by John Harris
I jumped into the ankle-deep water and waded across to the pump, picking up what looked like a T-shaped piston with about thirty feet of hose attached to it. After five minutes of inspection and testing, in which I tried everything conceivable to get the thing to pump, I threw it on the floor. ‘Rick, it doesn’t work.’ I said, holding the hose.
No response. I’d forgotten that he was wearing headphones and couldn’t hear me. ‘Rick.’ I tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped up.
‘What?’
‘The pump, it doesn’t work.’
He looked at the hose in my hand and took off the headphones. ‘You’ve got to put that outside.’
‘I know, but the pump doesn’t... pump.’
‘You’ve got to–’
‘Look, just show me how to do it will you?’
He went across and picked up the T part, flicked a catch over and put it between his legs, a foot on top of each base plate. He brought the top T up and down a few times and I was startled as water spurted out the end of the hose. The jet of water shot across the room and soaked the radio.
There were no wisps of smoke or showers of sparks like in the movies, but when Rick rushed across and listened in the headphones, twiddling the dials, I knew it was busted. The expression on Rick’s face and the acrid smell of electrics shorting out told me as much. I stood there like an idiot, one hand still holding on to the hose, still pointing it in the same direction. If it had been a comedy I would have looked down at the hose and said, ‘Oops!’ but it wasn’t funny. I felt sick, partly because of the stinging smell and partly because of our predicament.
Rick put his head in both hands, dropping the headphones and allowing them to dangle by their cord like a pendulum under the boat’s rocking motion. Without a word I took the end of the hose upstairs and out onto the deck.
Every time I went outside now it scared me; it seemed the sea was getting higher by the minute. Where once open ocean had been replaced by sheets of rain, now the sheets of rain were being rapidly replaced by waves. The wind was blowing with such force that even waves that didn’t break against the side of the boat were blown onto us in a constant shower.
Dave looked terrified, as though he couldn’t hold on to the wheel. ‘Where’s Rick?’ he shouted as I emerged.
How should I answer that? I wondered. If I said ‘down below’ he would want to know what he was doing. I couldn’t say ‘operating the radio’, because it was broken, and he would see the look of alarm in my eyes. For some reason I wanted to keep it a secret, so I tied the hose up and darted back down below with Dave calling behind me.
‘Dave wants help,’ I said, coming back inside. ‘He looks shit scared to me.’
‘I bet he does.’ Rick looked up at me. ‘What’s it like out?’
I walked over and picked up the pump. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Oh, fooking hell.’ He stood up wearily. ‘I’ll go back up, you have a go on that pump, and when it’s clear give me a shout.’ He hesitated. ‘No, when it’s clear, get your valuables sorted like we said. I’ll go and tell Dave to do the same.’ He pushed open the hatch.
It took ages for the water to go down, and I continually put the hose to my ear to confirm that it was actually pumping. The piston hadn’t been greased and had rust freckles all over it, so I guessed that it was much less efficient than it was designed to be. Also, every so often one of the handles would work its way loose and I’d have to stop and push it back into its socket, which was a real bind.
The heat in the confined space was terrible, made worse by the humidity given off by the amount of evaporating water. After ten minutes of pumping it felt as though there was no oxygen left in the room and I started to feel dizzy from the exertion. My body was prickly with sweat, and it poured so freely down my face that I had to keep my eyes closed to stop them from stinging.
The water eventually receded, I dropped the pump on the floor and flung myself onto one of the beds, exhausted, gripping the edges of the mattress to stop me from falling off. Even then the mattress started to slide off, and I had to turn around and place both feet flat against the wall to keep it steady. I drew the curtain back, using my toes as fingers, and stared at the porthole. It was completely submerged, only occasionally rising above the surface as we rose up, before going under again in a stream of bubbles. It was like being in a submarine, and I imagined fast swimming fish coming alongside and watching me with fishy eyes.
Still in that position, my legs at a right angle to my body, I heard a noise in the doorway and looked back. Dave appeared upside-down; his sad face a smile from where I was lying. Water ran from him and dripped onto the ceiling. ‘Did Rick tell you about the radio?’ I asked.
‘Uh-huh. Don’t matter, we wouldn’t have got any help in this weather anyway.’ He stumbled in and sat on the bed. ‘John, man, I’m worried. I’m very fuckin’ worried.’
‘At least someone else is,’ I said. ‘The way Rick’s behaving you’d think nothing was wrong.’
‘He’s worried too, it’s just his way of dealing with it.’ He punched the mattress. ‘Fuck, man, why didn’t he check our position? I can’t believe he didn’t double-check it.’
I watched little rivulets of water run from his afro onto his shiny forehead. ‘Have you ever been in a storm like this before?’ I asked after a pause.
‘Yeah, but only on a ship. Not on anything this size.’
I sat up, shuffling along the mattress to his side. ‘Be honest, Dave, what d’you think our chances are?’
He frowned as though going through the options in his mind, and said, ‘Depends. Depends how long we’re out here for, how long the storm lasts, whether or not it gets any worse than this. Depends on a lot of things. But the main thing I’m worried about is the condition of this boat. Some of those ropes,’ he shook his head, ‘they’re old, and once they start to get wet they begin to fall apart, perish... ’
‘But they’ve never been used. They all look brand new.’
‘Exactly. They’ve never been used. Just lying around in the sun for a couple of years – they get brittle as shit. While we’re under sail I reckon we’ll be fine, but if those ropes start to go and we can’t lash anything in place, we’re gonna have problems. They’re already showing signs of wear and tear.’ He shook his head again. ‘Rick bought a spare length with him but that’ll only go so far.’
‘And the good news?’ A snort was about as close to a laugh as either of us could get. ‘Did Rick tell you about waterproofing your valuables?’ I asked, rolling off the bed to retrieve my bag from the wardrobe.
‘Yeah, just gonna do that now. That’s why I came down here. That and to help with the pumping.’
‘Too late,’ I said, opening the wardrobe door, ‘I’ve already done it. Looks like you’ve escaped all the hard work.’
He pushed himself off the bed and stood in the doorway, looking into the galley. ‘Yeah, you didn’t do a very good job did you? Look at that.’
I pushed him aside and looked out into the galley, the butterflies in my stomach going wild. It had already refilled with water.
SIX
‘Man the pumps!’ I’ve always wanted to say that in earnest, though I never ever thought I would, and had never imagined I’d actually be doing it. I manned them; Dave had a go at manning them, and, eventually, so did Rick. We had to; it was just too much for one person to cope with.
The pumping went on non-stop for the rest of that day and through the night, with me doing the bulk of it for obvious unskilled reasons. At no other point during our whole voyage had I ever wished so much for a sea-faring skill that would have meant me being needed on another task other than down below. At least the other two could break up the monotony with long bouts at either the radio or on deck.
My shoulders were agony and my back felt like it was going to break. I had to stand in the same position: feet on the footplates, bent over almost double with both hands gripping the T-bar, and bring my arms up and down for hours on e
nd. I tried every conceivable position, like the Kama Sutra of pumping: from sitting to kneeling to bending over, but whichever way I did it something gave. I even tried sitting on the bar and putting one hand between my legs to pull it up, rising and falling as though I was riding a horse. Rick came in, took one look at me going up and down and thought I was trying to get off on it!
The only time I could rest was during the brief period when the water had been pumped out and took fifteen minutes to seep back in again. During this time I would just lie on the bed and inspect the blisters on my hands. After the first two hours the blisters had broken, and then I got blisters on blisters. The delicate new skin wasn’t strong enough, and that too broke, leaving my palms and fingers bleeding non-stop. I wrapped them in bandages from the first aid box, but it did little to stop the pain.
To save my fingers from further damage I started to use different parts of my hands on the pump bar, working my way up each arm. I used the web between each finger, but that was too soft, splitting and leaving each membrane with a V-shaped slit in it. I had a go with my wrists, tying each hand to the push-bar with bandage. That lasted quite a long time but the problem was grip; whenever the boat rolled, the pump fell free and I had to dip my open wounds into the salt water to retrieve it.
Standing in water for so many hours made my feet look like pink brains. An intricate pattern of ridges and valleys, deep enough to stand a coin in on end, had formed all over them, right up to the ankles. My toes had turned pure white, and when I pinched the top of one to test for feeling, a piece of skin peeled off in one continuous strip like white sashimi.
At about five o’clock in the morning, during one of my fifteen-minute lulls, I fell asleep on the bed. The boat was being thrown all over the place as the swell picked up but I was too exhausted to care. Even when I was thrown onto the floor I just jammed myself in the gap between bed and wall and nodded off, my stinging hands cupped limply, one on top of the other in front of my face.
I don’t know how long I slept for, half an hour, an hour at most, but when Rick woke me up I had a splitting headache and a mouth full of saline water.
‘John, you OK?’ he said, shaking me.
I felt like I was in a womb, protected by the warm fluid. Opening one eye I could see Rick’s head looking over the edge of the mattress, water dripping from his soaked hair.
‘John, the pump... ’
I opened the other eye but couldn’t see anything clearly through it, just a misty blue. The room was stifling, so, still lying on one side, I opened my mouth to suck in air and sucked in salt water instead. The shock was horrific, like drowning. I spluttered and pushed myself upright, my hands stinging in the water.
‘The pump, John! What are you doing? The place is flooded.’
Still blinking the water from my eye, I got up onto the mattress. The bedroom too was now inches deep in water. I knew the bedroom door had a four inch threshold so it meant that the galley area must have filled to that level.
‘Fucking hell, Rick, I can’t take it any more.’ I held my hands out in front of me. They had stiffened and I couldn’t bend the fingers.
‘Shit,’ he gasped, and slumped back on the bed. ‘I’d pump it out myself, but we need two people up top.’
We must have hit the crest of a wave at that moment as both of us were lifted off the bed for a second before being deposited heavily. I looked at him. ‘Is it still bad outside?’
He nodded.
‘What, worse or the same?’
‘Worse.’ He hesitated. ‘Something’s wrong. With the navigation, I mean. The swell’s huge. Far too big for such a small sea.’ He shook his head and looked down at the water swilling around his feet. ‘I’ll be honest with you, John, I haven’t got a clue where we are now.’
‘Great.’
‘But I know one thing; these waves are too big to be caused locally. And they’re coming in the wrong direction.’
‘What do you mean, wrong direction?’
He put both of his hands out to clarify; one hand, on its edge, was the boat, the other represented the wind or waves. ‘We’re going that way, OK?’ he said. ‘The wind’s still more or less behind us, but the swell’s coming this way, against us. We’re riding over an oncoming swell!’
I hesitated. ‘So if we’re heading south... ’
‘Which we are.’
‘The waves must be coming from the south.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But that’s impossible. Bali is south, the islands are south, you said.’
‘Which means either the compass is wrong, and we’re heading north, east, or west which I doubt or–’
‘Can you check it?’
He shook his head. ‘How? There are no stars. I can’t even see the end of the boat at times, the rain’s so heavy.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘we’ve sailed into the Indian Ocean. Past Bali, or whichever islands we were near, and straight out into open water. We must have, even if the compass was wrong and we’d sailed away from the south, the swell would never be this big, or this regular. I’ve timed it: fourteen seconds apart.’
From my limited knowledge of sea swell, attained from trying to predict waves for surfing purposes, I got the basic drift of what he was saying. The bigger the body of water, the larger the waves that can be produced on it. The Mediterranean Sea, for example, produces relatively small waves, while the Pacific produces large ones. Every other sea or ocean wave lies somewhere in between, depending upon its size. The Java sea is smaller than the Med, and, even given a severe typhoon, it could never produce this kind of regular swell.
I paused, putting my head onto my stiff hands. ‘So what now?’
‘We luff.’
‘In English.’
‘Take down the sail and drift until we spot land. Or a boat. Or until the weather clears enough for us to take a bearing.’
I looked up. ‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous?’
‘It’s either that or we just keep flying along in the wrong direction.’
‘Assuming that we are going in the wrong direction.’
‘We are.’ He stood up. ‘Definitely.’
I watched him stagger to the doorway as a ripple of water from the pond that used to be the galley floor broke over the bottom of the door frame and slopped into the bedroom. ‘I can’t use the pump, Rick, my hands... ’
He wadded a few steps and picked up the pump. ‘I’ll do this and then go back up with Dave to take the sails down.’ He put both feet beside the pump to steady it, and was about to pull up the handle, when there was an almighty crash and the whole boat did what felt like a complete roll.
It’s hard to tell exactly what happened next. I was thrown through the air and landed face down against the wardrobe door with such force that it broke through its frame, splintering the wood. My head smashed against the door and I slammed against the wall, turning over and over, my legs and arms totally out of control, like washing inside a tumble dryer.
In the confined space of the wardrobe I was protected more than harmed, hemmed in by three walls. I think I now know what it would be like to lie in a coffin and roll down a hill. I was scared but at the same time safe. Of course, it’s easy to say that now, but at the time I didn’t have a clue what was happening, I didn’t even know which way was up and which was down.
At one point the weight of my body was supported on my neck, my head resting on what must have been the wardrobe ceiling. I gagged, trying to open my mouth as my chin was crushed against my chest and my back was bent double. Both knees bashed into my forehead, salt water raining down on me.
Just as abruptly, the pressure released and my body sprang back the other way under the force of gravity, sending me crashing down on the floor, landing painfully at the base of my spine. I immediately grabbed both sides of the wardrobe door frame to pull myself up, completely forgetting the pain in my hands, but the boat rolled the other way under its own momentum and I was launched out of the wardrobe.
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If the bed hadn’t been screwed to the floor I would have continued across the room and smashed my head against the opposite wall. In a rush of falling water and pieces of broken door, I landed against the bed with my thighs, my torso lying across the top at a right angle. The mattress had gone and my face was pressed hard against the plywood. The boat rolled back once more and I was left sitting upright in the wardrobe again.
I held on to the door frame, this time putting both feet hard up against the inner walls to stop myself being thrown out. The boat was being thrown everywhere at once now, and even from where I sat it was suddenly very apparent that we no longer had forward motion. Waiting no more than thirty seconds to see if we would roll again, and to catch my breath, I counted and listened. God knows why I was counting, I just did it. Maybe I thought I was going to die; I certainly felt as though I’d been to hell and back or maybe it was just an after-thought from the last thing Rick had said about counting the swell. I want to say that my whole life flashed before my eyes, but it didn’t. I had flashes before my eyes, but that was more like a snowstorm of little lights in the darkness where my brain had banged against the skull. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I saw a firework display of pulsating, popping colours and flares.
My name was called. ‘Rick!’ I shouted back.
‘John!’
‘I’m in here.’
He reached in and pulled me up with one hand. We were both thrown straight across the room, landing in a tumble on the bed and rolling against the other wall. We pulled ourselves apart and got to our feet, inspecting ourselves for damage. I had blood all over my chest and panicked, thinking that I’d been seriously wounded. Dabbing the spot with my fingers and feeling no pain, I quickly cupped a handful of water and threw it onto my chest. The blood washed away revealing unbroken skin.
‘It’s me.’ I looked up and saw Rick’s nose dripping with blood. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, wiping the blood onto the back of his hand. ‘We’ve got to get up to Dave.’
