craig had vanished, Tug had believed himself close to death, and that his crew, the last ever under his command, would be lost on his watch.
He’d never, in his life, been so afraid on water.
Now, he said a silent prayer – to whom or what he couldn’t have said – that the ordeal might be coming to an end.
The cockpit was quiet, drama-free, and had been for some time.
Robin, still in charge of the main sail, slumped motionless on the port seat, his eyes closed; he hadn’t spoken for the best part of an hour.
He started upright, though, when the cabin hatch slid back, and Holly placed a steaming mug on the cockpit floor.
A second followed, then a third, and Holly herself joined them.
The girl looked shocking, a far cry from the attractive young woman Tug had met only days ago. Sometime in the night she’d lost the baseball cap that had kept her hair in place. Her skin was red and there were heavy shadows beneath her eyes. Her hands were shaking as she passed him tea.
‘How’s things below?’ Robin slid across the starboard seat so that Holly could join him.
Tug had noticed both of them avoiding looking at the seat opposite, below which lay the life-raft bag with its unexpected contents.
A dead white male, they’d ascertained, before they’d re-stowed the bag. Somewhere around five ten to six foot, slim build, between forty-five and sixty years old. It was neither Thomas, the erstwhile skipper, nor Craig Lewis.
‘Cheryl poked her head out but didn’t argue when I told her to stay where she was,’ Holly told Robin. ‘Tara and Sabri are in their cabin.’
‘Still no sign of the phones?’ Robin asked.
As Holly shook her head, Tug leaned against the helm to steady it while he warmed his hands on the mug. Every phone on the boat had vanished, along with the skipper and Craig. There was something major going on here that he was missing.
‘Anyone know about our stowaway?’ he asked.
Another head shake from Holly. ‘You might want to check the cabin floor, if you’re happy for me or Robin to take the helm,’ she said. ‘It’s looking very damp.’
‘Probably just rain and spray but I’ll check it now.’ Tug slurped down much-needed tea. ‘I should have another look at the engine too.’
He climbed down and his new-found optimism vanished. The cabin floor was awash.
He checked the cupboard in the heads first, knowing damage to one of the pipes was the most likely culprit.
Both wastewater and sea-water pipes were intact.
Same thing with the pipes to the galley sink.
Bar major damage to the hull, which he couldn’t rule out, the only other place he could think of where water might be coming in was the boat speed impeller.
He found it in a floor panel close to the bow cabin but, again, it looked fine.
Flummoxed, Tug decided to have another look at the engine; in better light he might spot something he’d missed the night before.
Hours earlier, following standard procedure for dealing with engine problems at sea, he’d linked the engine battery with the one that powered all the domestic services on board.
It had made no difference. Both batteries were flat and he had a catastrophic electrical failure on his hands.
The engine looked fine. The fanbelt was intact, oil and water levels normal.
He thought for a moment, then opened the door to where Holly had been sleeping.
Just inside the doorway was a panel that would allow him access to the side of the engine.
He removed it and shone the torch inside.
It took him seconds to see that the cable behind the alternator had been severed.
Well, that would do it. If the alternator couldn’t charge the batteries, then over the course of several hours both would drain, making it impossible to start the engine. Worse was to come, though. Shining his torch around the engine, Tug spotted the source of the water inflow.
The raw-water inlet, the flexible pipe that brought in sea water to cool the engine, was leaking.
The hole appeared small, because the water was trickling rather than gushing in, but during the night enough sea water had collected in the bilges to appear above the cabin floor.
And the automatic bilge pump wouldn’t work without the batteries.
He tried to close the sea cock to shut off the water inflow. The bloody thing wouldn’t budge.
The boat had been systematically and deliberately sabotaged.
Knowing there was nothing more he could do, Tug put the kettle on again and found a packet of breakfast bars in one of the cupboards.
Whatever the day held, the crew would need energy.
When he went up top again, a light, warm and clear, was bringing colour back into the world.
The black waves had become a greenish grey and behind the boat a dull, apricot haze told him he’d lived to see another day.
Still could be his last, though.
‘Do we have a problem?’ Robin asked.
No point worrying them before he had to. ‘Water’s coming in, but it’s slow. Nothing to concern us for the next couple of hours.’
Unsurprisingly, neither Robin nor Holly looked reassured.
‘Tug,’ Holly said, as he took the helm back from Robin. ‘Can you get us to the islands? Without an engine or any instruments?’
Truthfully, Tug had no frigging idea. He’d done his best through the storm, but they’d been heading almost directly into the wind and tacking every half-hour had made holding a course close to impossible.
On top of that, navigation around the Isles of Scilly was a bastard.
Not for nothing were its waters littered with shipwrecks.
‘Course I can.’ He said another vague and silent prayer that once the sun came up properly, land would be in sight. ‘We can find somewhere to anchor and one of us can swim to shore if we have to.’
‘I volunteer Tara.’ Robin spoke through a mouthful of oat biscuit. ‘Her Facebook page is nothing but sea swims.’
Back on the helm, Tug found himself picturing Tara, snuggled down in the port cabin, and for the first time since the skipper had gone overboard, his thoughts strayed beyond the immediate crisis.
‘Is that a ship?’ Robin was on his feet, looking out over the port side of the boat. ‘Ten o’clock.’
It was. A bloody great container ship.
‘Holly.’ Tug kept his eyes fixed on the vessel. ‘Can you go into the locker beneath the port side bunk? You’ll find a pack of flares. Bring them up.’
The ship wasn’t necessarily a good thing. If it was following one of the recognised shipping routes towards the UK, it meant Gemini had drifted too far south. On their present course, they could miss the islands entirely. Next stop, Newfoundland.
‘Orange one,’ he said, when Holly reappeared with the waterproof bag of flares.
The ship would be level with them soon. If they wanted to be seen, they had to act fast. Tug pulled the rip cord on the flare and held it high. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tara had appeared from below. She gave him a shy smile; he risked winking in return.
‘How will we know if it’s seen us?’ Robin asked. ‘Will he set off a flare of his own?’
‘The captain will try to contact us on the radio,’ Tug said. ‘When we don’t answer he’ll pass our distress message and our position on to the coast guard.’
In the cabin, the kettle began to whistle.
An hour later, when the ship had long since vanished from sight, when spirits on Gemini were sinking again, a motorboat was spotted heading their way.