Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

Working quickly now, he chiseled off the plate on the port seabox and another column of water exploded from the pipe. Finally, he opened the seacocks for the port and starboard engines, and he had two more three-inch blasts of water pouring into the engine room.

He stepped back to the door and admired his handiwork. All told, he had the equivalent of a sixteen-inch column of water flowing, under great pressure, from the Pacific Ocean into the big yacht.

Pleased with himself, he went back to the stairs and started up. Then he stopped and remembered. On the other side of the engine room was yet another corridor of guest cabins. Shit. He’d have to check them.

He ran back down the stairs and was greeted by a good two feet of water at the bottom. He waded through the engine room to its other door and into the corridor, checking cabins on both sides. The last cabin on the port side was locked. He’d have to hurry now, because soon access to the forward stairs would be under water, and unless there was an aft way up, he’d be trapped. Already the angle of the deck told him the yacht was increasingly down by her bows. He was about to turn back when he thought he heard a noise over the roar of incoming water, a kind of thumping. He listened, then walked aft and listened again. It had stopped. He turned to leave, and it started again. He put his ear to the last port cabin, the one that was locked, and was rewarded with a thump. Someone was inside the cabin, and he had no idea where the key was.

He rammed his shoulder and all his weight against the door, but it didn’t budge. He put his back against the opposite side of the corridor, grabbed a handhold above his head, lifted his feet, and kicked with all his might at the lock. Again and again, he kicked, and suddenly the door burst open and water flooded from the corridor into the cabin. The lights were still working, and he hit the switch in the cabin. The lights flashed on, and Stone looked inside, stunned. A woman was lying on a berth, her hands bound with duct tape and her mouth taped as well. Her frightened eyes stared at him. She had been kicking the bulkhead at her feet.

“Arrington!” he shouted. He ran to her and yanked the tape from her mouth.

She made a noise of pain. “Stone! Dear God, how did you get here?”

“Never mind that,” he said, yanking at the tape that bound her wrists, “we’ve got to get out of here; the yacht is sinking!”

The tape came free; he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the cabin door. Then she stopped with a jerk.

“Wait,” she yelled over the roar of water, “my ankle!”

Stone looked down. He had seen such shackles a thousand times when moving prisoners, but this one was longer. One end closed around her right ankle; the other was attached to a U-bolt in a plate welded to the hull of the yacht. He remembered seeing it on his inspection, and now he knew what it was for. “Who has the key?” he shouted.

“The captain!”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said.

“What?”

“Let me think!” He thought. Dino would have a handcuff key on his key ring, he was sure of that. Almost. But he wouldn’t have time to run up three decks, get the key, then get back down before the lower deck was completely swamped and Arrington had drowned. He’d never make it. He had one other chance, though.

“Wait here,” he shouted, “I’ll be right back!”

“Don’t leave me here!” she screamed, clutching at him.

With difficulty, he pulled her hands away. “I’ve got to get something,” he said, then left her. He waded up the corridor to the engine room door, which stood open. The water here was waist deep now, and it was pouring through the doorway. Stone struggled against the current, using the yacht’s handholds. When he got through the engine room door and across the space, he took a deep breath and went under the water.

The engine room deckhead light was still on, but he could see nothing under the water. He felt along the deck, hoping against hope. Nothing. He came up, grabbed another few deep breaths, packing oxygen into his lungs, then submerged again.

He wanted the hammer and chisel, but he couldn’t remember where he had dropped them. Probably the rushing water had moved them around anyway. But his hand touched something else, and he grabbed at it, breaking the surface with the sledgehammer in his hands.

He waded quickly back down the corridor with the water above his waist and got back into the cabin with Arrington. “Get back on the bed,” he yelled, “and give me room!” Seeing the hammer in his hands, she obeyed him.

“Hurry!” she screamed.

Stone grabbed the chain to her ankle and followed it in the other direction, to the U-bolt. Pulling on the chain with his left hand, he swung the harnmer at the U-bolt with all his strength, but he was working under water, and the weight of the hammer had less effect than it would on the surface. He banged away at the bolt and its plate, hoping to God that it was spot-welded and not welded for the whole circumference of the plate.

“For Christ’s sake, Stone, hurry!” Arrington screamed. The water was up to her waist, since she was standing on the bed, but it was up to Stone’s neck.

He didn’t have the breath to answer her, he just kept on banging away at the U-bolt. Finally he dropped the chain, grabbed the hammer with both hands and swung it with all his might. He thought he felt something give. He felt underwater for the chain, grabbed it, and held it above the surface with the U-bolt and its plate dangling from the end. “I got it!” he screamed, and sea water came into his mouth.

Then the lights went out.

Stone grabbed Arrington and helped her down off the bed. They had to duck underwater to get through the door, which was now submerged, then surfaced in the corridor, and, half walking and half swimming, they made their way aft. The yacht was sinking much faster than Stone would have believed possible.

Gradually, as they moved toward the stern, the depth of the water decreased, since the yacht was down by the bows. Stone remembered that he had a flashlight in his pocket, and he stopped feeling his way and turned it on. Protected by its rubber covering, it still worked. “Do you remember a stairway back here anywhere?” he asked. The noise of the water coming in was less in the after part of the ship.

“No,” she said. “I was blindfolded when we came aboard.”

“There’s got to be a way up,” Stone said, half to himself. “It would be crazy to have only one set of stairs to all the decks.” He kept wading aft; the water was only waist-deep now.

“Where did you come from?” she asked. “How did you find me?”

“There’s a long answer to your first question,” he said. “I’ll tell you later. As to finding you, I had no idea whatever you were aboard. If you hadn’t been kicking the bulkhead, you’d still be in that cabin.”

“Thanks for telling me,” she said.

The light finally shone on what Stone had been looking for; a spiral staircase was only a few feet ahead. “There!” he shouted.

“Hurry!” she shouted back.

They started up the stairs, but then there was a rumble, and the yacht seemed to stand nearly on her head.

“What was that?” she asked.

“The door to the crew quarters must have given way,” Stone said, “and the water all rushed forward.”

They were now moving almost horizontally up the spiral staircase. They made the next deck and continued to move along, walking carefully on the curved banister risers.

“What do we do when we get out?” Arrington asked.

“Dino is waiting in a boat.”

“Dino?What the hell is he doing here?”

“We’ve all been very concerned about you.”