Stranded (5 page)

Noah held up a three finger salute, regretting the gesture as soon as it bounced off his wound, amplifying the ache behind it. “Promise.”

Mickle grinned at the gesture. “I was a scoutmaster for my kid's troop back in the day. Never saw one who could grow a beard like that.”

“It's glandular.” He petted his dark pelt and smiled. It was the first time in days he'd felt like he could let his guard down. It was nice … and fleeting as he heard footsteps in the passageway behind him. Stepping a pace out of the door, he saw a pair of deckhands rounding the corner, stomping his way like men on a mission. One of them slowed when he caught sight of Noah. He furrowed his brow and missed a step as his eyes darted to follow something behind Noah. Noah turned, wondering if there was someone else in the passageway he'd missed. Empty. He stepped aside as the men shouldered past him into the hospital.

“Hey Doc,” one said as he barged in. “We were hoping—”

“Stop right there,” Mickle said.

Noah left him to deal with the deckhands and went down to search out the coffee he'd been recommended to take in lieu of a real painkiller.

 

6

Among the men up and moving aboard the
Arctic Promise,
most were barely moving. In the mess room, a handful of crewmen picked at their food, pushing it around but not eating as vigorously as they had when they first set out. They spoke in hushed tones about the view—or lack of it—out the porthole windows. As Noah passed, he heard one suggest the Old Man was plotting his course using dice. “Mr. Holden, please set a course heading for…” The crew member picked up his empty coffee cup, shook it, and slammed it on the tabletop. He tipped the cup back and peeked under the lip. “Yahtzee degrees!” His companions at the table laughed weakly, one, he thought it might be Michael Yeong from Portland, rubbing at his temples like he wanted to touch his fingers together by pushing them through his skull.

A senior deckhand named Henry Gutierrez looked up from his plate. Noah nodded at him. Henry blinked and his head whipped around, following something Noah couldn't see. He wiped a hand down his face and returned to studying his lunch.

Noah stepped in and grabbed a cup from the stack beside the coffeepot. He held it under the spout and pushed the lever down. Normally, the ship's movement made a task as simple as filling a cup of coffee a test of both aim and endurance, as a pitch of the sea would send hot java spilling over onto Noah's hand. They were moving so slowly after the storm, however, he might as well have been standing in the Starbucks at Pike Place Market. He easily filled the cup and, although he preferred it black, added a creamer so it wouldn't upset his empty stomach. Snapping a lid on top, he slurped at the tepid drink. It tasted as bad as always, yet somehow the act of doing something so ordinary made it better. They were through the storm, and although he had a good cut and a headache, he was more or less no worse for wear.
You can get through this. Just keep your head down and you'll be home before you know it with money in your pocket.
What happened after he set foot on dry land, he had no idea. The simple prospect of being off the ship—and never setting foot on another—was enough to keep going. It had to be.

Noah wandered up the passageway and into one of the day rooms, hoping to find a better-looking group. Instead he found more of the same. A couple of deckhands lay across twin sofas in mirror positions, each with an arm draped over his eyes to block out the light. The ship was normally a noisy place filled with the sounds of men's conversation. They had to shout to be heard over the machinery constantly running on the ship. Aside from the engines, however, the
Promise
was eerily silent. No one spoke. It was as if the fog had penetrated everyone's heads and was filling their skulls with the same kind of stinging cold that he'd felt on the ladder outside.

Andrew something from Olympia—Noah couldn't remember his last name—lifted his arm and peeked at Noah standing in the doorway. He dropped his elbow back over his eyes. The other man jerked as a single growling snore wrested him from tenuous sleep. He turned to his side, facing away from the room. Noah wanted to ask if either man had seen Marty, but thought better of it. Unless these guys had grown eyes in their elbows, they hadn't seen a single thing. All told, he'd run into eight or nine lethargic men throughout the ship. The other half of the complement had to be sleeping it off, awaiting their turn to take a late watch or just trying to recover from the labors of the night before.

He walked out of the room and hesitated at the bulkhead door leading to the port lifeboat. Remembering he wanted to ensure the safety preparations for both FRCs, he pulled down his sleeves and stepped outside.

Setting out, his thick Norwegian wool sweater and work pants had been enough to handle any brief trip outside. The farther north they traveled, however, the more protective gear he needed. Setting his cup on the rail, he zipped his sweater up to his chin. Still, the wind bit at him, making his cheeks sting and his eyes water. Even through his watch cap, his ears were stinging. They'd go numb soon. Without gloves, his fingers instantly ached. He knew, once inside, his ears would sting again when that incongruous heat of supercooled flesh returned to normal temperatures and his knuckles would swell and stiffen. He'd have to sit awhile holding a cup of something hotter than the coffee he'd set on the rail before he could move them well enough to unzip his fly or set up a chessboard. He hesitated, thinking about going inside to gather his jacket and gloves from the change room. No. He was here now, alone with the craft. Any future adventures out of doors were going to require full weather gear, but he could handle this short task. He set to accomplish his inspection as quickly as possible, stuffing his fingers in his armpits until he needed his hands.

The cold reminded him of a friend in Seattle who was a fitness trainer. He seemed to burn calories just breathing. He radiated warmth like a space heater and lived in shorts and, if it was real cold, maybe a long-sleeved shirt. Like Noah's first year at UDub had proved he couldn't coast on his native intelligence, Noah had quickly learned there was no such thing as not minding the cold in the Arctic. Fit or not, you dressed properly. Valuing his fingers and nose, he set to work quickly.

As well as he could tell, the port Fast Rescue Craft was as ready as the starboard one. His ability to tell, however, was limited. The other men were quick to point out his experience deep sea fishing in the Atlantic with his father “meant exactly dick,” as they would put it, in Alaska's high seas. They were right, too. He was constantly playing catch-up to the demands of working on a ninety-meter heavy cargo transport as opposed to a seventy-five-foot fishing trawler. The others knew every move required to keep things running smoothly and safely by habit and good instinct. He wasn't green, but he wasn't exactly seasoned, either. Noah existed in a shadow space in between. If he had his druthers, he'd rather spend any day on dry land rather than on board a ship. But he didn't have his druthers. He
had
to work. And finding work that paid the bills was no easy feat in the present economy—not with his skills, anyway. No more part-time grocery store clerking or university work study jobs.

Finishing his inventory of the lifeboat, he hazarded a peek over the side of the ship hoping to catch a glimpse of the water below. Bending over the rail, he bumped his cup and sent the coffee over the side. It fell into the fog and disappeared without a sound. The thrum of the engines drowned out the splash. “God damn it.” He leaned farther over the edge trying to get a look. The fog remained too thick; he could only see halfway down. He strained and thought he could hear the water slapping at the hull. Yep, he could hear it. It splashed. And banged. And scraped. There was ice in the water.

A vision of a giant white and blue cliffside into which they were about to crash loomed in his mind. The mental picture of it made his stomach tighten. He felt the first touch of nausea he'd ever felt at sea in his life. The fear of it clawed at him, ripping at his courage. A gust of wind blew, tightening his skin and making his muscles tremble. It blew the mist swirling below him in an eddy and away from the hull. For a brief moment, he saw the water and what was scraping against the side of the ship. Thousands—or maybe millions, depending on how far what he was seeing extended into the fog—of spiky ice crystals reached up from the water like perfect white stars flaring in space. Each one resembled a small explosion frozen and preserved at the moment when it was most beautiful before revealing blackened crater and scorched death beneath. Frost flowers. He remembered they were called frost flowers. They were pushed away by the ship's wake, pulled under and crushed, broken on the side of the hull tearing through their quiet field of sharp brilliance.

Noah wanted to sprint for the cargo deck and lean over the lower gunwales to get a closer look, but the fog swirled in, obscuring them again. He eased himself back, noticing how badly his exposed hands hurt, even with his stretched sweater sleeves between his palms and the metal rail over which he'd been leaning. He flexed his digits, trying to return sensation and circulation. They barely complied, crackling and hurting. He shoved them back in his armpits and felt icy cold seeping though the wool. It was long past time to go in. He had been bewitched and might have gotten frostbit if it weren't for the fog. The unreality of it snapped him back to reality, stinging his face, telling him this was not his place to be. No matter how lovely and entrancing, he would lose fingers and toes, ears or lips, maybe even die out here if he did something as stupid as linger in the elements without his gear.

He retreated for the interior, mourning the meager warmth of the coffee he'd lost over the side. He needed that and some more rest before the real heavy lifting began when—
if
—they reached the drilling platform. He pulled clumsily at the door, fighting his own dulled and slowed body to find the way in.

Inside, the warmer air hurt and instinct told him to go outdoors again. Noah decided to head to his cabin, hoping a little rest might help clear his head.

*   *   *

Picking his bag up off the bunk where he'd thrown it, he dumped his things out on the mattress. The chill outside had cleared his nose and lungs and he smelled how badly everything stank. He could take his clothes to the laundry on the First Deck, but there was nothing to do about his books and other things. He briefly considered cracking his window, but the residual ache in his stiff fingers convinced him not to. Not enough air would move around the cabin to dispel the odor, and he'd rather deal with the smell of old smoke than suffer more of the cold. Shoving his clothes in a net laundry sack, he threw them toward the door. Shoving his other belongings to the side, he flopped on his bunk.

Stuffing his fingers under his arms to attempt to warm them again, he stared at the ceiling, feeling the motion of the sea. The slower movement was a welcome change from roiling storm waters. He'd had enough of rough seas and dangerous work. But having enough of something didn't mean he could be done with it. He needed the money this job would net him. With it, he hoped to make a change, get a fresh start, and do something different with his life. He hoped to never go to sea again. His instincts up in this part of the world were bad.
Very
bad.

He picked up the book from beside him on the mattress. Noah was on his second attempt reading Yukio Mishima's
The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea
. It was a slim novel, and while he sympathized with the titular character's desire to begin a new life, he wasn't sure he got what the book was supposed to be about. Or maybe he did. If he'd ever stood in a state of grace with the sea, he'd fallen. He sighed and promised himself he'd give it another shot some other time, and dug the second book he'd brought out of his ruck instead. It was about poisoned beer that made everyone in a college town go crazy and kill each other. He liked that one better. Soon, however, he realized it was hard to keep his attention on anything. His eyes slipped out of focus and he felt heavy. A cat nap, he decided, would help. It was exhaustion from fighting ice and fire. In the back of his mind, he thought it might also be a concussion. Hadn't he heard that concussed people should try to stay awake? That it was dangerous to fall asleep? He assumed it was a myth. If it was dangerous for him to get some rest, Doc Mickle wouldn't have let him return to his cabin; he'd be in the hospital with Pereira. Still, the nagging fear in the back of his mind kept him up, even when he couldn't focus his eyes or even easily keep them open. He lay in his bunk and thought about dying in his sleep.

 

7

He awoke with a start and a heart beating with panic as his last thought shoved past the disorientation of sleep into clarity.
You will die if you sleep.

But of course, he hadn't. He'd merely slept. Feeling somewhat better rested but still weary and beaten, Noah pushed himself up onto his elbows and checked his wristwatch. “Figures,” he mumbled, tapping at the stopped timepiece with a fingernail. He only wore it when he was working; the rest of the time it sat in a box on his dresser where his preschool daughter coveted it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the battery changed. The clock on the desk across the cabin was blank. He tilted his head and saw it was unplugged.

Climbing out of his bunk, he took a moment to orient himself. The cabin was at once familiar and alien. He felt like he'd wandered into the wrong cabin and passed out. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and tried to look out the window, hoping the haze had thinned or even cleared entirely. It hadn't. He stared into a solid field of white that discomfited him. The fog outside mirrored that in his head, solid and impenetrable, while the brightness of it confounded him. He had to have slept at least a couple of hours, but at this time of year, and this far north, a couple of hours should have meant darkness outside. The light through his window, while filtering through fog, was bright. He couldn't have slept until morning. Could he? Noah stood feeling unmoored and adrift. At least the sea was calm. It was too calm, in fact.