Buried At Sea by Paul Garrison

Author:Paul Garrison [Paul Garrison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-09-10T23:00:00+00:00

"Why are you so upset!"

"I'm not upset. I'm merely asking."

"You're clenching your fists."

"I look at what you do—the way you and the boat are one, and how you can fix anything and read the water and feel the wind and know so much—and I think, If I could be that good at something, I'd be completely satisfied."

"Jesus H. Christ. You're making me into a role model."

"I'm just trying to—"

"I told you, I've been messing around in boats since I was a kid. Sailing's like breathing. And breathing, young fellow, while vital, is not satisfying. Nor does it pay the bills:'

Jim blundered out of the cabin, ran up the companionway, and stood in the cockpit turning around and around in confused circles. From below he heard Will's music start again, then cut off abruptly as he plugged in his headset.

He had to go below to answer Shannon's e-mail. But instead, he jumped out of the cockpit and hurried along the narrow side deck to the bow, where he gripped the thick forestay and leaned out over the water. Then he hurried back to the stem and leaned over the bubbling wake. He felt trapped on the boat: trapped with Will, trapped with himself and his disappointment.

He walked forward again, and on sudden impulse began to haul himself up the jackstay, climbing one-armed pull-up by one-armed pull-up to the top spreader fifty feet above the deck. He stood on it, breathing hard, his arms burning with lactic acid. Jesus, he was out of shape. His pees and biceps were shrinking. He was so busy running the boat that he was neglecting his workouts. He had to do more curls and winch the spinner up and push his body.

"Again," he said to himself. "Here and now. Do it!" He went down in slow reverse, armdrop to arm-drop, his body growing stronger as his muscles heated, then immediately climbed again. Standing on the spreader he looked out at the sea. A gust heeled the boat. His perch leaned far out over the water. Suddenly, he could see past the foresail.

"Jesus Christ!"

A huge ship lay dead ahead—waiting for them.

THE SHIP WAS a dirty red and built slab-sided and square as a factory. Containers stacked high from bow to stern made it look even bigger than it was. And closer, Jim realized, as his adrenaline-speared panic threatened to paralyze him. It was three miles off, he guessed. No, closer in the haze. Another two miles he'd have run smack into it. It had a single funnel, painted blue and white. A blue and white ensign flew from its telemetry mast. Russian merchantman colors, Will had drilled into him. Hustle was sailing straight at the Russian, close hauled on a starboard tack, mainsail and fully unfurled jib pulling six and a half knots from the southwest monsoon.

"What am I doing?"

He descended the wire as fast as he could, burning his hands, and hit the deck running. There was no point in dousing the sails: even if the Russians had posted a blind lookout they'd have seen him by now.

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