He barely had enough time to pop the lid off his inflatable life raft.
The thing weighed forty five kilograms and required that he pull the emergency tabs and throw it overboard to allow it to inflate properly away from the sinking yacht. Forty-five kilograms wasn’t too onerous a weight for a grown man to lift, especially one who is experiencing the adrenaline rush that came from his fight or flight response on a sinking vessel.
Sam carefully tied one end of the safety raft to a cleat on Second Chance’s bow. He heaved the box overboard. The sodium crystals dissolved in the salt water, triggering the release mechanism, and the box popped open. Seconds later, the carbon dioxide canister deployed and could be heard releasing its gas, instantly inflating the four-man life raft.
Sam felt relieved.
The water was now more than half way up the inside of Second Chance’s hull.
He considered going back for his radio and satellite phone. Even his mobile phone would have coverage, but since he was so close to land, he decided against it. If the ship went down while he was deep inside it, there was no telling where he’d end up or if he’d be able to escape its bowels.
Sam then pulled the life raft back aboard, so that it rested comfortably against Second Chance’s shrinking freeboard. He was just about to say good bye to his beloved ship and step into the raft before it was too late.
At that exact moment, he noticed the malevolent ship make an abrupt 180 degree turn. It was, as though either the captain or a crew member finally noticed that they had nearly killed someone.
For the first time since the other vessel approached Second Chance, Sam was actually able to see someone high up on the bow of the ship. The man had blond hair, and appeared to be quite large, but otherwise had no distinguishable characteristics at that distance.
He seemed to be waving something at Sam.
Did they have a lower transom or at least a cargo net I can use to climb aboard her?
As the ship returned, Sam was finally able to get a clearer view of the man who was waving to him.
What is that in his hand? Is it a life preserver?
Then it hit him.
The man was holding a weapon.
At this distance, Sam couldn’t be certain of the type, but as the man took aim, he its purpose became obvious.
Someone wanted him dead.
The revelation struck him with painful slow clarity as he watched his life raft burst apart as the first round fired. There was a brief pause and he realized that the shooter changed the cartridge before he started firing again.
This time the bullets were shredding what was left of his yacht.
Sam was out of options, so he dived into the now almost completely water-filled hull of his sinking boat. Holding his breath, he swam down and towards the back of the ship. The water was surprisingly clear and he could just make out the location of the hole at the back end of his ship where his transom once was.
He watched the blurred trails of a number of bullets as they whizzed by him through the water, only a couple of feet ahead of him and then cease.
The shooter must be reloading his weapon.
Then the real reason occurred to him.
Sam noticed that his ears were starting to hurt.
Everything had turned black.
Second Chance had reached its critical point, at which it was no longer able to displace the surface tension of the water, and now it was starting its journey to the seabed below.
He felt as if he’d been plunged into a washing machine as he tumbled around inside the sinking boat.
His instinct was to swim out of the hole where the transom used to be. It wasn’t far. Perhaps only another fifteen feet away — an easy swim.
And then it struck him.
Someone wants me dead? Like, really dead.
He knew then that they were going to wait until Second Chance had sunk below the surface, and then they’d spray the surface with more bullets. He would never be able to hold his breath long enough to return to the surface. Instead, he would have to swim underwater, as far away from here as possible, without first dying from hypoxia.
He tried to remember his ship’s last location and the current depth beneath her keel. They were two miles off Shoal Haven heads. There would be less than a hundred feet of water at the seabed.
Sam couldn’t accept that he might die with the ship he loved. His mind fought for a solution and then it presented him with one — a very simple one.
The diving equipment was kept at the back half of the yacht. He even had an air compressor built into the transom.
But the transom’s gone, what else will be missing?
Sam’s hands began to feel around him, searching for some of his equipment.
To his relief, his left hand touched something solid — something cylindrical.
Sam opened the bottle and then closed it again. A gush of air bubbles were released. The bubbles were large enough that he could take a deep breath of air. It was an immediate solution to his need, but without a regulator he was going to be using up his air supply within minutes.
Using his hands to guide him through the hull, he reached for a drawer where he normally stored a number of regulators and dive masks. Sadly, what his hands found were a number of large pieces of splintered wood — the remnants of a broken drawer.
Did the regulator fall toward the transom and then out of the yacht, or did it fall forward towards the bow?
He had no choice, Sam had to assume that one of his regulators was somewhere at the fore of the ship. If he had a mask, he might have easily been able to spot it. As it was, he was nearly blind in the dark, turbulent water inside the sinking ship, which was now more than twenty feet below the surface.
He ran his hand along the internal teak flooring. It was covered in worthless equipment. None of which was of any use to him unless he could find the regulator, and soon.
Just as he was about to turn around and swim back to the tank for another bubble of air, his left hand grasped something that felt like a small hose. It was rubbery, and could have just as easily been part of the yacht’s plumbing, but luckily, it wasn’t.
He pulled on it and felt for the end.
The familiar emergency octopus valve, known as an Ochy, was in his hand.
His head was spinning. It might be from hypoxia, or it as a result of the sudden increase in pressure, while the atmospheric pressure doubled for every thirty three feet of water above him.
Sam flicked open the air tank four more times, releasing enough air bubbles so that he could catch his breath. He then attached the first stage to the air tank, and turned the tank valve so that it was completely opened.
Depressing the blow off valve on the primary regulator, Sam watched as a huge gush of air bubbled out from the valve opening, as water was cleared from the piping.
He then placed his mouth on the primary, and inhaled.
It felt like coming home.
This was his normal environment. He was safe. He’d done this a thousand times before.
He scrambled to see the depth gauge at the end of the console. Its reading was, 80 feet. Sam remembered that he’d been sitting in 110 feet of water.
His next concern was what was going to happen when his ship struck the seabed?
Sam didn’t plan on waiting to find out.
He carried his tank, regulator and weight belt to the back of the now-open transom and swam outside.
Immediately thereafter, he watched the seabed erupt as Second Chance collided into it.
He waited a minute for the debris to settle. It would have been nice to have the luxury of giving it more time, but that wasn’t going to be possible. He was sitting at 100 feet below the surface. His air supply was going to run out pretty quick, and his maximum no-decompress time would be over even faster.