Dead in the Water

Robin Stevenson

Orca Sports

Copyright © 2008 Robin Stevenson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Stevenson, Robin H. (Robin Hjørdis), 1968-
Dead in the water / written by Robin Stevenson.
(Orca sports)

Electronic Monograph
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978155439648
(pdf)
--
ISBN
9781554696000
(epub)

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8637.T487D42 2008           jC813'.6              C2007-906807-3

Summary
: Simon gets a crash course in foul weather sailing, teamwork and environmental protection.

First published in the United States, 2008
Library of Congress Control Number:
2007940554

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by David Lowes

In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

www.orcabook.com

11  10  09  08   •   4  3  2  1

To Cheryl

Thanks to Ilse Stevenson, for suggesting that I write about abalone poaching; to Bryan Jubinville of the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, for sharing his experience and expertise on the subject; and to Barb Peck and Bjarne Hansen, sailors extraordinaire, for all their input.

The sky and the sea were almost the same shade of gray, and I wasn't sure which was wetter. Spray from the waves flew into the cockpit, cold and salty, and rain pelted down viciously from above. I shivered and gripped the wheel more tightly. Across the cockpit, the others were a blur of brightly colored Gore-Tex. I couldn't see a thing through my glasses.

The bow of the boat lifted on a huge wave and plunged down, landing with a
shuddering crash. It felt like hitting cement. At least cement would be dry, I thought, as a sheet of icy water slapped the side of my head. My shoulders ached from hanging on to the wheel as ten tons of speeding fiberglass fought against me, trying to turn into the wind. We were heeled way over to one side, the starboard rail almost buried in the water. The sails needed to be adjusted, but no one was volunteering. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. If I threw up now, the others would never let me live it down.

Then Patrick yelled, “Man overboard!”

My heart leapt into my throat, and my stomach felt like I'd swallowed a chunk of ice. Who was it? I squinted through my rain-splattered lenses. The blur of Gore-Tex turned into Olivia and Blair. Joey was missing.

We all sprang into motion. Olivia grabbed the man-overboard pole and threw it into the water. Its weighted bottom and float would hold it upright, and the bright orange flag flying six feet above the water would be a lot easier to spot than a person's head.
I swallowed nervously. Joey's head. Olivia stood behind me at the stern, holding onto the rigging for balance and pointing at the flag. I couldn't see Joey. I couldn't see anything at all in the water. Just steep gray waves and blowing spray.

“Don't take your eyes off that flag and don't stop pointing,” Patrick shouted to Olivia. His voice was almost drowned out by the wind. I tried frantically to remember the man-overboard procedure. I'm not stupid, but my brain sort of freezes up under pressure.

“Get the boat on a beam reach,” Olivia hissed into my ear.

“Olivia! Do your own job and let Simon do his.” Patrick sounded annoyed, but I could have kissed her. Not that she'd be likely to let me.

Beam reach. I quickly twisted the wheel around, and the boat turned slowly to the right. Now the wind was coming at us sideways, or to use the correct sailing term, over our port beam. Instantly the boat flattened out to a more reasonable angle, the noise of the wind subsided to a muffled howl, and my brain started working better.

I glanced over my shoulder. Behind us, the flag was barely visible, its urgent orange hidden in the troughs between the waves. I hoped Joey hadn't been knocked out when he fell overboard. I hoped he'd swum to that pole and was just waiting for us to come back for him. My instincts were screaming at me to turn around and head back toward the flag before we lost sight of it, but I knew I couldn't do it. If I tried to head back now, we'd pass right by Joey without getting close enough to help him.
Jeopardy
's turning circle under sail was huge. I needed to give us some sea room to maneuver.

Blair and Patrick were on either side of me, ready to adjust the sheets—the ropes that control the sails—as soon as I gave the order. Now all I had to do was bring
Jeopardy
close enough to that orange flag. I wished someone else—anyone else—was at the helm for this. What if I messed up? What if Joey drowned? I had no idea if I'd gone far enough. I glanced behind me again. I couldn't see the flag at all now, just an endless jagged seascape of heaving gray water. I gripped the wheel
harder, twisted it to port and took a deep breath. “Coming about!”

As
Jeopardy
's bow swung slowly through the wind, the jib sail started to flap slightly. Quickly, Blair released the jib sheets and let the wind push the sail across to the other side. Patrick braced himself against the boat's motion, wrapped the port-side sheets around the winch and began cranking it in as fast as he could, his broad shoulders moving back and forth with the effort. We were now on a starboard tack and heading back toward that orange flag.

Now the big rescue was up to me, Simon Drake, five foot six and 120 pounds soaking wet. Which I was.

And I couldn't see the flag. Couldn't see a darn thing. I looked at Olivia for help. She shrugged, but she was still pointing, so I just kept heading in the direction where she'd last been able to see the flag. Patrick was right, I thought. Without a man-overboard pole, you'd never find a lost crew member. Not a chance. I imagined myself struggling in that cold water, mouth and eyes burning
with salt, fighting for breath and seeing the boat sailing away, leaving me behind. I shuddered. Goose walking over your grave, my grandmother would have said.

I hoped not.

Suddenly the man-overboard pole appeared, riding a wave and flashing its orange flag against the rolling gray. My heart sped up. Blair sprinted up to the bow, ready for the rescue. We were flying along, the sails taut.

Closer, closer. I caught my breath. Too close. We were headed straight for the flag and unless...

“Heads up!” Patrick yelled. “Turn into the wind and ease the sheets to slow down!”

Too late.
Jeopardy
plowed straight into the orange flag and it disappeared under the water. I couldn't believe it. I was shaking so bad I could hardly grip the wheel. I hadn't seen Joey, but if he was holding that flag... I thought I might be sick.

“Nice one!” Blair yelled, a look of disgust on his face.

Patrick shook his head in mock sorrow. “Lucky it was a drill. If that had been a real
person in the water, you'd just have killed him.”

“Or her,” Olivia put in. She sounded irritated, as usual.

I stared at them. Nothing was making sense. “Real person? But what about Joey?”

Then Joey's head popped up in the companionway hatch, a big grin on his face. “Did I miss something? I was just taking a dump. Man, that toilet stinks.”

“Simon thought you'd gone overboard,” Blair shouted. Everyone started to laugh. Even Olivia, who I didn't think knew how.

The boat gave a sickening lurch. I leaned over the rail to puke and tried to remember exactly what had made me think this sailing course would be a good idea.

My family wasn't the kind that owned boats or even the kind that knew people who did. Mom and Dad worked hard, but their money went toward paying the rent, buying the groceries and picking up a weekly lottery ticket. Unless one of those tickets turned out to be a winner, we wouldn't be joining the yacht club anytime soon.

Not that my parents would want to, Dad especially. He thinks all sailors are rich snobs. Whatever. He has no idea what it's really like
and no interest in finding out. It just annoys him that I want to sail instead of play football like he did. Personally, I think the sea is easily as tough an opponent as a whole football team.

Anyway, sailing is more than a sport. It's a way of life. For a guy with no connections, I've managed to log a fair number of hours under sail on racing boats. You start out as ballast—just extra weight where it's needed to help the boat go faster. You get yelled at a lot but you learn fast.

Racing's not what I want to do though. I want to be a delivery skipper. I want to sail those rich folks' boats across the oceans for them, deliver them to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. They can have their lazy holidays in the sun. Me, I want to be out at sea.

At least I thought I did before this trip.

It had started out okay. We had all met up at the marina in Port Hardy, four teenagers who had all come here for a sailing course. Blair and Joey, brothers from Vancouver, were tall, well built and dressed in expensive Helly
Hansen rain gear. They were the junior version of the rich yachties my dad complains about. Olivia was all spooky black hair and major attitude. Patrick, our sailing instructor, greeted us with a crooked grin; then he took us down to the boat for a quick tour. It was a thirty-six-footer, a lot bigger than the racing boats I was used to.

“Choose a berth and leave your stuff there for now,” Patrick told us. “If you need the head, it's on the port side, just aft of the V-berth. And here's the galley.” He pointed at a sink and stove top.

“Uhh...” Joey looked lost.

“Head equals toilet. Berth equals bed. Galley equals kitchen,” Olivia said, not even cracking a smile.

I snagged a narrow single berth tucked away at the stern and tossed my bag on it to stake my claim.

Olivia bent close. “You picked the coffin,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

She nodded at the bed. “Just what it's called. ‘Cause of the shape, I guess. You can't
sit up in it.” She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Hope you aren't claustrophobic.”

I met her eyes. Lime Slurpee green and just as icy. “Nope. Not me.”

She shrugged. “I am.” She glanced around the boat, and I followed her gaze. Joey and Blair were arguing over who would get which berth.

“I'll arm-wrestle you for this one,” Joey said.

Blair started rolling up his sleeves.

“You two can share the V-berth,” Patrick told them. He was leaning back against the stove, listening and watching with a half smile on his tanned face. I wondered what he was thinking and whether he was dreading being stuck on the boat with us.

“This boat is going to drive me nuts,” Olivia informed me.

Cry me a river, I thought. I'd worked two crap jobs—at a gas station and a diner—and saved my ass off to get here, so she was looking for sympathy from the wrong guy. “Why did you come then?”

“My dad made me.”

I rolled my eyes. I couldn't help it.