Free Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw Page A

before I dared to ease on more throttle.
    We were up to 1,100 rpm, and I was as nervous as anyone would be after lighting a fuse and wondering if that particular firecracker would be a dud or a bell ringer. Waiting for an explosion that may or may not happen is a strange feeling, and one that I had never experienced at the hands of my means of propulsion. The tipping point was 1,150 rpm. I hadn’t removed my hand from the throttle control when I heard the clatter from below. The knocking was worse this time around, as if someone were inside the engine and trying to get out with a sledgehammer. I heard the screams come up the chain to kill the engine, and I had already done so when the last link yelled, “Shut her down!”
    â€œNo shit,” I whispered to myself. This was absolutely the worst of all possible scenarios. Twenty-four hours into my epic comeback trip, and here I was, drifting with a blown engine. “Fuck,” I said, a little louder.
    â€œWe’re done, Linny. I guess you better call for a tow,” Arch said matter-of-factly. “I have to go down and cheer up the guys. They’re all bummed out. Things could be a lot worse. I mean, no one’s hurt or dying, right? It’s just a machine, and it can be fixed.” And his neatly combed blond head vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me behind to come to grips with the fact that I had a lot to learn from Archie’s reaction and attitude. A much younger Linda Greenlaw would have been enraged at this point and savagely lashing out at anyone and anything. A younger me would throw things and use language that even the crew would find crude. Now I seemed to be adopting a never-let-them-see-you-sweat style of dealing. The out-of-body-experience feeling lingered with the perception of myself as not doing anything. Was this a complication that had come with my newfound, mature confidence? I finally resolved that this change was just part of a natural evolution, not a conscious effort to appear cool. I remembered the last flat tire I’d had, and knew I hadn’t kicked it even without witnesses. Maybe land-based Linda had imprinted onto seagoing Linda.
    â€œ Eagle Eye II, Seahawk. Pick me up, Scotty?” I called over the SSB radio.
    â€œI’ll bet I could!” Scotty’s response was quick and cheerful. “What’s happenin’, Linda? Come on.” I quickly explained my situation to Captain Scotty, including the part about needing a tow to Nova Scotia for repairs, and never uttered a foul word. I gave him my present position and distance from Halifax, the closest harbor that I knew would have proper support, which was sixty-two nautical miles to my north. “I’m on my way. I should be to you just before midnight. Have you spoken with Jim or Malcolm? Come on.” He asked about contact with the boats’ owner and manager. I confirmed that I had not yet delivered the bad news to upper management and would, now that I had lined up a tow. I thanked Scotty profusely before ending my transmission, as I knew how badly he wanted and needed to get his boat to the grounds and begin putting fish aboard.
    The ultimate exercise in humility was waiting helplessly for someone to come to your rescue, I realized. The prospect of being on the wrong end of the tow rope was something that I could only think of as complete and total subservience. How could I maintain any illusion of being captainly while in such a state of submission? Because I’d never been in this particular predicament before, I couldn’t draw on past experience to know how to feel or what to do or how to act.
    Scotty had been a friend for many years. And seeing as both of our boats were owned, at least in part, by the same man, he really couldn’t have said no to my request for rescue. I could have called the Canadian coast guard for a tow. But that would have taken longer and been more complicated. And time was money.