Chapter 9 of the novel, The Talking Mime

Chapter 9

Shouting fire in a crowded theater

     When someone yells "the boat is sinking," aboard a cruising sailboat - and you happen to be the captain - it's about the worst thing you can possibly imagine.

And when you find out your boat is not sinking and that the person who told you it was is within reach, their life as they have known it is over — at least on Rocinante.

As I snapped out of my sleep, I assumed that nearly $150,000 worth of fiberglass, teak and loving affection was in trouble and maybe headed for the bottom of the bay, which I knew was 20 or 25 feet below me. In seconds,  I was calculating salvage costs in my head, wondering how quickly the boat could be going down, where all the thru-hulls were located, and any tiny errant leaks I had been ignoring but simply pumping out of the bilge out every day.

Oddly, I could tell that Nym and the boys seemed clear of the boat, their voices carrying from above me down to the aft cabin where I was still stretched out trying to sit up, my notebooks crashing to the cabin sole with an assortment of pens, pencils and other detritus slipping across the cabin.  I mentally prepared a list of things I needed to grab, if Rocinante's bilge pumps failed to get enough water out of the ship for me to see what might be filling her up.

And then I thought it was all some kind of really awful bad dream.

I could still hear the shouts of Jacob, then Jerrod, saying "It's sinking. Dad! It's sinking," but their cries were getting fainter and fainter as I sat up. I stereotypically pinched myself to see if I was awake, a trick my mother taught me when I had nightmares as a child.

I swore at the welt I raised on the back of my hand and scrambled into the main cabin where a quick visual survey of the cabin told me the boat was upright and seemed fine.  I bolted up the companionway ladder to the cockpit, thinking that maybe it was the dinghy was swamped with the boys and Nym aboard.

I could hear more voices as I popped out, neatly putting my hand on the railing where a seagull had just deposited a present.

Nym and the boys were in the dinghy all right, but it was fine, listing slightly to port as it headed across the water toward a badly listing Talking Mime. The Talking Mime's deck rails were clearly visible with the yellow crime scene police tape. The starboard side was still about two feet above water, when it should have been four feet at least, a telltale that there was a lot of water below decks sloshing around. With the heavy — and 10 foot tall — flying bridge above decks, there was a danger the boat could just roll on its side.
     If it did, it would sink very fast.

"Come back! Wait! Hey," I shouted to my crew. They were nearly halfway there. And I didn't want the boys to get aboard The Talking Mime and go below.  They might be trapped if the boat rolled over and although they believe themselves to invulnerable, I know they are not. I shouted again, then realized that I would have as much luck recalling the charge of a battalion of Bengal Lancers than getting the boys — or Nym — to come back.

The twins had spent the last five years hanging around in boatyards and helping with maintenance on Rocinante and I was confident if there was an electric bilge pump switch to throw, they would find it - if it wasn't already below the rising waters in the cabin. I was worried about random electrical currents shooting about in the cabin if the ship's batteries were below the water.  If that were true, the pumps might not work at all anyway.

I watched through the field glasses as Jerrod and Jacob scrambled out of the dinghy. Jerrod went into the cabin, probably look for a  bilge pump. Nym stayed in the cockpit of The Talking Mime where I could see her going through the lockers in the back, where an emergency pump might be found.

I turned toward the shore where the remnants of the breakfast crowd had gathered on the deck of the restaurant to watch the show. Already, Jacob was rowing back to me in the dinghy, throwing a small wake, he was pulling so hard. I hoped that his leaving his mother and brother on The Talking Mime was a sign that Jerrod had already found the switch for the pump to save the sinking boat. But I was still concerned that any pump could overcome the water that might be coming in — and pump out what was already making The Talking Mime roll like a drunk on Saturday night.

"Dad! Dad!"

Jerrod was 50 yards away, half standing up in the dinghy, his voice carrying across the gulf. "Mom wants your big flashlight. And Jerrod wants our extra pump."

I dove back belowdecks, cursing silently when my Eveready Commander flashlight was missing from its hook, its lens cap mysteriously sitting on my navigation station, an indicator that the body of the flashlight and the batteries were in the V-berth where the boys slept, part of some electronic experiment going on. My main backup flashlight — hidden in the compartment with the cleaning supplies — was where it was supposed to be and by some miracle so was my portable electric bilge pump, which gave out its signature groan when I threw the switch to test it.

I grabbed four life jackets on my way back up the ladder, just in time to hear Jacob unceremoniously slam the dinghy into the side of Rocinante in his excitement. I tossed the life jackets in, holding onto my flashlight and bilge pump, beginning my lecture even before I lowered my rump onto the rear seat in the dinghy. "You guys should not have gone over to that boat. It could sink in a second," I said, knowing it probably wasn't true, but certainly sounded convincing.

"Mom said you would be mad, but you would've gone over if you had been in the dinghy already."
     It turned out that the Nym and the twins had been heading over to The Talking Mime to take a look when they saw that the ship was listing badly.
That's when the shouting started to wake me up.

I opted to put on my brooding, resigned look as we covered the distance between the boats. Jacob's wrestling muscles translate well for pushing our 11-foot hard frame dinghy through the water. From 100 yards, I could see the outlet for The Talking Mime's bilge pump which was putting out water at a furious rate, and I wondered for a split second if Jacob had started the engine and was using its water pump to empty the bilges. There was no tell-tale smell of diesel burning, though, and my respect for the power of the pumps on the boat went up.

Nym met us at the stern of the boat, grabbing the lines and acting quite official. "I think it might have been the sharpshooter," she said as I climbed aboard. 'That dog didn't have that much blood around it. I think maybe a couple of his shots went wide in his panic. he could've ripped through the bottom."

The rail on the boat did seem to be rising now, and while I could see some water inside the cabin on the floor, it was only a few inches deep on the low side. Nym's theory dovetailed with my assessment of the competency of at least on the one deputy who had done the shooting. And if she was right, we could be looking for a couple of holes least than an inch in diameter — still a problem, but fixable if there were some emergency plugs on board.

Both boys were crashing about below on the boat, doing a passable imitation of the deputies who had been going through the boat hours before. "Look around for the batteries and close all the thru-hulls," I shouted. A backsiphon could only add to the incoming water while we looked for the source. Jacob found the batteries — six giant, golf-cart type units, enough to keep the pumps working for hours if necessary, and by some miracle, they were only about half submerged with an assortment of switches to isolate individual batteries as needed.

I began to breath a little easier, but still insisted that everyone put on a life jacket in case the pumps failed and we had to make a hasty exit. Nym headed into the aft cabin to look around while I pulled up some boards covered with dried blood to see if one of the bullets had passed through the dog — and the boat.

From shore the wail of sirens joined the crowd noises. I began to worry that our presence on The Talking Mime might be misinterpreted by the authorities.

I was looking for some rags and plugs when I heard a crash from the back of the boat  and Nym called me from the aft cabin. "I think I found the leak, but you should keep checking," she said as I walked in.
     Nym had shouldered the door to the other bathroom open, knowing there was a marine toilet inside - with a big thru-hull to let sea water in to flush the marine toilet.  "The door was locked," she said.

She stepped back to show me the gleaming white marine toilet, and the two-inch hose to the unit which was cut - a neat cut, several inches above the valve where it connects to the toilet.  And judging from the lines of the boat, the valve was about a foot below the normal waterline. Water was gushing in a furious rate and draining down into the bilges.
I quickly threw of the lever for the toilet thru-hull and stopped the inflow of the water.

"I don't think this can be blamed on bad aim with a gun," Nym said.

 I didn't disagree.

Chapter 10 - Five nails in the coffin