Scorpion in the Sea

SEVENTY-NINE

Mike awoke to noise, a great deal of noise. There were many people around him, moving around his chair, and some of them were talking to him. He was bewildered by all the noise and the fact that he could hear all of them but understand none of them. He was unable to move his head at all, and had to look up at the figures around him from under his eyebrows. It was both dark and light inside the pilothouse, the darkness of night stabbed by the dazzling beams of carbon arc spotlights blazing on both sides of the ship.

He tried to move but several hands restrained him, voices saying, easy, easy, Jesus, look at his head, we need to get that thing offa there, and then they were picking him up and putting him down in a steel meshed Stokes litter, a stretcher molded to fit the human body and made of wire mesh instead of canvas fabric, with the frame of the litter draped in kapok flotation material. Hands strapped him in while other hands changed the heavy bandage on his head. He was amazed that there was no pain when they picked him up; he could no longer feel his ankles, and his head felt like a wooden block, even when they pulled the bloody bandage out of his matted hair. He could hear it, but not feel it. No pain at all. He tried to talk, but his lips were stuck together, his face felt crusted, even his eyelids seemed to stick together. He could hear the noise of a helicopter outside, maybe even two, and as they strapped him into the litter. By turning his head slightly, he could see the darkened bulk of a ship right alongside out the starboard pilothouse door, a bright red running light shining steadily amongst the dazzle of the blue-white spotlights. He moved his head slightly the other way, and saw the massive shadow of what had to be another ship out the port side door, the edges of its silhouette sparkling with lights.

Above the noise of helicopters he could hear the raucous buzzing of what sounded like several P-250 engines, and the hubbub created by dozens of men working, chain saws cutting up shoring timbers, sledgehammers banging balks of timber up against sagging bulkheads, the rush of seawater going over the side from the black P-250 dewatering hoses, the clatter of diesel engines from the boats alongside, and much shouting.

The stretcher team lifted him up and he was carried out the port side door, the downhill door it appeared, because the stretcher bearers had to struggle to keep him level against the list on the ship. He could not tell if the list was worse or not. He could barely see anything at all in the blinding lights from all the spotlights on the ships alongside. The noise of the damage control teams echoed up between the slab sides of the big ships alongside like echoes in a canyon. Again he tried to talk, but his lips would not work, and his mouth was very dry.

After they got him down the two ladders to the main deck, he thought he saw the Exec talking to another officer, the two of them standing in a cone of white light, but he was unable to call over to him, and then the Exec was gone. A powerful stink of gasoline engine exhaust fumes, fuel oil, steam, and salt water swept over him as they landed on the main deck. He had smelled it on the bridge, but it was much stronger down here, and he could see other stretchers lined up on the main deck, each with an attendant. The men carrying Mike did not stop, however, walking aft, stepping over the forms on the deck, until they reached the area of the after officer’s passageway door. Mike was amazed to see that the main deck aft of that point was awash; the stretcher bearers were standing in water up to their knees, and the ship’s lifelines were sticking up out of the black water, drawing a curving line showing where the hull was under water, disappearing where the quarterdeck and the fantail should have been. A motor whaleboat was tied alongside to a lifeline stanchion, and before Mike could take it all in, he was lifted over the partially submerged lifeline and the stretcher set down in the boat, which cast off right away. He heard another boat making its approach as his pulled away. He closed his eyes against the dazzling confusion in his brain.

Minutes later he was being loaded aboard a helicopter which was turning up on the flight deck of one of the ships alongside. The helicopter was white and had a broad orange diagonal stripe painted down its side, indicating it was a Coast Guard helicopter. Once again, he was surrounded by officers who were talking to him, and thought he recognized the I.V., of all people, but the lights and the noise overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes. He heard the deepening roar of the helicopter engines, and felt the helo lift off, hover for an instant, and then bank away into the darkness. There were other stretchered forms on the deck of the helicopter cabin, and two young women in uniform tending to some IV bottles. One of them saw him watching and came over.

“Everything OK, sailor?” she shouted above the din of the rotor blades overhead.

He tried to nod, but his head was strapped in. He still could not open his lips. She saw his predicament, and brought a damp cloth, wiping some of the dried blood off his face and his lips, and then offering a small water container with a bent, steel spout. He drank some of the water gratefully and then lay back. It hurt his teeth, and it tasted salty. Just like the bosun’s coffee. She slipped a small pillow under his head, easing the straps around his forehead, and then went back to the men with the IV’s. Mike drifted off again, wondering curiously who was taking care of the ship.