Free Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw Page B

Every day that we missed fishing was one day closer to the end of the season and one day more beyond the peak moon phase. If we averaged two thousand pounds a day and received four dollars per pound for our catch, we were missing out on eight thousand dollars each day that we were delayed. I was sure that Scotty was capable of doing the same math. Maybe I should have insisted on a mechanic going over the newly rebuilt engine before we left Fairhaven. But we had been in such a hurry to get off the dock with the same calculations and knowing that Scotty was leaving, that thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been told that the boat was ready to go fishing, and I had believed it.
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    I fretted around the wheelhouse for a minute before picking up the satellite phone to call Jim Budi. I remembered, way back, putting off reporting a blown generator engine to its owner for three weeks. Of course, running the generator with no oil had led to that calamity. And I had to accept responsibility for inadvertently pumping all the oil out while the engine was running. Not to mention my part in turning off the low-oil-pressure alarm because the ringing was bothering me, which resulted in bypassing the automatic shutoff. This was much different. I did not feel at all responsible for the Seahawk ’s present mechanical malfunction. It’s just hard to deliver bad news.
    I was spared the awkward call when the boat’s satellite telephone didn’t work. So much of the Seahawk ’s electronic equipment was outdated, or just plain broken and not repaired, that I wasn’t surprised to hear the faint, hollow ringing of dead air in the phone’s handset. Archie appeared with his phone just as I was getting ready to radio Scotty and ask that he use his phone to relay my predicament to our shared boss. “Do you need my phone? That thing”—Arch pointed to the boat’s phone—“is a piece of junk. Can you believe the engine? That was the only part of the boat I wasn’t worried about.” Arch screwed the antenna wire into the bottom of the bulky phone and held it out for me to use.
    I found Jim Budi’s cell-phone number on the margin of the chart where I had scribbled it. I dialed. He answered. I reported. He responded. I hung up. “Jim will call Malcolm, and they’ll line up a mechanic and let us know what the arrangements are,” I said to Arch. “Scotty will be here in about six hours. The shaft will need to be secured before we get hooked up with the towline,” I said, thinking out loud. “Is there any chain aboard?” I asked, knowing that chain was the only reliable way to lash down the propeller shaft to keep it from turning while we were being towed. If the shaft spins without the engine running, there is no oil cooling and lubricating the reverse gear and there is great risk of frying the transmission. We certainly didn’t need anything more to keep the mechanic employed or to further delay our fishing trip.
    â€œThe guys are searching for chain.” I should have known that Arch would already have thought of it. “The coals are perfect. We might as well have dinner. It’s a beautiful night.” God, I wanted to be as cool as Archie was right now. I agreed that we had nothing else to do until Scotty arrived, and although I had no appetite, I would happily eat steak and try to think of something positive—like the weather.
    By the time I had taken two bites of my meal, all the positive conversation had been exhausted, making the food hard to swallow. Even Archie had engaged in, and seemed to rather enjoy, bashing the mechanic, Malcolm MacLean, Jim Budi, and Malcolm’s son Putnam, whom the guys had tagged with the name Putz. Complaints were numerous, wide-ranging, and totally warranted. Because they were raging mad, there was a no-holds-barred attitude in my crew’s conversation, and I learned a few things that the men had