Free Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw

bitching, but I was with the men in spirit in my total dismay at our present situation. I prayed that the engine would be fine to run slowly so that we could make landfall under our own steam and avoid the dreaded tow.
    The engine compartment’s noise and heat finally sent me topside for a breath of air and a look around to ensure that we weren’t in the path of any oncoming traffic. Hiltz and Machado stood in the entryway at the main deck level. They had listened to the shouted conversation that had risen with wafts of heat and fumes from below, so they knew all that there was to know. “It looks a little crowded down there, but if you need help, we’re here,” said Machado. “The engine room ain’t my thing.”
    â€œThanks. I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Tim and Arch have it under control. I’m going up to peek at the radar.”
    â€œI just looked,” said Hiltz. “There’s nothing around. We’ll keep a lookout for you. Do we need a tow? Are you going to call Scotty?”
    â€œI’m hoping we can limp to Nova Scotia and not have to bother Scotty. We’ll know in a few minutes,” I said, and forced myself back down into the uncomfortable heat and noise. The last of Hiltz’s mantra about his only desire being to catch fish was quickly drowned by the sound of the generator. I felt like an automaton, going through motions without external motive. I was acting and not reacting. Acting as captain was not the same as being captain.
    Arch and Tim were both greasy and rusty from fingertips to massive mid-forearms. Tim’s usual boyish look had turned to a grimace, and his freckles were lost in redness. Arch appeared unruffled, and this I attributed to his age. Tim tightened the last bolt securing the head cover and gave Arch a look of desperation. “I don’t like it,” he said.
    â€œI don’t like it either,” Arch replied. “But it’s the best we can do. We don’t have the right tools, and we don’t know the history here. We can call for a tow, or we can start the engine and hope it’s good enough. The engine is already broken, Tim. It’s not your fault.” Tim nodded and smiled a brief thanks to his friend for removing whatever he was carrying in the way of false responsibility for our troubles.
    â€œReady to try her?” I shouted. Arch crossed his fingers and stepped back from the engine. Tim hovered over the work site and chewed his lower lip. I hit the toggle starting the Cummins and listened intently, poised to shut the engine back down if necessary. She sounded good. Could we be this lucky? The prospect of success scintillated in a far corner of my mind. I barely dared to breathe. Tim and Arch got busy with the temperature gauge, checking the six-cylinder heads for any sign of abnormally high readings. Satisfied that everything was okay at idle, I signaled that I was going to the bridge to put the boat in gear and try the engine under a slight load. I hustled up the two flights of stairs while the men took positions to relay verbal commands from wheelhouse to bilge.
    I put the boat in gear with every ounce of anticipation in the balance, waiting for an explosion—or nothing. The engine could suddenly seize up, catch fire, or come unglued, I knew. Or it could run smoothly all the way to the fishing grounds and then blow up. Or it could be fine for the next several years. I hoped that Timmy was clear of the engine as I pushed the throttle up a hair. I recalled a generator aboard the Hannah Boden that blew up because of lack of oil. A red-hot chunk of steel from the block had flown across the engine room and directly into the engineer’s boot, where it traveled down to the top of his foot and burned a deep and dirty hole before he could get the boot off. I yelled to Hiltz to tell Timmy to stand back from the engine and heard the request echo down through the chain of voices