This was good news and bad news. The good news was that the wind shift meant Spartina was getting to the bottom of the hurricane. The bad news was that she might take some funny bounces. He couldn’t see how high the seas were running, but the time Spartina spent climbing seemed shorter. It took him a while to figure out what else was different — it was the pitch of the wind. The higher register was intermittent and more variable, rising and falling, instead of solid noise. And he could hear Spartina now. He couldn’t hear the engine, but at less than half-power that wouldn’t be very loud. What he could hear was her timbers working, groaning and creaking.
As she rolled to port in a little cross sea, he felt his right foot nudged by the Coke can.
He scooped it up, popped the top, and sucked it in. He hadn’t realized how dry he was. Almost immediately he began to sweat. He felt it popping out on his forehead and running down his sides. He reached for the thermos of coffee but put both hands on the wheel as Spartina slid sideways and rolled sharply to starboard. He turned his head at the first noise. It sounded as though he was grinding his teeth but it was the port section of window. In the glow of instrument lights, he saw the black window turn crackling white. He ducked away, his left hand still on the wheel, his right hand skidding on the floor. His left hand came loose. He was flattened against something, he couldn’t tell what. He was being pulled sideways. His left hand found an edge. It came to him slowly that what was pulling him was water.
He felt it pull past his waist, past his knees. He was lying against the door of a locker. It occurred to him with careful instructional slowness that the reason he was lying on what was normally an upright door was that Spartina was over on her starboard beam.
He was too dazed to move his body, though he felt his hand move under his face, brush his cheek. After an instant he felt his feet touch the floor. His senses cleared enough for him to feel Spartina coming back. He turned and grabbed the edge of the instrument shelf and then the wheel.
Spartina was more or less on her feet. There were no lights on the instruments. Only the binnacle light was still on.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he remembered seeing bluish light when he was lying down. The wiring shorting out from the water? Where had all the water gone? He began to shake now. The weight of the wheelhouse full of water could have pushed her over — with all that weight so high she could have turned turtle.
He leaned over and opened the locker door with his right hand and groped for the flashlight. He shone it first on the broken window. There were a few pieces of glass in the frame. He knocked them out with the flashlight so they wouldn’t blow loose. He shone the flashlight around the wheelhouse. There was an inch or two of water left sloshing around. The instruments were still in their mountings. The loose charts were gone. There was a soggy piece of one plastered to the jamb of the doorway.
He put both hands on the wheel, breathed through his nose. The open door was a piece of good luck. The water had poured out the door before its weight rolled Spartina. Once out on deck, it’d just slid away.
Of course the other piece of luck was that he hadn’t gone out the door too. And surfed on over the rail.
He could feel his hands shaking, even though they were tight on the spokes of the wheel.
In the lull of the next long valley he tried to turn his mind to sealing the broken window.
It was on the lee side now, so the wind wasn’t blowing the spray in, but another freak wave and he’d be up to his knees again. And if Spartina buried her bow again …
He could feel the edge of adrenaline ebb away. He looked for something to seal the hole. He thought of the mattress on the bunk. The wheelhouse door. The locker door.
The problem kept him in an alert state of indecision. He could hear the noise of the wind humming across the open hole. He lost track of time.
What brought him to was that he had to take a leak. He shook his head. He realized he’d been close to nodding off on his feet. He unsnapped his bib, shoved it down, and pissed into the inch of water still sliding around his feet.
He examined the window with the flashlight. Maybe not as bad as he thought. Only three feet by two feet. He took the thermos out of its bracket and put the flashlight in its place. It shone bleakly on the dead instruments, on the film of water at his feet. He drank the coffee and tossed the thermos into the locker.
Spartina took a wave over her bow that danced around the wheelhouse. By the flashlight Dick saw a bucketful of wave spill in the window. It was the locker door banging loose that nudged him. He filled his jacket pocket with nails. He took a cat’s paw from his tool box and tore the locker-door hinges loose.
In the next long trough he held the door up to the window. It didn’t fit, but better too big than too small. In the relative lull of each trough he banged in a couple of nails, through the plywood door, into the frame.
Back at the wheel he looked sideways at it. It looked like hell. One good smack of another cross-wave and it’d come flying in and he’d be lying on it like a damn Indian yogi on a bed of nails. He got his screw gun out of his tool chest. He couldn’t remember if the batteries had got wet. No. The locker door had been closed then. He was clumsy with the screw gun, he wasn’t used to using it left-handed. He zapped the first screw in askew, but the next six spun in straight. He was sweating again. The piece of plywood still seemed ominous. He got a short piece of wire and used his left hand to take some turns around the knob of the locker door. He made the other end fast to a bracket on the wall. At least this way, if the whole thing got knocked in, it would pull up short before it took his head off.
His jumping around and banging had revved him up some. Or maybe the coffee was kicking in. He checked his watch and turned out the flashlight. Getting on to midnight. Unless Spartina had drifted back a whole lot, she should be coming out.
He could feel the seas diminishing. The crests were steeper — he could hear them sizzle over the bow — but the size of everything was settling down. The time in each trough was shorter, and the time climbing the next wave. He felt a small upward pressure of hope through his chest and shoulders. And a pain in his rib cage, a twinge in his right side when he breathed. He couldn’t remember hurting himself.
He began checking his watch too often. He’d wait and wait and then sneak a look, only to find that what he’d hoped would be an elapsed hour had only been fifteen minutes.
At three in the morning he began to talk to himself. “No more looking. Forget the goddamn watch. The watch is nothing to do with it.” He pushed the watch up under his sleeve so it wouldn’t be so easy to get a look at it.
He wasn’t surprised to hear a brass band playing. It came from somewhere off the port bow, somewhere beyond the boarded-up window. It was playing a march. At first he couldn’t hear it well enough to tell what march it was. Then it came closer and he heard piccolos tweeting above the melody, and he recognized “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He began to march in place, picking his knees up until they hit the wheel. He heard the trombones and sousaphones take it, and then the whole band crashed into the big wide-open part. He sang along. “Be-ee kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody’s mother.…”
The band stopped. Those weren’t the real words, but what the hell … he’d got the goddamn poem right.