Dead Center

In the path of a cargo ship headed for Spain

Chapter Six — Perry

Clouds formed a thick line from a seaward direction, and the wind picked up. He needed a tow into the harbor, especially if a storm was coming. While fishing, he had seen small power boats, sailboats, and larger yachts pass by from a distance, but not now. The current moved him seaward as the sun began to set behind him.

A sound made him turn. A white power boat was heading straight for him from the open sea, moving fast. He took the paddle and shoved the back of the kayak around so that he faced the ocean. They could give him a tow, he was sure. Perry rummaged for anything he might use to signal the boat but found nothing. He raised the paddle and dropped it, attempting to splash the water. It made a minimal splash, but he continued lifting and lowering, making odd movements to draw the driver’s attention.

As the boat grew closer, he made out five or six teenage boys on a Boston Whaler. Perry began yelling and waving his paddle when they were close enough to notice. He was exhausted, but this was his only hope.

“Stop! Help me!” He screamed.

The boys laughed and pointed at his kayak, raising beers as if cheering him on in a race. The boat headed straight for him, and Perry waited for the crash. As the bow of the Whaler loomed toward the kayak, at the last minute, it jerked at a ninety-degree angle, its wake threatening to capsize the kayak.

He dropped the paddle, scrambled to hold his seat, grabbed a small bucket he used for bait, and began bailing. He grabbed the sonar from the floor and stuffed it behind him to save it from popping out into the open water. As he looked over his shoulder, the power boat sped toward the bridge in the dusk, giving a wide berth to the container ship. Perry raised his arm and hand skyward, the third finger extended.

He stopped, his mouth gaping at what was in front of him.

A cargo ship heading straight for him was the size of a building. Both red and green port and starboard lights were clear now in the dusk. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. He was dead center of the ship’s bow. Could the captain see him in the dusk? How had he missed seeing something so big?

He grabbed his spare life vest floating at his feet and pulled it over the inflatable one he already wore, snapping the straps and tightening it. He struggled to row cross-current using the paddle to get himself out of the boat’s path. Even with both life vests, he was sure he would drown if he jumped overboard. The pull from the ship would drag him under.

“Damn it, why didn’t I learn to swim?” He said aloud, continuing to toss out swear words as he rowed. “Because you’re a chicken shit, that’s why.”

He grabbed his paddles once again. No matter how fast he rowed, he was still dead center in the path of the looming container ship. It was obvious. No one saw him.

The ship would run right over him.

Chapter Seven — Captain Weathers

The captain glanced at the sunset through the starboard door—the golden hour. Although the new harbor pilot was in command, Weathers was still watchful around the nervous young boy who was guiding his ship through the channel markers. The pickup tug was behind them, ready to retrieve the boy at the end of the channel. All appeared clear, and the Captain relaxed, looking forward to the open sea. A power boat sped past on the port side, teenage boys laughing and carrying on at high speed. He wouldn’t want to be their parents.

He picked up his binoculars to search the gray horizon. Dead ahead was a tiny craft with a man, all monkey arms and elbows as he paddled. In a shipping channel? What kind of boat was this? He couldn’t quite tell in the growing darkness. He had seen a lot of stupid things in his time, but this floating contraption had to be the worst.

The captain dropped the binoculars and went to grab the controls, but hesitated and dropped his hands. He would lose his license for violating protocol. He glanced at the young man piloting his boat. The harbor rules required a harbor pilot to guide international ships out to sea. He couldn’t take the controls for at least ten more miles. Hadn’t the young pilot seen the man in the boat? The boy’s hands were relaxed, a grin on his face, his eyes unfocused. It was obvious the boy’s thoughts were elsewhere.

The blood drained from the captain’s face. There was no way he could stop the ship in time. Cutting the engine would not help. If he slammed the rudders into reverse, it would shift his entire cargo. He scuttled from one side window of the control room to the other, locating the lights of the harbor tugboats. The young pilot, now alarmed, swiveled with the captain’s movements.

“Captain, what’s wrong?” He said.

“Murphy, darn it, boy, get on that radio now and call your boss. Didn’t you see that man? Or did you think maybe he’d disappear?”

The young pilot blinked and grabbed the handheld radio at his hip, his face confused. His finger hovered over the button, but he didn’t press it to call the harbor master.

“What man?” The pilot searched the dusk ahead of him.

“The idiot in the boat right in front of you,” the captain snapped. The captain grabbed the boat’s microphone and flipped the switch to broadcast over the radio and through loudspeakers.

“Small craft dead ahead!” His deep voice echoed across the water to the tugboats.

He pushed the air horn with five short blasts. He paused and made five more bursts. His radio transmission and air horn blasts set off a series of actions by the tug and the fire boat, but they would never make it. He was certain the man would be plowed under by his ship.

The young pilot was still fumbling with his portable radio. Shoving him aside, the captain searched the instruments, checked the channel’s depth and speed, and made slight adjustments that would take his ship a little more to the left of the kayak, but not allow his vessel to run aground or shift its cargo. Even if he reduced his speed by two knots, what good would it do? To stop the ship would take at least a mile.

The cargo was his responsibility, not the stupid man in a foolish boat. Once the ship adjusted to the speed, he reduced it a little more, knowing he could not stop. The idiot in the water would have to get himself out of the way in time.

Or not.