Short Story: Bottoms Up
“U.S. Coast Guard, U.S. Coast Guard, this is the recreational trawler ‘M’eye Boat’, do you copy?”
“What’s up?” Adriana, my wife and partner in our Ophthalmology practice asked as she climbed the stairs from the aft stateroom.
I pointed out the Salon’s port window.
“My god. It’s a big boat, too.”
“This is U.S. Guard Station Panama City calling the vessel My Boat. Switch to channel 16, over.”
From that preferred channel I gave our coordinates and described what I had come upon, thinking as I did that I was fortunate that I had not careened into it. We were night cruising, trying to make up time to go from our home near Mobile Bay to Adriana’s parent’s home in Naples. We had been ready to go until I noticed the bilge pump working overtime flushing unwanted water from the engine room. A through-hull fitting had dislodged and I was lucky to get the boat pulled before the pump gave out. Since the massive structure was now out of the water, I took an extra few days to have the bottom painted and have a seal replaced on the port shaft that had trickle-leaked for some time. Accomplishing those tasks now meant I wouldn’t have to pull the boat for at least another year.
“Take the wheel for a minute.” Adriana did so. “I’m going up to the fly bridge to get a better view.”
Adriana took a moment to ask me if I wanted coffee and directed our kids, Kelley and Michael, to go back to their bunks in the V-berth.
I heard Seaman Paulson follow up through the topside radio. “Captain, do you see any survivors, hear any sounds from within the vessel’s hull?” I answered, “Negative.” I swung our boat around the hull-up monstrosity. No one clinging to props, dive platform or any dangling lines. I turned the spotlight in every direction. Nothing.
Paulson spoke. “Captain, can you stand by the distressed vessel until we arrive on site?” I said I would, of course.
Adriana came topside with two mugs of steaming coffee. “We’re staying nearby until the CG gets here.” She nodded and said, “Maybe this trip was one we just should have forgotten about this year.”
She took one last, long look at the belly-of-a-whale yacht/trawler—it was hard to know—likely staying afloat only because of some large pockets of ballasting air from it’s cabins.
I was coming around to position us just astern when Adriana dropped her coffee mug and screamed. A half second later, I saw it too.
The stern rose up. A brass shaft seal glimmered off a star above. The red bottom paint was dry, like water wicking off a duck. And the marine vinyl italic letters of the boat’s name shimmered out of the water for fleeting seconds.
M’eye Boat
“What’s up?” Adriana, my wife and partner in our Ophthalmology practice asked as she climbed the stairs from the aft stateroom.
I pointed out the Salon’s port window.
“My god. It’s a big boat, too.”
“This is U.S. Guard Station Panama City calling the vessel My Boat. Switch to channel 16, over.”
From that preferred channel I gave our coordinates and described what I had come upon, thinking as I did that I was fortunate that I had not careened into it. We were night cruising, trying to make up time to go from our home near Mobile Bay to Adriana’s parent’s home in Naples. We had been ready to go until I noticed the bilge pump working overtime flushing unwanted water from the engine room. A through-hull fitting had dislodged and I was lucky to get the boat pulled before the pump gave out. Since the massive structure was now out of the water, I took an extra few days to have the bottom painted and have a seal replaced on the port shaft that had trickle-leaked for some time. Accomplishing those tasks now meant I wouldn’t have to pull the boat for at least another year.
“Take the wheel for a minute.” Adriana did so. “I’m going up to the fly bridge to get a better view.”
Adriana took a moment to ask me if I wanted coffee and directed our kids, Kelley and Michael, to go back to their bunks in the V-berth.
I heard Seaman Paulson follow up through the topside radio. “Captain, do you see any survivors, hear any sounds from within the vessel’s hull?” I answered, “Negative.” I swung our boat around the hull-up monstrosity. No one clinging to props, dive platform or any dangling lines. I turned the spotlight in every direction. Nothing.
Paulson spoke. “Captain, can you stand by the distressed vessel until we arrive on site?” I said I would, of course.
Adriana came topside with two mugs of steaming coffee. “We’re staying nearby until the CG gets here.” She nodded and said, “Maybe this trip was one we just should have forgotten about this year.”
She took one last, long look at the belly-of-a-whale yacht/trawler—it was hard to know—likely staying afloat only because of some large pockets of ballasting air from it’s cabins.
I was coming around to position us just astern when Adriana dropped her coffee mug and screamed. A half second later, I saw it too.
The stern rose up. A brass shaft seal glimmered off a star above. The red bottom paint was dry, like water wicking off a duck. And the marine vinyl italic letters of the boat’s name shimmered out of the water for fleeting seconds.
M’eye Boat