Dana Stabenow - Dead in the Water

Someone swore. The thudding began again and settled into a kind of rhythm, uncertain at first, a little ragged, but maintaining a dogged persistence. After a while Kate ceased to hear anything but the slap of the hull into the sea, the cackle and skitter of freezing spray and the roar of the wind all around.

The bat rose and fell, rose and fell. Ice shattered and broke and as quickly froze over again. The Avilda groaned through the waves, creaking all the way down her hull under the strain. Kate groaned through the swing of the bat, her shoulders creaking beneath the weight, the strain. This wasn't work, this wasn't making a buck, this was survival, plain and simple. Numbness began in the tips of her fingers and crept up through her hands to her wrists and arms. Behind her came the crash of ice as Seth broke a large piece free from the catwalk.

Ice shattered from the bow and splashed into the water below. Andy worked his way up one railing and down the other, as behind him a new layer froze and thickened.

The baseball bat beat its way with monotonous regularity from one side of the fo'c'sle and back again. The wind made the rigging hum, sharp needles of freezing spray pierced her skin, the deck was icy and treacherous beneath her feet.

Kate had ceased to care. The bat rose and fell, rose and fell. The ice began to take on personality, to become an animate force, malevolent, vindictive, relentless, maniacal, homicidal. No matter how hard or how often the bat fell, the ice reappeared inexorably, inevitably behind it, enfolding the Avilda in a cold embrace, enveloping the crew in wintry arms, its purpose a deadly seduction whose end was death.

The ever-increasing weight of this deadly seduction slowed the movement of both ship and crew. With each sluggish list the layer of ice grew thicker and the Avilda took longer to right herself again. With each lift of her arms it seemed to take Kate longer to bring the bat down, harder to exert the force necessary to break off the ice.

She felt lethargic, torpid, apathetic. She was so tired. All she wanted was to find somewhere to lay down and go to sleep forever. It didn't matter if the bunk was wet or dry or frozen over. She just wanted to close her eyes.

She came alert with a jerk that pulled her out of her stupor, and blinked her eyes against the ice forming on her lashes. Think, she told herself. Just think for a minute.

The engine coughed once, hesitated for one eternal moment and again picked up the beat. The vibrations pulsated up through the deck into her feet, a life-giving cadence counting off. Kate refused to think of it as counting down.

Cadence. Meter. Stress. Poetry. In another life she used to read poetry. What poetry did she used to read? Her Mind was blank, like the engine forgetting how to run for that one terrifying second. Words finally came. "The ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around."

The words of the Ancient Mariner sprang unbidden to mind and Kate shook her head doggedly. What else?

"Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made." No. Definitely not. "Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me."

She stopped the bat in mid-swing, brought it down to rest on the deck and leaned on it, letting her head hang, ignoring the bite of the freezing spray, the icy fingers of the wind, taking long, deep, steadying breaths.

When she raised the bat again, it was to the four-four, four-three beat of ballads. "East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet." "A French cocked hat on his forehead and a bunch of lace at his chin."

"One if by land, and two if by sea; and I on the opposite shore will be." "I sprang to the stirrup and Joris and he, I galloped, Dirk galloped, we all galloped three."

She wondered why she had never noticed before how so many ballads were written on horseback. The bat was coming down steadily now, in its own asymmetrical rhythm, batting out a tattoo of endurance, a measure of survival. When she got home, if she got home, she could write a ballad of her own. A bat in my hand and ice at my feet, and I in Dutch Harbor will Jack Morgan meet, ready his head into marshmallow beat, sheer satisfaction was never so sweet. She laughed, an involuntary snort of real amusement, surprising herself and astounding Andy, who paused with his sledgehammer in the air to look over at her with incredulous eyes. Longfellow she wasn't. She wasn't even Dr. Seuss.

Hours later, days later, years later, she felt rather than heard someone shouting. After a moment, she realized they were shouting at her. She looked up, dazed, to see Andy reaching for her. As if from a great distance she saw his hand close on her shoulder. He gave her a hard shake and she couldn't feel it. "Kate?"

She tried to shrug his hand away. Had to keep swinging.

Had to beat the ice. Had to keep the Avilda with her head up and her feet down. " 'He would answer to hi or to any loud cry,' " she muttered.

He peered at her, his young face red and chapped with frostbite. "Kate! Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right," she said petulantly, shrugging again beneath his hand. "What do you want?"

"We've stopped making ice. You can quit now."

Like coming out of a trance, Kate woke to the realization of a deck no longer canting so drastically beneath her feet that she had to fear losing her foothold and sliding overboard. There was no noise from the engine, from which she painstakingly formulated the hypothesis that it had been shut down. No spray hit the deck.

The gusting wind had died to a breeze that barely rippled the surface of the water, as if the Cradle of the Winds were saying, What, me? Hurt you? How could you think such a thing? It was all just a little joke, teehee. You can relax now, catch some Z's. Sleep tight, and don't let those bedbugs bite.

Kate didn't believe a word of it but she was too tired to express her distrust. "Where are we?"

"Some island," Andy said, his voice weary. "Some bay on some island. I didn't ask."

"When killer whales come into a bay it means someone is going to die," Kate said.

"What?" Andy looked closer at her. "You look like hell, Kate. Hit the rack. I'll stow these." He reached for the bat. She resisted for a moment, and then let go so suddenly he staggered back a step. "Go on," he said, recovering his balance. "Go to bed."

Her mind searched tiredly for the correct response.

When she spoke her tongue felt thick in her mouth.

"Who's on watch?"

"We're on the hook, Kate," he said patiently. "We're anchored up in a bay on some island."

"A bay on some island," Kate repeated. "Did I tell you about the killer whales?"

"Yes, you told me." He turned her firmly in the direction of the galley door. "Go to bed."

She twisted her mouth into the semblance of a smile and he winced away from it. "Isn't Alaska just the greatest place?"

In the galley she stumbled into Ned and Seth coming down from the bridge, Harry behind them. As weary as she was the expression on their faces stopped her in her tracks. "What's wrong?"

The two men exchanged glances. "Another boat got caught in the same storm."

"Which one?"

Again that exchange of glances. "The Daisy Mae."

A sick dread grew inside her. "And?"

Seth shook his head, his gaze somber. "They were able to get off a distress call, and their Loran numbers. The Coast Guard responded but by the time they got there, there was nothing."

"They recover the bodies?"

He shook his head again. "Then we have to go," Kate said. "They might have had time to get into their survival suits. We have to go help look. We have to," she insisted at his disbelieving look. "We have to look for them.

They'd look for us."

"We barely made it this far," Harry growled. "The Coasties are on the scene, and half a dozen other boats.