Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘Yes, exactly, that was—’

‘Thanks for your help!’ the captain says, interrupting the chief engineer as he steps over the pan and walks to the stairs that lead up to A-deck. ‘See you in the officers’ mess at four o’clock.’

‘Yes, of course…’ mumbles Big John, going red around the eyes.

‘Don’t forget one thing, John Pétursson,’ says the captain as he turns at the bottom of the stairs. ‘When we went to sea less than a week ago I trusted every member of the crew. Each and every one. ’

15:21

What should he do? What should he not do?

Sæli holds onto the railing behind the wheelhouse with both hands, strains his eyes in the salt-laden wind and stares at a white plastic box the size of a cigarette carton which is screwed onto the iron wall farthest back on the port bridge wing.

If he turns the box upside down the ship will send out an emergency signal, which means that someone will hear the signal and tow the disabled ship to the nearest harbour.

Where is the nearest harbour? It could be St John’s in Newfoundland, Halifax in Nova Scotia or Boston in Massachusetts. But that isn’t so important. What’s important is the package that Sæli has to pick up in Suriname and deliver to Iceland. If he does not pick up the package his family will suffer. If the ship is towed to North America it will be impossible for him to pick up some package in South America. Unless he flies to Suriname, gets the package and flies all the way home to Iceland. But he can’t afford to fly anywhere; and besides, he could never smuggle this package between continents by air.

But what’ll happen if the emergency signal does not get sent?

They’re dead in the water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, without any contact with the rest of the world and surrounded by high seas and storms. Actually, the storm has abated somewhat, but even so… Even if the ship drifts straight to Suriname – which, of course, would never happen – the drifting would take at least three to five weeks.

What should he do? Of two bad choices, the emergency signal seems better than drifting over the ocean out of control. Or is it? If the ship is towed to the nearest harbour everybody will have to show their passport. Does Satan have a passport? Probably not. Which means he’ll be arrested. The man who was going to help him deal with the ‘debt collector’ back in Iceland and at the same time save his family from his clutches would be handcuffed and locked in prison.

Then there’d be no hope left. If nobody comes to the rescue, though, Satan will be in the same hopeless position as everybody else on board. If it comes to the worst there’s nothing ahead but misery, starvation and death.

What should he do? What should he not do?

The cold wind whips Sæli’s hair, pulls at his clothes, bites at his face and fingers, dries his lips and draws salty tears from his eyes.

What will that bully do if he comes back to Iceland without the package? If he so much as touches one hair on the head of Lára and Egill…

‘I’ll kill you if you touch them, you fucker!’ Sæli screams into the wind and tightens his grip on the ice-cold railing.

‘What are you saying? Is everything okay?’ shouts Rúnar from inside the wheelhouse.

‘Yeah, sure – take it easy!’ Sæli calls back and pulls the screwdriver out of his pants pocket.

Damn. Damn! He has to loosen the box and turn it upside down – it’s their only fucking hope. If he doesn’t it’ll be the end of them. Damn it all!

Sæli bends down and tries to use the screwdriver under the box without losing hold of the railing. The box is screwed to two angle irons that are bolted fast to the back of the bridge wing, one screw for each angle iron. But the screws are swollen with old rust that runs in long streaks down from the angle irons. Sæli has trouble getting the screwdriver to stick in the head of the screw, and it’s even more difficult to get the rust-brown screws to move at all. Every time the screwdriver slips out of the screw head the grooves are further damaged, and Sæli bangs his hand hard on the angle iron, which doesn’t help.

‘This is impossible,’ Saeli says and looks hopelessly at his hands, which are pale, shaking with cold and covered with scratches, sores and half-dry streaks of blood. ‘Goddamn it all to hell. Fucking, fucking hell! ’

In his fury Sæli pushes the screwdriver like a knife into the box lid. A crack appears on the lid and the screwdriver sits fast in it. He jerks the screwdriver slantwise up out of the box and then the lid splits apart from one end to the other. One half blows away but the other half is still there.

Not so bad!

Sæli sticks the screwdriver back in his pocket and makes his way along the bridge wing. He holds onto the edge of the wing wall and peers into the broken plastic box. There lies the transmitter, horizontal in a specially designed Styrofoam compartment. Sæli sticks the fingers of his left hand into the box but can’t get the transmitter out. He needs to break the lid completely off. In the front of the box is the pressure lock that is supposed to blow up at a certain depth; Sæli is slightly frightened that it’s delicately set and will explode straight in his face at any more disturbance. But that’s a chance he’ll have to take.

Big John was clearly wrong when he said the transmitter was upside down in the box. Which means that it would not have been enough to turn the box upside down in order to start up the transmitter, as then it would be as horizontal and just as inactive as before. To start the transmitter he’d have had to set up the box vertically, and take care that the transmitter was vertical inside it and not upside down.

‘Come on,’ murmurs Sæli, grasping the broken box lid with his right hand. He holds onto the wall with his left hand, turns his face away, pushes with his feet, then gives the lid an unhurried but determined jerk.

Nothing happens. Sæli grimaces and holds on fast to the sharp piece, which all at once splits apart so that he loses his hold on the metal wall and falls flat on the floor of the bridge wing. He lets go of the broken piece of plastic and watches the blood pour from a deep cut on his fingertips. On the floor beside him lies the circular pressure lock; up on the metal wall sits the bottom half of the box.

Sæli stands up. He wipes the blood from his fingers on his trousers then grasps the edge of the wall on either side of the plastic box. Inside the box lies the transmitter, shaped like a disposable gas canister with a stout aerial sticking up.

Now he holds on tight with his left hand and picks up the transmitter with his right. As soon as the transmitter is vertical a red light begins to blink on the top of the aerial.

One blink, two blinks, three blinks…

The transmitter works! He is calling for help! This little instrument is the most beautiful thing Sæli has ever seen – or nearly. Nothing is as beautiful as a newborn baby – a man’s own child, that is – but this little blinking red light…

Boom!

The ship falls sideways off a huge wave and crashes with all its weight on the surface of the water, which explodes to all sides. Sæli loses his hold on the wall, flies backwards and lands on the forward wall of the bridge wing. The transmitter skids over the iron floor, spins in a circle in the middle and then rolls back behind the wheelhouse.

‘No, no !’ Sæli scrambles to his feet but he’s only managed two steps before the transmitter rolls under the railing back of the bridge wing, off the platform and out into thin air.