The Mayday

Prologue

They were thirty-five nautical miles off the coast of Rhode Island.

It was a few hours before daybreak, and Seagull, a thirty-eight-foot sloop, was taking on thirty-to forty-knot gusts. She’d been doing it for the past ten hours, and although she seemed to be handling it well, her skipper was worried.

Matt figured he was still an hour away from rousing his wife, C.C., for her watch. Sean and Laurie, twelve and seven, were down there, too. They were all asleep the last he looked. If the wind got any stiffer, he’d have to bring C.C. up early. He didn’t want to do that, though. They were both worn out with this weather.

He had the mainsail reefed down. He’d reefed the genoa to the size of a storm jib that morning, and had yet to need more sail.

They were on the way back from Florida.

Matt felt uneasy. He’d made the rounds earlier on his watch, hooking his safety harness on and moving quietly over the boat.

Everything had seemed fine.

They had to be careful of shipping traffic. He had a small metal radar reflector up on the mast, and he checked his own radar regularly.

He was always a bit uneasy at night, with the possibility of ships looming out of the dark. But now there was something else, something he couldn’t quite identify.

It was good that they were almost home. They’d make it through the Cape Cod Canal by the end of the day. Once through there, it was pretty much a straight tack to Boston.

Matt loved the boat. Sailing was his passion. And this trip was his dream. While C.C. and the kids were hardly just along for the ride, even little Laurie knew the trip was mainly for Daddy.

Yet he too was ready for land.

Tired, and ready for a break.

Matt jerked to full awake. He wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been a banging sound. A vibration.

His first thought was they had hit something.

He turned to look in the boat’s wake, but it was too dark to see if they’d hit a piece of driftwood. He cursed himself softly for falling asleep on watch.

Then he checked the depth gauge even though he knew the bottom was well over a hundred feet way.

It could’ve been simply a wave that they caught wrong.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Still angry with himself.
The boat shuddered again.

Damn.

Matt grabbed the flashlight and played it on the mast. He thought he saw the mast shift. He rubbed his eyes now and stared at the pole.

Seemed…fine. Matt wanted to say, It’s fine, damn it.

But it was off.

He looked at the side stays, the cables on each side that held up the mast. He expected the two stays on the lee side to be a bit slack, with the windward side taking all the pressure.

But the lee shroud and side stay were more than slack. They were flopping around in the breeze.

His stomach dropped.

He looked on the windward side.

The chain plate had lifted. Fiberglass decking had been pulled up. The pressure of the sail was pulling the cable chain plate right through the deck.

Matt jumped back and disengaged the steering vane. He spun the
wheel desperately, trying to tack around so the port side stays could take the pressure. Already he was running through a jury-rig plan in his mind. Get on a steady port tack…lower the sails…back up the stays with lines to the rub rail, and head straight for Newport under power…

But even as the bow started to come around, a gust—blowing maybe fifty knots—came along and finished the job.

The mast bent about five feet up from the cabin roof, the aluminum creasing like a cheap curtain rod. The boom slammed down across the deck, and the masthead crashed into the sea. The chain plate snagged on the coach handrails and then broke free, whipping across the deck into the cockpit. Matt put his arm up just in time and took the blow.

His arm hurt like a bastard, but that wasn’t the worst news.

He put the flashlight to the lee. The sails filled with water. The white of the sail becoming gray-green.

Seagull began to list to port, broadside to the oncoming waves.

“Matt, what’s happening?” C.C. was hanging on in the companionway. The kids behind her.

Twelve and seven, for God’s sake.

He said, “Get their vests on, slickers, too. We just lost the mast.”

“Oh my God…”

“Daddy, you’ve got blood,” Laurie said. She pointed at his face.

He touched the side of his face and took away his hand wet with blood. His right arm was shaking, and when he felt his right forearm with his left hand, it came away with blood, too.

Then another wave swept across them broadside and he had more to worry about than lacerations.

“Hurry,” he said.

C.C. turned immediately and began to hustle the kids back.

Seagull’s broken mast made a shrieking metallic sound. Matt got to his feet and stumbled forward, seeing the aluminum tear further. The portion of the mast in the water twisted and worked, as if it too wanted to be free. Matt could see that when the break was complete, the mast would be a jagged-edged pole in the water—a pole that could puncture Seagull’s hull.

He hurried back to cockpit, opened the locker under the port bench, and pulled out a pair of red-handled cable cutters.
“What about the raft?” C.C. yelled from the cabin. Behind her the kids were snapping on their vests.

“We’ll be all right if I can cut us free. But get our position, put out a Mayday. And, Sean, come up here with me and hold the flashlight.” He hurried to the bow and went to work on the head stay.

His son was beside him in a minute, holding the flashlight steady. Matt glanced over, saw Sean had snapped a safety line to the base of one of the stanchions. Matt said, “Good boy. We’ll get through this, buddy.”

The metal was tough and it didn’t give easily. It took him longer than he thought, hacking away at it. Blood poured down over his hand and made his grip on the cutters slippery. But at last the head stay gave.

“C’mon.” They moved down to the port side stays.
He figured if he could get those off, he could let the mast stream out behind him. Then he’d have ample time to cut the backstay.
“It’s going to be OK, Laurie,” he called to his daughter. She was standing in the cockpit. “Scary, though, huh?”

She didn’t answer, just stared back at him, her eyes wide.

He kept working on the stays. He didn’t want to think himself about the position they were in. The position he’d put them all in.

He’d gotten through the first port side stay when Sean said, “Dad!”

Matt looked over his shoulder. He flashed the beam of light out to the water and they saw the biggest swell yet bearing down on them. He could hear C.C. below, saying, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” and then the wave hit.

The mast broke free from the remaining stump. Matt had to jump out of the way as it suddenly withdrew and then, still connected by the remaining side stays, plunged back against the cabin. The boat shuddered, then rocked away, and the mast slid down further, snagging on the stanchion lines briefly, then fell into the sea. Matt and Sean crawled back to the port stay and got back to cutting.

Matt started talking to himself. Hoping, praying, that the mast would slide alongside the hull.

But the sails on the mast held it in the water like a sea anchor. As the mast itself filled with water, it remained just what Matt had feared: a jagged spear sticking out of the water, attached to the boat by hardened steel cable.

The boat rocked in the next sea, and Matt had to give up on the stay when Sean played the beam onto the mast and yelled, “Dad, watch out, watch out!”

Matt rolled to his feet and pushed Sean ahead into the cockpit. They tangled in the safety lines as the broadside waves rocked the boat back toward the mast.

The mast was like a living, angry thing, gouging the deck where he had been kneeling. Seagull rocked away again, and the mast slipped out of view.

“Daddy,” Laurie cried.

She was his baby, only seven for Christ’s sakes.

“It’s all right, it’s all right.” He hurried to the backstay with the cutters, but she clung to his leg.

“Give him room, Laurie,” Sean said. “Let go.”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, trying for a calm tone. “She clings, I cut, and you hold the flashlight.” He worked on the cable and was making good progress when Seagull was hit again. He staggered, and Laurie went down with him. He quickly regained his feet and went back to work on the cable. Sean braced himself and held the flashlight.

But Matt knew the bad situation had just become considerably worse.

Seagull seemed to lift slightly, and her motion in the water was different. There was a screeching again, metal against metal. Matt could hear the rush of water.

“What’s that?” his son said.

Matt didn’t answer. He took Laurie’s hand and clutched his son by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. He was terrified, but trying to keep it under control.

“Sean, take Laurie up on the starboard rail and the two of you huddle down behind the cabin. I’m counting on you to look after her. Can you do that for me?”

Sean nodded. He took his sister’s hand. “C’mon, Laurie.”

Matt lifted up the cover for the engine compartment and played the flashlight beam inside.

His worst fear was realized.

The compartment was half full of water. The jagged end of the mast was visible, having punctured the hull. Only the engine block had kept it from moving straight through and puncturing the starboard side of the hull.

Matt turned to his wife. She was standing in the companionway, her face stark white. The microphone was in her hand.

“You get an answer to that Mayday?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not working!”

He swore under his breath and gestured to the sunken mast. “Of course not...the antenna. It’s underwater right now.” He hit his leg in frustration. He had to think.

“Grab the handheld radio and GPS. Get the flares, some food and water, while I get the raft. We’ll have the EPIRB putting out a signal for us. Maybe with the handheld we can raise a passing ship. We need somebody. ’Cause we’re going down.”

Chapter One

It was good work.

Jack Merchant had been avoiding it for a long time, but the winch had finally frozen, leaving him no choice.

But now that he was into it, the parts spread out on an old beach towel, the problem found—he was enjoying himself. A little spring had come off the ratchet inside the winch. Without that little spring, the winch couldn’t haul in the genoa sail. Without the genoa, there wasn’t much reason even to take the boat from the dock. But Merchant had been lucky enough to get the spare part at the marina store. He had the tools, the knowledge, the time.

He took a moment to look out over the harbor. The sun was low enough so that from his angle the water was a rich sea green. It was late afternoon, middle of the week. And Merchant was at home. Truly, his boat, Lila, was also his home in Boston Harbor.

He was wearing an old bathing suit and a t-shirt. His bare feet felt good on the warm fiberglass sole. A little trickle of sweat was going down his spine, but the faint breeze was keeping his brow dry.

No complaints.

He figured it'd take forty minutes or so to grease each part carefully, wipe off the excess, and put the winch back together. Maybe an hour.

Either way, there should be plenty of time for him to take a sail that afternoon. First, buy some groceries, get some beer. Then maybe he'd head out to one of the harbor islands, drop the hook. Spend the night. Maybe a couple of nights. He had enough money to not worry for the next month, maybe two.

He turned back to the winch.

It was good work.

"You're not going to leave all that grease, are you?" Sarah asked. "You've got to wipe off each part."

Merchant looked up. "You," he said.

He was surprised she'd managed to get so close without him noticing.

Her back was to the sun, but he could see she was grinning at him.

"Well?" she said. "Do I need to tell you everything?" Standing there with her hands in her back jeans pockets.

"Apparently so."

"I'm not interrupting?"

"’Course you are."

"Too bad." She climbed onboard and leaned down to kiss him. Their lips touched just lightly, and Merchant did his best not to convey how much the pleasures of fixing the winch had just paled.

Sarah was in her late twenties, dark hair, green eyes. The body of an athlete, which she was.

She said, "I've missed you the past couple of times you were down at the office."

"I noticed."

Sarah owned a marine repossession business down in New Bedford. Taking boats back from people who didn't make their payments. Since he'd come back to Boston a year ago, Merchant had helped her search and recover some of the tougher jobs. Helping her and keeping himself in dock fees and grocery money.

Merchant was fairly certain he was closer to Sarah than anyone on earth. And yet, he suspected she'd avoided him those last two times he'd been at her office.

Love, trust, intimacy.

Not always easy to get all three together.

"So,” he said. “Seeing you does good things for my heart, as usual. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“No explaining your heart, sweetie.” She stepped down into his cabin and rummaged around through the icebox until she found an iced tea. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

"I had to see somebody in town and figured I'd stop by."

"Glad you did."

She climbed back up the stairs and sat beside him. “So can I help you put your winch back together?”

“I’ve got an assistant now?”

“More like a supervisor,” she said. She kicked off her boat shoes and leaned back against the cabin bulwark. They opened their iced teas, clinked them together, and drank.

“Hi, Jack,” she said.

He said hi back. And refrained from asking her why she’d been avoiding him.

“So what have you got going on?” she asked.

He told her about some of the shooting he’d been doing. Back in his days as an undercover agent with the DEA, he had frequently posed as a pro photographer with a cocaine problem. Now that he was out, he’d been giving serious consideration to becoming a real photographer without the drug habit.

“Been working on the portfolio,” he said. “Pretty soon I’m going to have enough of the marine stuff together, I’m going to make a submission to one of the stock houses. See how that flies.”

“Gee, and the money will just roll in.”

“Sarcasm isn’t as attractive as you might think.”

“Explains just one of my problems,” she said. “So what else are you doing for real money?”

“Spending a little of it on beer and groceries.” He told her about his plans to go out sailing for the afternoon. He didn't invite her, but the opening was there and she knew it.

"Sounds nice," she said. "But, you know the islands have been there for a long time and they'll probably still be there in a few days. Maybe even a week or so."

"You think?"

"Uh-huh."

“So what have you got for me?”

“A referral, maybe.”

“Some boat you’ve got paper on?”

“No. This is different.”

“Is it a boat?”

“Sort of.”

“Uh-huh. Well, this is all clear to me now. Why do you have a guilty look on your face?”

“Don’t want to take advantage of you. Don’t want to take advantage of him.”

“Who’s him?”

“This client. This guy, really. He’s in a spot, and he doesn’t know what else to do. He came to me and I can’t take the time out, and I’m really not sure anything can be done, and I don’t want to take his money or lead him on and waste my own time for something that’s hopeless.”

“And so you thought of me.”

She smiled quickly. “I think about you a lot. More than you’d know.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear. Be even better to see you some more.”

“I know,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m working on it. But about this guy…”

“Yes, about this guy.”

“He’s lost a lot. Everything that matters. And he came to me to help him track down a boat.”

“At least that sounds like familiar territory.”

“Sounds it, but it’s not.” She checked her watch and looked up the dock. Merchant followed her eyes and saw a man walking toward them. He moved along slowly, as if he were tired.

“This him?” Merchant said. “You brought him here?”

“Listen to him,” she said. “And be nice. He’s lost his family.”

“Lost them?”

She nodded.

“What do you mean, he lost them? And I’m supposed to help find them?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

“Did you say I could help him with that?”

“No. I said you’d listen. That I promised.”

Merchant looked back at the man. Now he was right at the bow, just stepping on the finger pier to Merchant’s boat. Even from there, Merchant could read the pain. The stiffness in his walk, the pallor under his sun-reddened skin.

Trouble, Merchant thought.

But he carefully folded the towel around the winch parts, and moved them aside.

Making room for the man.