Leaving Protection (10 page)

I shook Tor's shoulder. He blinked himself awake and saw broad daylight. He looked panicky, which scared the daylights out of me. “The barometer,” he said. “What's it reading?”

“Twenty-eight and a half.”

“Read it again.”

“Twenty-eight and a half!”

We both ran onto the deck. The sky was streaky and red like a river of spawning sockeyes. There wasn't a boat in sight. The Pacific was dead calm, holding its breath.

“God help us,” Tor said. “We have to get out of here.”

I
WENT BELOW AND THREW
my clothes and boots on. By the time I got back up, we were under way. Tor had us on a GPS course for Lituya Bay. I cleared every bit of loose gear out of the cockpit and snapped a tarp over it, so it wouldn't get swamped if we ran into big waves.

“Of all times for me to oversleep,” Tor bellowed as I returned to the wheelhouse. He slammed his fist on the table, as if that would help. “It must have been those useless pills Grace gave me.”

Torsen grabbed the tide table booklet. He studied it intensely, staring at one page and pulling at his beard. At last he set it aside.

“I take it the tide needs to be high for us to be able to get into Lituya,” I said.

“That's right, you have to go into the bay on the flood. If the tide is ebbing, you can't get in there.”

“Is the current rushing out of the bay too strong? Too strong for this boat?”

“That's part of it. At the peak of the ebb, it can run twelve knots. You remember me telling you about the entrance, about the slot between the breakers? At high tide that gate is a hundred yards wide, but at low tide—shallower water—it closes shut. The surf breaks all the way across.”

“Is it like you were talking about, crossing the bar into the Columbia River?”

“Same idea. You've got to cross that bar. Even at high tide, especially when it's windy, it can be tricky to get inside Lituya.”

Tor punched in KRU-55 out of Yakutat. The weather forecast would be coming up in a few minutes.

No longer was the sea dead calm. A breeze was blowing out of the southeast, and that wasn't good. That's the direction most of the big blows come from. They're spawned out in the north Pacific, and by the time they reach the Gulf of Alaska, they're churning with a powerful counterclockwise rotation. The arms that fly off them curl around and attack from the southeast. “So where do we stand with the tides right now?” I asked. “Are we on high or low?”

“Look it up for yourself!”

“I will,” I said, and reached for the tide tables.

Torsen eyed me as I searched for the right table, then said, “We've got half an hour of low left. There'll be half an hour of slack, then six of high.”

“Which means we've got seven hours to get inside the bay. We need to be there by two-thirty this afternoon. Is that possible?”

“Weather depending.”

“There must be some other spot we can run to.”

“Cape Fairweather, but it's fifteen miles up the coast from Lituya. If we had drifted north last night instead of south, I'd be thinking about the cape, even though it's a lousy windbreak compared to Lituya Bay. But if we set a course for Fairweather right now, and the weather comes up, we'd be exposed a lot longer.”

“We might not get there.”

“You wanted to know. Now, do you feel better?”

The radio was beginning to spit out the weather forecast. They started with the Dixon Entrance, south of Prince of Wales Island. “Winds light to variable, with patches of sunshine.”

My hopes began to rise. We were going to luck out. Our barometer indicated we must be close to a bad storm cell, but our seas weren't bad at all. The storm cell must be heading in some other direction.

As the forecast moved north, so did the wind speeds being reported. At last it was our turn: “Cape Spencer to Yakutat,” the radio blared, “small craft warnings.”

“Now they tell us,” Tor said.

“Tor, we're forty-six miles from shore.”

“I know, I know.”

Minutes later, the first swell rolled ominously underneath us. It had come from the southeast.

The captain tuned the radio to Channel 16, the hailing channel used for emergencies, then switched to another, where fishermen were talking.

“I got up and tapped the glass at one-thirty,” a skipper was saying. “It took such a drop I spooked and took off running. I got my sights on Cape Spencer. This could be some kind of blow.”

“Roger that,” said another. “Good thinking, getting a jump on it. The rest of us, at least we'll be snug inside Lituya before long.”

Tor turned the volume down. “We're kind of out on a limb,” I couldn't help saying. “The storm better spin off in some other direction.”

“This bird can fly in foul weather. The
Storm Petrel
has lived up to her name in more than a few blows. Plus, you've got a seafaring Norwegian at the wheel. That ought to count for something.”

The resolve in Torsen's weathered face made me momentarily thankful that he was such an ornery piece of work.

For three hours, we made eight knots. The bow kept lifting higher and the swells came more frequently, but we were making good time. I did the math. We had come twenty-eight miles and had eighteen left
to go, with four hours left before Lituya's entrance closed. To get there with a cushion, at 2:00
P.M.
, with a half hour left of high tide, all we had to average was five knots.

Just as I began to breathe easier, the wind struck. Faster than I would have believed possible, it went from a breeze to thirty knots, and the sea was suddenly running with white horses. Out the wheelhouse windows, the sky to the southeast was turning a sickly blue-black. “How can it whip up this fast?” I asked.

“Just does,” the captain replied.

The wind was gusting to fifty knots now. Tor's big troller didn't feel so big. The
Storm Petrel
was beginning to heel over on her beam ends. “Shut that half-door out to the deck,” Tor ordered.

Spray was whipping off the sides of the boat and over the afterdeck. I closed the bottom half of the door, then returned to the table and looked out over the bucking bow. I did a double take at what I saw half around to starboard. To the southeast, a white wall of water stood up above the ocean. “Tsunami?” I asked, feeling sick and weightless.

“Look closer. That's a whole bunch of waves, driven by the storm front.”

“Coming our way, Tor.”

“Yes, they are,” he said calmly. He was standing tall, like a battlefield commander. I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. The
Storm Petrel
couldn't
retreat. Outrunning the wind, that was impossible.

Visibility dropped suddenly to half a mile. On came the wind-driven rain and the spindrift. It was getting so dark, so fast, I'd never seen anything like it. “Kid,” Tor said urgently. “Everything that isn't nailed down in this wheelhouse, get it inside a cupboard or get it down below.”

“Will do,” I said. I went to work in the galley first. Then I cleared the tabletop.

“My bunk. The bag and the mattress and everything. Stow it below.”

I stuffed Torsen's loose clothes and his sleeping bag into his duffel. Once down the ladder, I wedged it into the bunk opposite mine. I went back up for the mattress, grabbed it, and found myself looking at the Russian plaques. “What about the plaques, Tor? What should I do with them?”

“If they fly around, they could take our heads off. Put 'em at the bottom of the closet across from the fire extinguisher, or on the floor of the john.”

Fast as I could, I stowed everything that had to be stowed. “Thirty seconds,” I heard Tor call. I threw the loose silverware and the dishes into drawers, and I slid into position at the table in time to brace myself for the first wave.

“Hang on!” Tor yelled.

The first one came down on us like a falling building. I was amazed that the front windows didn't blow out. Then came more waves. Water hit the
windows like gravel, forcing itself inside through every seam.

“How do you like this, Billy?” a crackling voice on the radio asked.

“I'll like it a whole lot better when we're inside the bay,” another voice answered.

With the seas blowing, it was impossible to see more than fifty yards ahead. On the crests of the waves, the wind caught us full and forced the bow sideways. Tor responded every time by cranking hard on the wheel and goosing the throttle. It took a full burst of power for the rudder to swing us back into the waves and the wind.

A gust slammed us amidships, and the
Petrel
nearly lay over on her side. I had a death grip on the tabletop. “What does the wind gauge say?” I yelled over the shriek of the wind.

“Seventy knots.”

“That's eighty miles an hour. Ever been in a storm this bad?”

“Never. Let's hope it doesn't get worse.”

It did. We were taking a horrible beating. Tor had to fight to stay in the seat behind the wheel.

When I didn't think it could get any worse, a wave bigger than the rest reared up and came down hard, right on top of the wheelhouse. Tor was thrown to the floor. His books went flying out of their spill-proof shelves, the ceiling was raining salt water, cabinet doors flew open. Canned goods rolled out onto the
floor, glass was breaking, water was hissing on the stove top, charts were thrown everywhere, and then came a crash from down in the engine room. We were spinning in the surf, totally out of control.

T
OR PICKED HIMSELF UP
and climbed back into the captain's chair. The boat had been spun so far around, we were quartering before the wind instead of into it. Still in motion, we were about to be hit broadside by the next big wave. With wheel and throttle, Torsen added to the
Storm Petrel
's momentum instead of trying to reverse it, and gave the wave our butt end.

The
Petrel
's stern took the brunt of the wave squarely. The wave rolled over the back rail and washed across the deck. If the cockpit hadn't been tarped, it would have filled, and the boat would have become hopelessly back heavy.

“Should I clean up all this mess in the wheelhouse?” I shouted over the whine of the wind.

“Forget about that for now. Go below and see what came loose.”

I was trembling. I had turned to jelly. Get ahold of yourself, I thought, or you're not going to get through this.

It all felt too big. Huge. Hopeless.

I lurched to the galley sink and threw up. It wasn't seasickness, it was stark terror.

“Quitter!” Torsen screamed. “Just like I thought, you're nothing but a quitter!”

I heaved some more, wiped my face with a dishrag, and held on tight, or I would have been thrown to the floor. How much punishment could the boat take?

“Engine's overheating—get down there now!”

He was right, it had to be done. I waded through the clutter on the floor, spun, and went down the ladder.

It was raining from the engine room ceiling, the motor hissing with every drop. The bilge bump was loud and sucking full bore, but couldn't keep up. The floor was ankle-deep in water. Bracing as best I could, afraid I'd be thrown onto steaming hot metal, I sloshed around trying to figure out what was wrong.

It was easy enough to see that the auxiliary generator for the lights had broken loose from its mounts, which would explain the crash we'd heard, but not the engine overheating.

My mind shut down as it hit me: if we capsize while I'm down here, I'm dead for sure.

My stomach was cramping again. This time I fought it off and battled to get myself under control. Suddenly I saw it—the auxiliary generator had fallen onto a cooling hose. The hose had been nearly pinched shut.

I got down on one knee and lifted the generator off the engine, then made sure the hose hadn't stayed pinched flat. It was back in working order, circulating water and coolant.

Lurching around, I found a piece of rope and secured the auxiliary generator so it couldn't fly around and damage wiring, cooling hoses, carburation, any vital system. If the engine went down, we had no chance.

Something was strange about the exhaust stack. It had turned from black to white with all the salt water running down it. Thank goodness our leaks were above the hull. Thank goodness the hull was fiberglass, not old wooden planks like the hull of the
Chimes
.

Topside, I discovered that Torsen had somehow turned us around and back into the wind. My eyes went to the temperature gauge. It was nearly back to normal. “Seawater's forcing its way through the exhaust stack's roof jack,” I reported.

Torsen waved my news off like it was nothing. “We lost the hatch.”

“What hatch?”

“The hatch over the fish hold. That hundred pound fiberglass cover, gone with the wind. I saw it blow away.”

This was sickening news. The belly of the boat was
open to the sea. “Is the hold's bilge pump working?” I shouted above the whine of the wind.

“It's working, but the radio's not.”

“Why not?”

“The antenna broke clean off.”

“We can't call Mayday?”

“That's right, we can't. Tell me, do we have anything we can lash the plaques to? What do we have that floats?”

“The little skiff and the life raft up top, but we can't get to them.”

“Skiff's gone—I saw it fly. You didn't tie it down very good.”

“Thanks for sharing,” I said.

He ignored me. “I don't want the plaques loose. Think, what do we have that we can attach them to?”

“You think we're going to capsize?”

“I didn't say that. I need you to take care of those plaques. Do it, and do it now!”

This was too much. “Why should I help you save them?” I hollered.

“Don't you understand how important those are? They can't be lost!”

“You don't understand! You're just going to sell them anyway, I know you are. They'll be lost either way. They should be in a museum and you know it!”

“Quit arguing and help me!”

“I have an idea,” I shouted. I balanced my way out the back door to the deck. The hatch cover was gone, but the plywood tray still spanned the opening. In a
gully between waves, I grabbed one of the plastic milk crates, the one I'd used for stashing the big glass fishing float for my sister. The glass ball had been a snug fit, and was still inside.

I had to wait out a big pitch and roll before I made my move for the wheelhouse. Once inside, I took the glass ball out and placed the plaques on the bottom of the crate, one atop the other. Then I put the float back inside. To keep the ball from floating out of the crate, all I needed was rope. There was a coil in the closet behind me.

Tying to one of the built-in handles on the crate, I lashed the rope over the top of the ball and back and forth and every which way through the plastic ribbing until only glimpses of the green glass could be seen among the lashings. I tied off to the opposite handle with a slew of half hitches. “Done,” I called out.

“Good,” Torsen replied. “Here comes another big one. Hang on!”

I braced for all I was worth, and even so, was nearly thrown onto the stove. The
Petrel
heeled over so far she was on her side. Out the side window, I saw the port trolling pole disappear underwater. I thought for sure the whole boat would follow.

Miraculously, the
Petrel
righted herself, but something was wrong outside. One heavy thud was followed by another. “Did it break?” Torsen called. “Did the pole break off?”

I craned my neck to see. “No, the pole flew up against the mast. But it's not in its bracket.”

“The port stabilizer! What happened to the stabilizer?”

“It must be up against the hull.”

“It'll punch a hole in it.”

“Why didn't you pull them this morning?” I yelled. “We could've gone faster.”

“For stability, fool! I didn't know it would get this bad. We have to pull 'em now. The one against the hull, you should be able to reach out and cut its rope.”

“You gotta be kidding, Tor. You go out there.”

“My back won't let me, or I would. Listen, kid, you have to tighten the stays on that port pole so the pole stays upright. If it flops back down, its rigging is going to end up in the prop or the rudder, and then we're done. The starboard pole, you gotta pull it vertical and cut its stabilizer loose.”

This was it. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. I could read it behind his eyes, cold as the eyes on the octopus, years before, that had tried to drag me into the sea. “Dream on,” I yelled at him. “You go out there!”

“Fine, we'll go down together. That stabilizer is like a spear point, you know it and I know it. The hull's an inch and a half thick. You give that some thought.”

“Not without a survival suit.”

“Go get the suits, then.”

“There's only one, remember?”

“Go get it!” he thundered.

I went below and came back with it. I kicked my boots off and began to pull on the one-piece suit. It had a nylon shell that was lined with closed-cell foam to float you and buffer you from the freezing seawater. I zippered it shut and adjusted the neoprene cuffs, then pulled my boots back on. I put on rubber gloves, grabbed a sharp knife from a galley drawer, and sloshed my way to the half-door, which I fastened open. I jammed my body in the doorframe, awed by the mountainous, wind-driven seas all around the back of the boat. How was I going to do what had to be done and stay on board?

The immediate problem was crossing to the port rail without being thrown into the yawning hatch, where salmon that had spilled over the tops of the side bins littered the central floor.

With an eye on the waves, I timed my move, keeping tight against the back of the wheelhouse. It didn't take long to snake my way around the corner to the base of the port pole. I wrapped my legs around it, reached out with the knife to cut the stabilizer rope, and nearly went over when the boat pitched suddenly in the direction I was leaning. But I managed to hang on, and then I sawed the rope in two. The stabilizer was on its way to the bottom of the Pacific.

Just then a wave slammed the
Petrel
from the opposite side, and the port pole fell from vertical back to its fishing position. I was going to have to haul it up by hand.

Which I did, all the while barely hanging on. The wind lashed like a whip, the waves poured over the side of the boat, and salt water stung like fire in my eyes. At last I had the port pole upright and its rigging so tight and double-knotted, it couldn't go anywhere. I grabbed the knife, which I had stuck in the side of the wheelhouse, then crabbed my way around the back to the starboard side.

In the time it had taken me to get the port side taken care of, the starboard pole had bent like a straw. The stays and the rigging were a tangled mess. I heaved on the line with all my might, but nothing gave. With the boat pitching every which way, I got back into the wheelhouse and told Torsen where we stood.

“Go back and try again,” he ordered.

“What do I do different?” I asked in total frustration.

“Pull harder!”

“Look, I pulled as hard as I could. Just leave it be.”

“You don't know what it'll do to us. Here, get behind the wheel, I'll do it myself. When in doubt, give it throttle.”

“Take the suit, Tor. Here, I'll take it off.”

He ignored me, just took the knife and pushed past.

There was nothing to do but grab hold of the wheel spokes, fight for control of the rudder, push on the throttle, and face the waves. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that Torsen was already outside. I remembered to monitor our direction of travel on the GPS. Unless we stayed on course for Lituya Bay and
got there in time, there was no way out of this for either of us.

This was a nightmare, a never-ending ride on a crazed whale. I prayed I wouldn't have to face a wave like the one that crashed down on the wheelhouse.

I had no vision of the spot where Torsen was working. At last, over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the starboard pole cranking up against the mast. Somehow Torsen had jerked it loose. Now he just had to finish—tie it off and cut the stabilizer free.

The wind began to shriek louder than ever. Here came a wave as big as any we'd seen. I pointed the bow straight into it and leaned hard on the throttle. The wave was so tall, it looked like we might not be able to climb it. I had the sickening feeling we were slipping back. If we did, we would broach, swamp, and capsize.

We barely made it over the top, but as we cleared the crest, the prop lost its bite. This time we slipped sideways. When the prop caught again, it was all I could do in the face of yet another giant wave to crank furiously on the wheel, come about, and run with the wind.

I was running with that wave, on its very crest, and looking down into an abyss. The bottom of the trough seemed a hundred feet below. When in doubt, Torsen had said, give it throttle. That's what I did, I slammed the throttle forward. In a heartbeat we would hit bottom, and when we did, we had to be in control, or we'd be tossed around like a toy.

It was a rough landing. At the bottom of the trough,
the
Petrel
yawed badly, then broached immediately to windward. I was thrown out of my seat. My head cracked against something. I thought for sure we had capsized.

Amazingly, as I struggled to my feet, the
Storm Petrel
was righting herself. One of our poles—the starboard pole—was in the water. It had broken clean off before Tor could secure it.

There was something else in the water, amid the heaving gray seas: the bearded face and upraised hand of Torsen. He'd been swept overboard.