Chapter 52
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Point Retreat, AK
The wind indicator showed gusts over thirty knots. The roar of the gale rushing through the boat’s antennas and rigging drowned out the buttery smooth flugelhorn lines of Till Bronner’s “The Peacocks” on the pilothouse stereo.
Marco hit Pause.
Definitely the wrong playlist for this weather.
Radio Flyer rolled left and right, with the following seas lifting her stern and making steering in a straight line impossible.
Marco spun the wheel as a huge wave passed under the boat from behind, correcting to port as the swell sent the vessel surfing swiftly to starboard.
He immediately turned the helm the other direction as the ship came over the top and the bow pointed skyward.
Marco’s abdomen tightened and his jaw clenched as the next wave caught him.
The vessel accelerated and skidded sideways once again.
A loud crash from the galley—glass breaking.
Dammit! Thought I had the galley tight.
He tightened the adjustments on the helm chair to make sure it didn’t slide around during the wild undulations.
The forecast was most clearly wrong.
Marco pushed the throttle forward to steady the boat and to give himself a little more rudder authority.
He was approaching Point Retreat, and he was not looking forward to it.
The almost complete reversal of direction around the point would put Radio Flyer’s bow directly into this mess, and Lynn Canal was infamous for funneling nasty winds into a chaotic maelstrom.
Worse yet, in the middle of the turn, the boat would be directly abeam to the waves for a few seconds, and Marco knew it would cause severe roll.
Marco grabbed his phone, chose his “Rock On” Spotify playlist, and hit Shuffle. “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys pounded through the pilothouse.
Marco rehearsed the maneuver in his head as the Point Retreat Lighthouse passed abeam.
He would wait for a weaker wave to pass, spinning the wheel to port fast right after the crest. That would let the boat bottom out and complete the turn on the way up the next wave, then the smaller swell would be in front of him after the turn while he corrected back to a straight line.
Wait for the gap. Crank the wheel and gun it. Straighten on the backside.
Radio Flyer passed the point. Marco wanted to let it go a couple minutes longer to give himself plenty of room to clear the point.
Hang on, honey. This is gonna be…
He rubbed his hand across the smooth dark spot on the teak console where the snow globe used to sit. Sadness welled heavy in his chest.
Not that one…wait for it.
The next wave was much more modest. Marco bent his knees slightly, checked one last time to make sure he was clear of any other boats, and gave the teak wheel a spin.
Oh shit. Blew the timing.
The boat responded slower than he expected, continuing up the face of the bigger wave and over the top, then teetering and slipping sideways down the front. The heel angle indicator went past 20 degrees.
Countless crashes echoed from the salon and galley. Something was rolling around on the floor down below.
Marco pictured all his favorite things obliterated into piles of rubble. He spun the wheel the other direction and considered aborting the turn.
No. We’re not going through this again.
Marco widened his stance and held the helm steady as the rudder struggled for purchase and finally got a grip, pushing the stern in a perfect arc and aligning the boat exactly across the next wave.
For a second.
Then the boat oversteered and began to roll in the opposite direction.
More glass broke in the galley. Something heavy fell.
Marco spun the wheel desperately the other way. He lost his balance and banged his elbow into the helm, pain coursing up his arm.
Fuck.
He used his other hand to bring the boat to a steady line just as she crested the top of the huge wave.
The bow pitched down and the boat accelerated toward the trough.
The next wave was just breaking and green water washed across the bow, bringing the boat to an almost dead stop.
Spray covered the windshield, and Marco flipped the three wiper switches.
The windshield wipers each slapped to their own rhythm, creating an awkward out-of-time percussion line on top of the raucous Beastie Boys lines blasting on the Bluetooth speaker.
Marco’s knees ached from absorbing the brunt of the punishing ride.
Marco pushed the throttle lever forward, the big diesel engine revved, and the boat drove up the swell. At the crest, he backed off, and it slid nicely down the backside. The bow started up the next, and he throttled up again, the extra torque lifting Radio Flyer up the slope of the wave.
Marco was finding his rhythm.
The wind meter passed forty knots.
My body’s getting too old for this.
Marco climbed back into the helm chair and settled in for the long fight. He had the throttle in the perfect sweet spot.
Marco was tempted to engage the autopilot and run downstairs to see what was broken, but he knew that could wait. Right now, he needed to drive the boat. He scanned his instruments—oil pressure normal, wind now twenty-five knots gusting to…forty-something, engine temperature 199…Wait, 199?
Way too hot.
Marco checked the rest of the gauge readings. All okay. Engine temp should be 162, or no more than 170. He’d throttled up quite a bit past his normal cruise RPMs—maybe that was it?
He backed the throttle down to the regular cruising speed.
201…202…
Crap! Still climbing.
Radio Flyer started to pitch harder into the oncoming wind waves at the reduced speed.
Must be seven feet at least.
Marco brought the throttle way back, to just above idle.
He grabbed his orange survival life vest from the hook behind him and struggled with getting one arm through while steering with the other.
He tugged at the zipper on the vest and accidentally bumped the Man Overboard button on the emergency transmitter strapped to the front.
The unit let out a loud squeal. Marco hit the Cancel button.
Not ready for that just yet.
200…199…
The engine temperature was stabilizing. It meant the cooling system was at least partially working. But he couldn’t properly control the boat at this low speed. The waves would toss Radio Flyer around like a cork.
The GPS speed indicator showed between three and four knots. At that rate, it would be eight more hours in this mess, and no guarantee the engine wouldn’t overheat and destroy itself in the meantime.
Most likely, something was wrong with the raw-water cooling system that circulated seawater in and used it to cool the engine.
Probably debris had been sucked into the intake thru-hull and was partially blocking the flow, or maybe his raw-water pump impeller had failed, and it wasn’t pumping at full volume.
Marco checked the gear strapped to his survival vest—handheld VHF and PLB batteries looked full.
The survival pack was secure in its pocket.
He realized none of that would be worth much if he had to spend any amount of time in the frigid water.
Hypothermia would likely get him before he could be rescued.
If Marco wasn’t single-handing, if he had a crew, one of them could have checked the cooling system in the engine room while the other stayed at the helm and kept the boat straight.
That was not an option. He had to remain at the helm and steer.
He didn’t dare trust the autopilot to keep the boat safe in this mess.
He resolved, for now, to keep driving the boat and watch the temperatures to be sure the engine didn’t overheat and shut down or destroy itself.
I can’t do that for eight hours.
Marco decided to change his destination to Funter Bay.
It was much closer, and the first viable place he could duck in and find protection from the wind and waves.
He reached to change his route on the chartplotter and couldn’t even operate the touch screen accurately with the violent pitching into the waves.
After a couple tries, he gave up on changing the route.
He could find the turn into the bay easily enough without plotting a course.
Wind calming a little—twenty-eight knots. Temperature settling at 197…196…Good.
A steep wave knocked the boat sideways again. Marco gunned the throttle and steered back on course. Temperature 201…202…Throttle back. 202…202…201…
Smoke.
Stronger now. Definitely smoke.
Marco’s breath left him. He checked the Maretron panel—engine room temperature was slightly warmer than normal, but the engine was overheating. The Fireboy suppression system had not triggered. Nothing from the engine-room smoke detector.
He dared another breath. Smoke for sure. He moved his head around, trying to—
Huge wave. He’d lost his focus. Marco gunned the throttle and spun the wheel. Radio Flyer fell back into her groove. Engine temperature 202…203…throttle back.
Marco had to trust the autopilot and find out where the smoke was coming from.
If there was a fire, he likely had only seconds to manage it before things got out of control.
He pulled the throttle back as far as he dared and engaged the autopilot.
It seemed to be keeping up just okay, responding a little too slowly to the waves but keeping the boat basically on course.
He grabbed the pilothouse fire extinguisher and headed down to the salon.
Need to be fast. Can’t afford to leave the helm for more than a minute or two.
It looked like every glass he owned was shattered on the salon floor. Working his way from handhold to handhold, he reached the engine-room hatch. A chair from the dinette had slid into his way. He kicked it aside. Dropping onto all fours, he held his palms on the hatch.
Cool to the touch, good.
Marco pulled the handle, and gas struts lifted the heavy door open.
A sharp pain cut through his hand—a shard of glass embedded in his palm.
He pulled it out and wiped the blood on his pants.
Holding the fire extinguisher in one hand, he used the other to grip the rail as he lowered himself into the engine room.
The portable VHF marine radio in the pocket of his vest caught on the hatch strut. He pulled the radio out and tossed it aside on the salon floor.
No visible flames. Smoke smell definitely much stronger.
Smoke was concentrated near the rear. Temperature felt warm, but not too hot. He crawled back along the side of the engine, looking for the source. No oil or fluids in the bilge below the engine, no sign of fuel leakage. No diesel smell.
Nothing seemed out of…
There.
A mass of something was smoking just between the turbo heat shield and the exhaust plenum. Marco leaned over the engine. Burning pain seared his inner forearm. He reached again, higher, and retrieved the object.
Shop towel, jammed between the turbo and the heat shield, smoldering.
He threw it into the bilge below the drive shaft where there were always a few inches of water from the seal. A puff of steam and—
The boat rolled hard. Marco reached for a handhold.
Missed.
Sliding, falling backward, reaching for…
Sharp pain racked the back of his head.
Everything blurred.