Bunker 01 - Slipknot (25 page)

Refusing to be left out of the conversation that could determine the length of the rest of my life, I asked hopefully,

“Shouldn’t the Coast Guard be searching for us by now?”

“Not without a mayday call or a signal from an EPIRB,”

Lincoln answered. So I knew that among other things, we also had no emergency radio beacon that could send a signal to the Coast Guard.

“What about Quin? Wouldn’t he have radioed for help on our behalf?” I asked.

“I’m not counting on it. We’re on our own. Do you know anything about waterlogged diesel engines?”

Dismayed to learn the unlikelihood of being saved by the Coast Guard, I was glad to at least be welcomed to try to save myself. “I can turn a wrench,” I said, completely understat-ing my knowledge and ability.

“Good. Let’s go.” Down the ladder we went, the three of us, to work in ankle-deep ice water, on a platform in perpetual motion, on an endeavor that was of highly improbable success, by the light of one narrow beam and without proper tools. The good news was that we were sheltered from the wind, which made verbal communication less taxing. Not that any energy was wasted on small talk. In fact, all conversation was to the purpose of reviving the main engine, which had expired as a result of immersion. What we did not know was the exact cause of death. Best-case scenario—the twelve-volt electrical system needed for fuel injection had been shorted out. If the loss of battery power had caused the engine to

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stop prior to salt water being sucked into the air intake or washed into the crankcase breather, then there was a chance that we could, with a lot of work, restart it. Worst-case scenario—permanent damage. Perhaps the engine had seized due to sea water, with its absence of lubricating properties, entering moving parts that required oil. If the latter were true, the only hope we had was to survive the thrashing promised by the weather forecast and be rescued by the chance passing ship. Unwilling to leave our survival to chance, we got busy in the engine room.

That we had only one performing flashlight aboard mandated that we all work together, which we did amazingly well, considering the series of events that had led us to this junc-ture. When strength was needed, I held the light and passed tools. When tight workspace necessitated small hands and dexterity, I was chief mechanic. Both labor and thought processes were so intense, I forgot about the raging storm.

The immediate goal was to get the engine running. Without propulsion, we were completely defenseless. No one spoke of the what-ifs we would face in failure. We had no backup plan.

The battery terminals were fried beyond recognition. The lack of new ends required us to cut the leads back a few inches and hose-clamp them securely to their respective posts. Leads were chopped with a fire ax, a hammer, and a block of wood.

The dipstick exposed a milky sludge that clung to the strip of metal like frothy maple syrup, confirming that water had indeed penetrated the engine’s lube oil. There was barely enough clean oil aboard to do a complete change, but we s l i p k n o t

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were able to replace the polluted filter with an old one, the discarding of which, luckily, had been neglected. Next we worked to disassemble the top of the engine, exposing the fuel injectors. Each of the twelve injectors was removed, cleaned, and replaced while a manual fuel pump was pushed in and pulled out endlessly to bleed fuel lines. Primary and secondary fuel filters were spun off, dumped, and refilled with diesel free of water. The saturated air filter was removed, squeezed dry like a sponge, and replaced with a prayer.

An auxiliary belt-driven bilge pump that hadn’t been used in years was next on the fix-it list. Working its shaft with channel-lock pliers, back and forth and back and forth, then around and around and around until it turned relatively freely, we searched for an appropriate-sized belt. Finding none, I removed the necktie from my belt loops, stretched it around the pulleys on the pump and main engine, drew a slipknot as tight as I could, and cinched it with an over-hand. Even if it worked for only a few minutes before the necktie shredded, I reasoned, that would save hundreds of buckets.

The bit of light from the door above the ladder was fading fast. We had been working in the engine room all day. We had been as thorough as we could be and were anxious to hit the starter button. Lincoln checked and rechecked all we had done to ensure that nothing had been missed. By the time he was satisfied that there was nothing more to do, we had all suffered bloody knuckles and jolts of stray twelve-volt current. We understood that the batteries would sustain only a

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certain amount of cranking and that the fuel supply was critically low. There would be no second chance. I dreaded this moment as much as I yearned for it.

Warning George and me to stand back, Lincoln put a thumb on the rubber plunger that protected the starter button. Lincoln took a deep breath before pressing, and I actually crossed my fingers—something I couldn’t remember ever doing, even as a kid. Lincoln’s thumb went hard into the rubber. The engine turned over three or four times but failed to catch. Releasing the button, Lincoln expelled a great sigh of relief. I was glad he couldn’t see the utter grief in my face.

“She’s not seized up,” he said triumphantly. I knew this was good news but had wanted so badly to hear the engine start and run that anything less was tragic in my mind.

Before I could contemplate what would become of the
Sea
Hunter
and Mother Nature’s four hostages, the backside of the storm began to trample us. Lincoln ordered George and me into action again. “Get on that priming pump! Hold the light so that I can see what I’m doing! Hand me the seven-eighths open end!” We did as we were told: I pumped until my arms burned with pain, and Lincoln and George bled air from fuel lines that led to the injectors. As bubbles disappeared and clear fuel ran, each line was closed snugly until all twelve injectors were bled. Lincoln again placed a thumb on the button and said, “Stand back. And pray this time.”

“I prayed last time,” George said sadly.

The engine let out a sickening groan before turning over hesitantly. This was it, I thought, the batteries were nearly drained. If the engine did not catch now, we were goners.

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Lincoln kept the button depressed and yelled, “Come on!”

The beat of the cranking quickened slightly and caught. The engine was running—roughly—but running. Lincoln dove on the manual prime pump and began thrusting it in and out vigorously. The engine broke into a coughing jag, hacking and spitting and threatening to die. Lincoln pumped as if admin-istering CPR to his most beloved, and the engine responded positively. Though it was not the steady rumbling I had prayed to hear—more of a ragged hiccup and hiss—even the poorly running diesel was nothing short of a miraculous accomplishment. I suddenly understood the name on the stern of a pretty red lobster boat I’d seen back in Green Haven:
Joyful Noise.

Lincoln grasped my wrist firmly and pointed the flashlight I held to a panel of gauges. I focused the beam on the amme-ter, and we watched the needle climb slowly into the green zone, indicating that the alternator was indeed functioning and charging the tired batteries. Lincoln gave my wrist a couple of victory squeezes before letting go. The water in which we had been standing was now below the deck plates. The necktie was working! I had nothing to squeeze, so I pumped a fist in the air. Lincoln pulled a string that hung above the engine, illuminating a single bare bulb. It was the first time we had seen one another’s faces, although we’d been working side by side, for what I guessed was better than ten hours.

Overwhelming stress and physical exhaustion had deepened the lines around Lincoln’s eyes, and his usual ruddy complexion had paled to geriatric tallow. I couldn’t begin to imagine my own appearance and didn’t much care.

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“I’ll check things topside and head her for the barn,” Lincoln said loudly. “Open that valve, and drain water from the hold as long as the necktie hangs in. Don’t let the water get above the deck plates.” He pointed out the gate valve low on the bulkhead between the engine and fish hold. “If the engine sounds worse than it does now, pump that primer until she clears.” Up the ladder he went, leaving George and me to monitor the bilge and nurse the engine along if need be.

Whether thanks to my state of mental exhaustion, my enfee-bled mental capacity and emotional fatigue, or just the human tendency to bury painful experience, things blurred. I didn’t know how many times I opened the valve, allowing water to gush in and up to the deck plates, before the makeshift belt disintegrated. I didn’t count the number of times George brought the engine out of epileptic seizure by jamming the pump in and out like a piston. But the occasions of knowing that the end was near were numerous. Every time the
Sea Hunter
climbed willfully up the face of a charging sea and raced down its back, I believed we were close to the safety of Green Haven. Each time the
Sea Hunter
failed to reach the summit before being pummeled by a crest that must have caused structural damage above, I thought we were losing ground. But it was the shuddering that I found most disheartening. The quaking of solid steel, like a profound shiver running the length of the boat, shook my core in a way that was unequalled by either entrap-ment in a bilge filling with water, or being shot at in an open field. The shuddering jolted me out of dazed lassitude to an outright cold sweat. With each deepening tremor, enduring became the remotest of all possibilities.

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Eventually the roaring shudders dissipated to a swaying clacking that I associated with the railroad. The pounding and crashing and thrashing and wallowing gradually came to an end, too. We were either in the lee of land, or the wind had blown itself into extinction. Eager to learn the truth of our situation, and not daring to hope for too much, I followed George up the ladder when he beckoned me to do so. Walking out onto the main deck just as Alex came out of hiding, I realized the weather system had fought to the bitter end. We were indeed entering the channel leading to Green Haven Harbor. The air, as languid as a stalking predator before attack, held a fresh quality that opposed the staleness of the engine room’s fumes. Wisps of cloud obscured and dulled the edges of the moon setting on the western horizon, the orblike fuzziness reminding me of an old black-and-white close-up of a Hollywood starlet looming on the big screen. “We made it,” I said softly and to no one in particular.

As we approached the dock, I was surprised to see a crowd of people ready to catch our lines. Although it was rather late for Green Haveners, I reminded myself of the speed at which news travels in a small town. Cal caught and secured the aft spring line over a piling when Alex enthusiastically threw it at him hard enough to nearly knock the old man over. Clydie was there and was the first to yell an excited greeting: “I knowed you was fine! I been watching for you out my window for hours. When I seen you coming, I rung the church bell. Quin said you was sunk, but his boy said you was still afloat.” Someone stepped out of the shadows and hushed Clyde. It was Lucy Hamilton, looking and acting like

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her usual highbrow-socialite self. She calmly dispersed the crowd, thanking them for their concern and sending them home to bed.

When the
Sea Hunter
was fully secured at her berth, Cal caught my eye with an expression that silently asked if I was okay. I smiled. He shook his head and said, “Good night,”

then headed up the pier behind the small group, leaving only Lucy on the dock above us. I assumed that the condition of the boat and the appearance of her crew spoke volumes. Words were not needed. There would be plenty of talk tomorrow at the coffee shop, I was sure. Alex was up the ladder and into a hug from his mother as soon as Lincoln joined us on deck from the wheelhouse.

I handed George his jacket and boots and promised to launder the socks he had lent me. He left quickly, anxious, I was sure, to walk on solid ground, promising his brother to reappear first thing in the morning and begin what looked like endless repairs. As I dragged my legs out of the oilskins I’d borrowed from Lincoln, I was amused by Alex’s account of his own bravery to his mother, who was quite impressed.

Mother and son had an uncanny resemblance—not just their physical but also their emotional makeup. Lucy called down to Lincoln that she would take Alex home with her and get him to basketball camp the next day. Lincoln agreed and bade them good night. I folded the orange rubber overalls and returned them to Lincoln with a “thanks.”

Lucy laughed above. “Some women will do anything to get into a man’s pants!” She left before my tired brain could fully register the insult.

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Ready to get some sleep before facing my landlords’ interrogation, I said, “See you around,” and pulled my aching body up the ladder.

“Wait!” Lincoln said as he hurried up behind me. “I don’t know how or why you ended up aboard my boat this trip, but I’m glad you did.”

Was this a come-on? “I wish I could say the same.”

“I guess you’ve decided that you made the right decision about standing me up on our first date.”

Was he fishing? “Well, long story, as it turns out.”

“Will I get another chance?”

Another chance for what? To kill me? I walked away, clutching my messenger bag to my broken ribs, and said over my shoulder, “Not tonight, Captain.”

15

my eyes and brain were clouded in exhaustion and darkness. The neighboring boats appeared thick and motionless against pilings and distant buildings, as though some artist had spread them with a palette knife from a tube of black oil to gray canvas. After the riot of sound and motion I had experienced in the past forty-eight hours, I found the stillness nearly as overwhelming. The clapping of the sole of my sandal with its torn strap against the bottom of my left heel was the only break in the silence. Parked between the loading ramps precisely where I had abandoned it (was it only two nights ago?), the Duster was a most welcome sight in my otherwise greetingless homecoming. Although it would have been nice to have worried somebody—anybody—to the point of sleeplessness and wringing of nervous hands, the fact that I owed no explanations for my short sabbatical was oddly comforting. The Duster, like a loyal Labrador retriever, sat and waited and would ask no questions.