She found the kit and rooted through it. There were some antacid tablets that had expired six months earlier, and she handed them over to him.
“Thanks.” He took two and chewed them, chasing them down with some water.
“You really need to update your first-aid kit.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to and keep forgetting.”
“Stop forgetting.” She poked him in the shoulder. “And get it done.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “What was that, missy?” he said in a low tone.
She blushed. “Please get it done, Sir,” she whispered.
He smiled, blowing her a kiss. “That’s better.”
But then Reed wasn’t better, unfortunately. In fact, an hour later, he suddenly doubled over in pain, sending her heart racing.
Moe, Larry, and Curly reeled in their lines while she tried to help Reed down to the deck where he writhed in pain.
“Chest…hurts…”
“Shit,” one of the guys said. “That sounds like a heart attack.”
Her own first-aid training from work kicked in, barely holding her growing panic at bay. He did seem to have all the classic signs people were told to look for with a heart attack.
“There’s aspirin in the first-aid kit. Hand it to me,” she ordered, snatching her bottle of water from the cup holder on the console.
One of the guys fumbled the box open and dug the bottle out. She gave Reed two of them and held his head up so he could chase them down with water. Then she reached for his phone, swearing when it wasn’t getting a signal.
“Do any of you have service?”
One guy pulled his phone out. “No, sorry.”
The other two shook their heads. “We left ours in the car. Sorry.”
“Shit!”
“Hail the Coast Guard,” Reed said. “Use the radio. VHF. Channel 16.”
She scanned the console and found it. She’d never seen him use it, other than to check weather reports, and keep it turned down low so it didn’t squawk all the time. She found the volume button to turn it up, and saw it was already on channel 16, then grabbed the mic.
“What do I do?” she asked him.
He started to reply, then turned and puked all over the stern deck. She dropped the mic and rolled him onto his side while one of the guys grabbed a bucket to rinse the deck off and the other two sympathetically puked over the side.
Dammit. Just great, Reed’s fucking dying, and I’m stuck in the goddamned Gulf with three puking drunks!
She helped Reed rinse his mouth out, holding his head up for him again while she held the bottle.
“Hail the Coast Guard,” he gasped. “The Clearwater air station. Declare a mayday. They’ll tell you what to do. They’ll have you change channels and give them coordinates from the GPS.” He pointed to where the unit sat mounted on the dash.
That she knew how to work. He’d shown her how to plug coordinates into it, how to pull up past trips, saved numbers, everything.
She grabbed the mic again and keyed it. “Mayday! Calling the Clearwater Coast Guard! Please, I need medical assistance, I have a man having a heart attack on a boat!”
She released the mic key and nearly burst into tears when a woman responded seconds later.
“This is Coast Guard Air Station Clearwater. All traffic hold and clear channel one-six immediately. Vessel with medical emergency, please respond. Over.”
“Yes, that’s me. We’re off Sarasota. Please, you’ve got to help him!”
“Vessel needing medical assistance, this is Coast Guard Air Station Clearwater. Please switch to channel two-two and hail, acknowledge. Over.”
“Okay. I’ll change channels. Um, over.”
She switched the channel, her hands shaking, and tried again. “Mayday, Clearwater Coast Guard, are you there?”
The all-too-calm sounding operator responded and walked her through getting her GPS coordinates, the boat’s description—which Vanessa was embarrassed to realize that she needed the passengers’ input because they knew better than she did what kind of boat they were on and its size—and the nature of their medical emergency.
“Vessel stand by channel two-two. We have dispatched a rescue chopper to your location. They will contact you on this channel. Please acknowledge. Over.”
She looked at Reed, who had one hand clenched over his chest, his face contorted in pain. “Please, hurry! How long will they take? He’s in a lot of pain!” She shoved daymares of him dying in her arms out of her brain.
“Ma’am, they are en route to your location now, ETA twenty minutes. Vessel stand by and continue monitor this channel for contact. Coast Guard Air Station Clearwater, clear channel two-two for channel one-six. Out.”
She dropped the mic again and knelt next to Reed, pulling him into her arms. “Don’t you dare fucking die on me,” she said. “You’re not allowed to goddamned die on me!”
He winced with pain. “Trying not to, babe. Believe me, it’s not on my to-do list.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Vanessa still knelt on the deck with Reed when she heard the radio sound off again, this time a man’s voice.
“Vessel twenty-eight-foot Mako needing medical assistance, this is Coast Guard Air Rescue 6014. Please verify your current coordinates. Over.”
The guy not puking his guts up grabbed the swinging mic and handed it to her. She read the numbers off the GPS unit again and finished with, “Over.”
“Captain, are you currently underway? Over.”
“No, we’re anchored.” She fought the urge to correct him that she wasn’t a captain, much less the captain.
The captain was currently fighting for his life.
“Roger, captain. Are you currently experiencing any mechanical issues or safety issues, or are you taking on water? Over.”
“No, we’re just anchored. We were fishing. Over.”
“Roger, stand by channel two-two. This is Coast Guard Air Rescue 6014, out.”
“How long are you going to be? He’s in a lot of pain.”
“Vessel Mako, we are en route to your position, ETA seventeen minutes. Stand by channel two-two and await our next communication, or hail us if the patient’s condition changes. Out.”
One of the passengers spotted them first a few minutes later, about the time the radio came to life again.
“Vessel Mako, this is Coast Guard Air Rescue 6014. Captain, we have visual contact with you. Is your patient still conscious? Over.”
“Yes, hurry!”
“Captain, can you pull anchor and start your engines? Over.”
She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “Seriously? It’ll take me some time. The captain is the one who’s having the heart attack!”
“Copy that. Is there anyone else on board who can operate your vessel? Over.”
She noticed he didn’t call her captain that time. “I can, but I’m not great at it, why?”
“Copy that. Vessel Mako, we are going to dispatch a rescue swimmer to your vessel. He will board, assess the patient, and then help transfer the patient. Please acknowledge. Over.”
“Okay, just hurry.”
It felt like forever before the helicopter arrived and circled them. The pilot picked a position just forward of their bow and descended close enough to the water so the rescue swimmer could jump in. He started swimming toward the boat while the helo ascended and moved a short distance away.
One of the passengers remembered the chum bag and pulled it in, dumping it out of the way in the bait cooler. The other two helped the swimmer get on board and then scurried out of the way while he knelt next to Reed.
“How you doing, sir?”
“Lot of chest pain. Trouble breathing. Vomited.”
“Do you have a history of heart trouble or other medical conditions?”
“No. Been having indigestion. Thought that’s what it was.”
“Are you on any medications?”
“No. Just took some antac
ids a while ago, and then some aspirin when the worst of the pain hit.”
“Have you been drinking today, sir?”
“Please, he’s the captain!” she nearly screamed. “This is his charter boat. He was having some pain this morning but thought it was his breakfast.”
The rescue swimmer held up a staying palm to her but his tone remained comforting. “It’s okay, ma’am. Stay calm. We’re going to take good care of him.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“We’ll fly him up to Bayfront in St. Pete. They’ll take excellent care of him. Can you operate the boat well enough to maintain a steady speed and compass course?”
“I can drive it, but I’ve never run it by myself before.” She pointed at the passengers. “They can’t drive it—they’re drunk.”
She hated that the Coast Guard swimmer looked like he was trying to be patient with her. “Do you know how to maintain a compass heading?”
“Not really, no. I follow what the screen on the GPS tells me.”
“Are you going to be able to get your vessel back to shore, or do you need me to call a towing company?”
“Yeah, he showed me how to run the GPS and I’ve done it before, but never alone, and not with precision like you mean.”
“Okay. I need everyone to get in the bow while I have them drop a rescue basket.” He got on his radio and spoke to the chopper, who’d been hovering a short distance away and off to one side.
She leaned in and kissed Reed. “I love you, Sir,” she whispered.
He grabbed her arm and squeezed. “Love you, too, missy. I’m going to be fine. I promise.”
“You better be.”
She backed away, hugging herself throughout the process as the helicopter got into position. They dropped a guy line to the deck first, and then a rescue basket. The swimmer got a life vest on Reed and helped him get in, then signaled for the chopper to winch him up. A moment later, they’d retrieved the swimmer and were heading back to what she assumed was the north, toward St. Petersburg.
“Vessel Mako, this is Coast Guard Air Rescue 6014. We have the patient safely aboard and secure. Do you need any further assistance? Over.”
She grabbed the mic as she stared at the disappearing chopper. “No. Please, take good care of him.”
“Vessel Mako, copy that, and roger. Have a safe trip in. This is Coast Guard Air Rescue 6014, clear channel two-two, for channel one-six—out.”
She tightly clutched the mic in her hand as she stared after the disappearing helicopter.
One of the guys, the not-pukey and apparently most sober one, stepped up next to her.
“Um, we’ve been out with him a bunch of times, but we don’t know how to operate a boat. We can pull the anchor for you. We’ve helped do that.”
Fuck. Now what the hell do I do?
She took a deep breath. Tony, what do I do?
Yes, she knew it was stupid, but it was the only thing remotely keeping her growing panic at bay.
In her mind, she heard her brother’s voice.
“You got this. Plug in the return trip on the GPS like he showed you. When you get in the channel, go slow and careful. Don’t rush. Remember, it’s not a car. You got this.”
She turned to the dash and hit the button on the GPS to pull up the marina’s saved location. While the unit recalculated, she chewed on her lower lip, hoping she was doing it right.
Sure enough, the saved track appeared on the screen and the machine beeped at her that it was ready.
Now she had to remember the rest of it. She knew she had to make sure the engines were in neutral before she started it. It took her a moment to do that, then she started them, slipping the dead-man lanyard over her wrist.
It was common for Reed not to use it, but she wouldn’t take any chances with the three chipdrunks on board. She wouldn’t trust them enough to not run over her in the process of coming to get her if she fell overboard.
She pointed to the most-sober guy. “Can you get the anchor for me?”
“Yeah. He always nudges the boat forward to make it easier.
“Okay.”
He stumbled his way up to the bow and got ready.
She eased the throttles forward a little, hearing the engines rev but they weren’t making any progress.
“You have to put it in gear.” One of guys pointed. “See? You have to pull it back down to neutral and squeeze that lever.
“Oh.” She did, feeling stupid and remembering it now. She eased the engines forward, steering the direction the guy pulling the anchor indicated while he hauled line in, hand-over-hand, and finally got it and the anchor stowed in the front locker.
“Okay. Everyone sit down and hang on,” she said. “This is going to be a rough ride.”
* * * *
It probably wasn’t the prettiest return to the marina the boat had ever seen. It took her several minutes to get comfortable opening the throttle up and pushing them up onto plane.
Then, it finally hit her what the Coast Guard swimmer had meant by holding a compass course. The GPS readings usually agreed—or were close enough—to what the compass on the dash showed. Once she realized that, she focused on the compass instead of making her actual track line on the GPS match the return course plot.
Her track grew a lot straighter as a result.
She nearly cried with relief when she started recognizing landmarks and then spotted the head marker. Once they were there, she didn’t need the GPS anymore, because she knew how to get back to the marina. She remembered how and where to slow down and instead of docking at the fuel dock like Reed usually would to let off passengers, she bypassed that and went right to his slip, pulling in bow-first instead of backing it in like he usually did.
At least the passengers had sobered up enough to help tie the boat up and unload it. She normally would have just left everything on the boat but knew the five minutes it would take to get the rods, coolers, and electronics off the boat and into the back of Reed’s truck wouldn’t hurt anything.
The three guys helped her with that, too. Fortunately, Reed had left his truck keys in the dash, with his phone. She’d had a second of panic when she didn’t see his keys, but then found them where they’d slid into a back corner of the compartment.
Five minutes later, after the passengers promised to sit and wait another hour before driving home, she was in the truck and heading north on 301 to get to the Interstate.
Pulling her phone from her purse, she called Lyle and got his voice mail, which she’d been afraid of. He was supposed to be in seminars until after six that night, and would have his phone turned off.
“Lyle, call me as soon as you get this. There was…there’s a problem and I need to talk to you. Please, call me. Love you.”
She couldn’t break the news in a voice mail.
Praying Reed would come through this okay, and once again kicking herself that she didn’t push harder for him to get checked out sooner, she threaded her way north through traffic.
She hadn’t been to Bayfront before, but she knew where it was, one of the taller buildings in downtown St. Pete and part of a large, sprawling medical campus complex that also housed All Children’s Hospital and other medical buildings.
As she raced into the ER entrance, she knew she must look like hell, dressed in shorts and flip flops and a T-shirt and half-crazed. She slid to a stop at the desk.
“My…boyfriend. He was picked up from a boat in the Gulf by a Coast Guard helicopter a couple of hours ago. They said they’d be bringing him here. Is he okay? Reed Laurence Hibbard. Please, tell me he’s okay!”
The receptionist tapped into a computer and wrote something down on a sticky note. “You said you’re his girlfriend?”
“Yes, please.”
“Hold on.” She picked up a phone, glancing at Vanessa before dialing and speaking to someone briefly. Then she focused on Vanessa again. “What was your name, ma’am?”
“Vanessa Riddick.”
T
he nurse repeated it to whoever she was talking to, listened, then nodded and hung up. She handed Vanessa the sticky note. “That’s his room number. You can go down that hall over there, take the elevators up to the fourth floor, and turn right, follow the signs.
“Is he okay?”
“You can speak to his nurse up there.”
“Is it the ICU?”
“No, ma’am. A regular room.”
She bolted for the bank of elevators, trying not to cry, praying he was okay. If he was in a room, he had to be okay and not dying, right?
Just as she was getting into the elevator, her phone rang.
Lyle.
She answered.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “You sounded serious.”
“Hey, listen, I need to talk to you.” The doors slid shut. “I’m at Bayfront. We were out on the boat and I had to call the Coast Guard because Reed had signs of a heart attack. They came with a chopper and airlifted him. I literally just got here to the hospital and got his room number. I’m going up to see how he is.”
She realized Lyle was awfully quiet, and as the doors slid open on her floor, she realized the call had disconnected.
“Shit!”
Trying to call him back and run and navigate at the same time proved problematic, especially when she kept getting Lyle’s voice mail as she repeatedly tried redial.
Finally, she found the room, blowing right past the nurse’s station in the process.
Reed was sitting up in bed, playing with the TV remote control.
He looked at her, smiling. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Her phone ringing in her hand startled her, and she nearly dropped it as she ran and practically flung herself at him in the bed.
As he wrapped one arm around her, and took her phone with the other, she started sobbing, so relieved to see him alive and talking and not dead!
He answered her phone. “Hey, buddy—”
“Nessie? What the hell is going on? Coast Guard chopper? Are you okay? Is Reed okay?” Lyle’s frantic screams were loud enough for her to hear even over the sound of the TV and her own sobs.
Hot Sauce [Suncoast Society] (Siren Publishing Sensations Page 18
