another wave and he saw it clearly, a truck-sized piece of hull with someone clinging to a piece of railing, one arm wrapped around it at an awkward angle. The man’s feet swung loosely as the piece of hull slid down the next wave. Two hundred yards away, just to the east of their current bearing. The big Chrysler engines growled as Gilly powered up.
“I got a partial visual, top of the last wave,” Gilly called up a few seconds later. They went down another swell and back up again. “Yeah, I got him, Bri. Come on down.”
Brian slid down the flybridge ladder, pressing the side of his feet against the railings and dropping fast to the pitching deck.
“There,” Gilly said, pointing through the windshield.
They could see the man clearly now, his white hair plastered against the side of his face, his right arm twisted through a piece of railing. His body flopped from side to side as the hull rode up and down the waves.
“How’s he hanging on?” Brian said.
“He’s stuck to that fuckin thing.”
Brian brought up the binoculars. “I think you’re right.”
“Dead?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Brian said. “We’re gonna get him.”
Gilly glanced at Brian, his Adam’s apple bobbing once in his scrawny neck, and then he slid out of the captain’s chair, keeping one hand on the wheel. “Bring me up alongside,” he said. “I’ll see if we can latch on without busting up the boat.”
Brian shook his head. “I got it.”
“Might hafta get wet,” Gilly said, almost gently. “Take the wheel, Cap. I got him.”
Brian hesitated for a moment, staring at the side of the boat, the spray of water splashing over the gunnels. Panic, sudden and frantic, clawed up inside him, threatening to break like the waves. He tried to push it down, but there was no edge to push. It was just there, growing and shapeless and wild. The boat shrank under him, and suddenly he could feel the careless power of the ocean all around him, crowding around the boat.
“C’mon,” Gilly said gently. “Take the wheel.”
Brian slid past him into the captain’s chair. He took the wheel, his hands trembling. Twisted in the seat, checked the gauges. All was good, all was fine. He brought the throttle down and then powered forward at the same speed. He felt the hitch right away, the slight clunk in the drive. They had pushed her too hard coming out here. Smitty had warned him. No time to worry about it now. He was in control.
Gilly moved to the port side of the Tangled Blue , a coil of rope in his hand. The old man’s forearm was wedged under a piece of the hull’s railing; the stainless-steel railing had been crushed against the hull, pinning his arm. His face was pressed flat down the side of the fiberglass and his skin had a purplish cast, darker near his neck and around his eyes. Cold seawater splashed up and over his face without visible effect.
Brian sounded the air horn. The man looked like he twitched. Brian hit the horn again and the old man lifted his head a fraction of an inch, then let it drop back to the hull.
Gilly began to shrug on a life jacket. “That hull’s got some wicked edges on her, Cap. Don’t get too close.”
“What are you doing?”
“I gotta get in there.”
Brian started to protest, then fell silent. Gilly was right—the hull could easily puncture the side of the Tangled Blue if they didn’t try to control it. He held up a hand. “Wait.”
“Hurry,” Gilly said.
Brian flipped on the Garmin autopilot and raced down into the cuddy. There was a large toolbox underneath the aft cabin’s bed and he searched it quickly, throwing tools to the floor. He found the hacksaw on the very bottom, the handle inked with a faded DL HAWKINS. He took the cuddy stairs back up in two quick leaps. Gilly tied the rope around his waist, and then traded Brian the tag end of the rope for the hacksaw.
“Ready,” Gilly shouted, and before Brian could answer, Gilly leaped over the side of the Tangled Blue and into
“I got a partial visual, top of the last wave,” Gilly called up a few seconds later. They went down another swell and back up again. “Yeah, I got him, Bri. Come on down.”
Brian slid down the flybridge ladder, pressing the side of his feet against the railings and dropping fast to the pitching deck.
“There,” Gilly said, pointing through the windshield.
They could see the man clearly now, his white hair plastered against the side of his face, his right arm twisted through a piece of railing. His body flopped from side to side as the hull rode up and down the waves.
“How’s he hanging on?” Brian said.
“He’s stuck to that fuckin thing.”
Brian brought up the binoculars. “I think you’re right.”
“Dead?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Brian said. “We’re gonna get him.”
Gilly glanced at Brian, his Adam’s apple bobbing once in his scrawny neck, and then he slid out of the captain’s chair, keeping one hand on the wheel. “Bring me up alongside,” he said. “I’ll see if we can latch on without busting up the boat.”
Brian shook his head. “I got it.”
“Might hafta get wet,” Gilly said, almost gently. “Take the wheel, Cap. I got him.”
Brian hesitated for a moment, staring at the side of the boat, the spray of water splashing over the gunnels. Panic, sudden and frantic, clawed up inside him, threatening to break like the waves. He tried to push it down, but there was no edge to push. It was just there, growing and shapeless and wild. The boat shrank under him, and suddenly he could feel the careless power of the ocean all around him, crowding around the boat.
“C’mon,” Gilly said gently. “Take the wheel.”
Brian slid past him into the captain’s chair. He took the wheel, his hands trembling. Twisted in the seat, checked the gauges. All was good, all was fine. He brought the throttle down and then powered forward at the same speed. He felt the hitch right away, the slight clunk in the drive. They had pushed her too hard coming out here. Smitty had warned him. No time to worry about it now. He was in control.
Gilly moved to the port side of the Tangled Blue , a coil of rope in his hand. The old man’s forearm was wedged under a piece of the hull’s railing; the stainless-steel railing had been crushed against the hull, pinning his arm. His face was pressed flat down the side of the fiberglass and his skin had a purplish cast, darker near his neck and around his eyes. Cold seawater splashed up and over his face without visible effect.
Brian sounded the air horn. The man looked like he twitched. Brian hit the horn again and the old man lifted his head a fraction of an inch, then let it drop back to the hull.
Gilly began to shrug on a life jacket. “That hull’s got some wicked edges on her, Cap. Don’t get too close.”
“What are you doing?”
“I gotta get in there.”
Brian started to protest, then fell silent. Gilly was right—the hull could easily puncture the side of the Tangled Blue if they didn’t try to control it. He held up a hand. “Wait.”
“Hurry,” Gilly said.
Brian flipped on the Garmin autopilot and raced down into the cuddy. There was a large toolbox underneath the aft cabin’s bed and he searched it quickly, throwing tools to the floor. He found the hacksaw on the very bottom, the handle inked with a faded DL HAWKINS. He took the cuddy stairs back up in two quick leaps. Gilly tied the rope around his waist, and then traded Brian the tag end of the rope for the hacksaw.
“Ready,” Gilly shouted, and before Brian could answer, Gilly leaped over the side of the Tangled Blue and into
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