Chapter 55
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Outside Funter Bay, AK
The sound was wrong.
Marco blinked repeatedly, trying to get his eyes to focus. Everything was a blur of white and…
Engine room. I’m in the engine room. Why?
The boat was rocking wildly, and the engine wasn’t running.
Am I at anchor?
No, the smoke, the—
How long have I been out?
Marco’s head throbbed. He tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. One arm was behind his back, his forearm burning when he moved. He was lying on top of it. Trying to rotate his body—no. He was jammed over a structural stringer with one shoulder below the engine.
The engine was dead, heat still radiating off the oil cooler.
He wriggled himself free, pulling his body out with one foot getting a grip, digging into a gap below the generator.
He sat up, trying to get his mind to engage. Tiny twinkles of light circled the edge of his narrowed vision. The bulky life preserver squeezed his chest. He unzipped it and breathed deeply.
Must get to the pilothouse.
With the engine dead, the boat was in serious danger.
Could be anywhere.
The hatch was a full body-length away. Marco crawled to the opening and tried to pull himself to a standing position.
His aching shoulder wouldn’t engage his arm to pull him up.
He switched arms. He held on to the side of the opening and stepped up into the salon.
Standing upright, he leaned on the galley countertop, balance gone, working his way to the stair railing.
One step at a time—pulling himself up the railing. The boat pitched and he gripped tight.
He reached the helm chair and leaned into it for support. Radio Flyer was drifting, dead in the water, getting a little bit of protection from the wind and waves in a bight—a half cove—near shore—surrounded by sharp rocks.
I’ve got a couple minutes at most. She won’t survive a tangle with those rocks.
Radio Flyer was drifting quickly. The chartplotter was still working—depth finder read over 500 feet.
Way too deep for the anchor to be any help. Not enough time to call for a rescue.
He held the engine Start button. The starter cranked.
Nothing.
The engine had probably overheated and shut itself off. Hadn’t cooled enough to restart yet. It would be useless for quite a while.
The rocks were getting closer.
Marco stepped cautiously onto the bow, keeping one hand on the rail to steady himself against the waves, trying to ignore the pain racking every part of his body.
He took the bow line that was attached to the port-side cleat and made a long U shape, tying the other end off at the starboard-side cleat.
He threw the rest of the line over the bow into the water.
He could use it as a makeshift tow harness.
Keeping one hand on the rail, he made his way along the side of the boat back to the rear cockpit. He untied the lines that held the dinghy stable on the davit and lowered the dinghy into the water.
Rocks are getting closer.
The dinghy banged loudly against the davit arms as the wind waves rocked the big boat, jerking the attachment harnesses. Marco put a foot onto the swim step, holding on to the rail with one—
—The rail slipped from his hand.
The icy grip of the sea embraced Marco like a gorilla, squeezing his breath out. His mind was clear. His body detached, no longer belonging to him.
Cold.
Numb.
Radio Flyer rocked in super-slow motion as the enormous swell passed under her keel.
Marco willed his arms to reach out—to grab her—to bring her back to him. His body didn’t respond.
The big boat rocked away again, as if waving goodbye.
Marco tried to think with his legs, to get them to kick, to propel him forward. They dangled useless in the depths, his comatose corpse hanging from his life-jacket armpits in the frigid brine.
Another gust of wind and Radio Flyer moved well out of his reach.
I could never swim that fast.
Marco felt a sense of peace as the situation settled into his mind.
He relaxed into his fate.
Sparkles of light in his peripheral vision swirled like glittering snowflakes.
Loud bang—Radio Flyer’s hull struck a rock.
She needed him.
The boat slammed against the rock again. She couldn’t take much more of this—might be taking on water already.
The rock had stopped her from blowing away.
Marco focused on his legs, coaxing them to life.
He kicked.
Then kicked again, harder. Moving toward the boat.
Two more kicks and he managed to grip something under the swim step.
He felt on his life jacket for his handheld—the radio was gone. He’d left it on the salon floor. The cold water had cleared his head but weakened his body. He struggled to breathe.
The emergency boarding ladder was just out of reach, and he’d have to put himself between the rear of the boat and the still-attached dinghy to use it. With the violent rocking of the boat, that would be deadly for sure.
I need another plan.
Marco reached with his other arm and managed to grab the bow line of the dinghy. He released his grip on the swim step and worked his way around the outside of the dinghy to the rear, and grabbed on to the outboard motor.
Use the bottom of the motor as a step.
He found the horizontal fin on the outboard with one foot. His hands were numb, and his fingers were losing their grip. He pulled hard, and his foot slipped off, plunging him back into the water. His life jacket rotated him onto his back. One hand managed to grab the outboard again.
Radio Flyer’s hull crunched into the rock once more, louder.
Marco put both feet on opposite sides of the outboard and pulled against the transom with all his strength. He got far enough to reach some cables and pulled his body up. A hard pain went up through his side as a mounting bolt gouged him just below his life vest.
With several pulls, he got his body into the dinghy.
Now, he had to get the dinghy loose from Radio Flyer.
He held tight onto one davit arm, keeping his body clear as the stainless arms bashed into the console and the rear seat with each passing wave.
He turned the key, starting the outboard.
Gripping each davit harness tightly, he timed the swells so he could release the carabiner when it went slack for a fraction of a second.
The dinghy was free. Marco shoved off with a foot and gunned the outboard, getting clear of Radio Flyer as she banged against the rocks.
He motored around to the front of the big boat and grabbed the bow line he’d dropped into the water earlier. He tied off the dinghy’s shore line to Radio Flyer’s bow line, then drove a good distance away, paying out the shore line as he went.
Once he felt like he was a safe distance, he tied the tow line off to a metal loop on the stern of the dinghy. Marco put the dinghy in gear, taking up the slack until the line was taut. Radio Flyer rocking in the waves jerked the stern of the small RIB around.
Marco gently applied the power, watching as Radio Flyer’s bow began to rotate toward him.
That will be enough. Steady as she goes.
If he could slowly tow Radio Flyer out of the bight, the entrance to Funter Bay was only a short distance away.
He didn’t know if her hull had been breached. If it had, she might sink before he got her around the corner.
Never tie a line to a sinking boat.
He unsnapped the clasp on his utility knife scabbard. He’d need it to cut the line if the larger boat started sinking.
Radio Flyer made a hellish scraping sound as the chine of her hull released from the rocks. Marco had the dinghy outside the bight, pulling the big boat’s bow around.
The waves and wind increased as he pulled out of the protection of the small bay, tossing the dinghy like a fishing float. A gust of wind caught Radio Flyer and pulled her sideways, tracking her back toward the jagged rocks.
Marco turned the dinghy to port, trying to pull the big boat toward the open water. He kept the engine throttled up as much as he dared—didn’t want to snap the tow line or pull himself airborne off the top of a wave.
The dinghy hit smooth water as the rig started to pull into the protection of Funter Bay.
Radio Flyer didn’t seem to be listing, so Marco was hopeful that either the hull hadn’t been breached or the bilge pumps were keeping up with the water.
He disconnected the tow line and tied the dinghy off to the swim step.
Marco made his way to the pilothouse and checked the depth finder. Forty feet. Good enough. Bilge pumps weren’t running. The boat was not about to sink.
He held the Down switch on the anchor windlass and counted colored zip ties as the anchor and two hundred feet of chain deployed into the water.
He shut off the main electrical breaker, walked down to his cabin, threw his soaked clothes into the shower stall in the head, and collapsed onto the bunk.
The dim light faded to black.
He was floating in the frigid water outside Chichagof.
He had a walkie-talkie in his hand, but it was shaking too badly for him to operate the buttons.
He turned the radio over in his hands and it had become a banana.
Weren’t bananas bad luck on boats? He squeezed it where the Talk button should be. “Somebody come help me, it’s cold.”
The sound was tiny, barely passing through his lips.
His voice sounded like Crystal’s.