onto the dock, where he tossed one of the lines to his muscle-bound helper while keeping the other.
Then on Sam’s signal they pulled , trying to keep the boat level while the water inside her sloshed around trying to capsize her. The line tore Sam’s hands as waves buffeted Courtesan . He fought for his grip and his balance while the ocean shoved the boat this way and that; out of sight on the far side of the boat, the other men cursed in alarm as Courtesan leaned … then somehow righted herself once more.
“Okay!” Richard shouted to Carol as, madly paddling and then jumping entirely out of the River Rat, he ran up the boat ramp to the truck, grabbed the winch hook on the trailer, and hauled the winch line out by dragging the hook down to the boat again.
Moments later he’d snapped it to her bow. “Okay, now, when I tell you to, hit the winch switch, but leave it on ‘low’!”
She stuck her head out the truck’s window. “But don’t you want to get her out of there as fast as …?”
“Do what I say!” He threw himself back onto the inner tube. “Now heave!” he yelled at the Nathans, and in response, the two in the water put the flats of their hands to her hull, their big shoulder muscles bulging, while the one above hauled.
Sam jumped aboard once more, meaning to take her mast down. But Richard had something else in mind. “Below!” he ordered, his voice now thinned nearly to a whisper with cold and exertion.
And desperation. “Put your ear down by the bilge, tell me if you hear any water running out,” Richard yelled. Then with a painful-sounding whoop of a gasped-in breath, he swung the big hammer.
“Richard, no!” Sam yelled, realizing suddenly what Richard had in mind, but too late. When the hammer hit Courtesan ’s stern, a sickening crunch of fracturing fiberglass reverberated through the boat, up through the soles of Sam’s wet boat shoes. Courtesan inched forward, reluctant as a tub of mud, at the urging of the Nathans; as her prow nosed up to the trailer, they muscled her on center relative to the trailer’s wheels; even if that was as far as they ever got her, Sam thought, it was a miracle.
But the hardest part was still to come. “Now!” Richard yelled to the girl in the truck. “Easy, easy …”
The winch engaged, reeling slack out of the line. But when Courtesan ’s weight hit the motor, it began screaming with strain.
“Stop, stop!” Richard yelled through the motor’s howl. It cut off sharply, the winch’s heavy cable thrumming with tautness. Courtesan wallowed like a way-too-big fish on a too-light line, unable to free herself but still too heavy to be reeled in.
From out of sight below the stern came the crash of Richard’s hammer smashing into the fiberglass again, then his shout: “Push! Push! If we can get her aimed uphill …”
Richard’s plan was simple, Sam realized, but desperately risky. With her prow hauled up onto the trailer, which itself was perched on the slanted ramp, Courtesan ’s prow would be angled up enough so that water could drain downhill, out the holes Richard put in her stern.
It wasn’t an elegant rescue method, and not one Sam would’ve advised. But it was too late now, and—
Sam , someone said. He looked around. No one was there but the muscle-bound man hauling on a second line, up toward the prow.
“Sam!” Richard’s voice this time. “Do you hear …?”
By now Richard Stedman looked as if he needed saving even more than his vessel did. His face was milk-white with a slash of blue lips cut into it as if with a scalpel; the hands sticking out from his black wet-suit sleeves were purplish red from cold.
Sam jumped down through the hatch to the below-decks cabin. He leaned down over the hole in the floor that Richard had rammed the fatal iron rod into while trying to free the centerboard. The hole, awash in black, oily water, looked as if the wet, scaly arm of a science-fiction monster might shoot suddenly up out
Then on Sam’s signal they pulled , trying to keep the boat level while the water inside her sloshed around trying to capsize her. The line tore Sam’s hands as waves buffeted Courtesan . He fought for his grip and his balance while the ocean shoved the boat this way and that; out of sight on the far side of the boat, the other men cursed in alarm as Courtesan leaned … then somehow righted herself once more.
“Okay!” Richard shouted to Carol as, madly paddling and then jumping entirely out of the River Rat, he ran up the boat ramp to the truck, grabbed the winch hook on the trailer, and hauled the winch line out by dragging the hook down to the boat again.
Moments later he’d snapped it to her bow. “Okay, now, when I tell you to, hit the winch switch, but leave it on ‘low’!”
She stuck her head out the truck’s window. “But don’t you want to get her out of there as fast as …?”
“Do what I say!” He threw himself back onto the inner tube. “Now heave!” he yelled at the Nathans, and in response, the two in the water put the flats of their hands to her hull, their big shoulder muscles bulging, while the one above hauled.
Sam jumped aboard once more, meaning to take her mast down. But Richard had something else in mind. “Below!” he ordered, his voice now thinned nearly to a whisper with cold and exertion.
And desperation. “Put your ear down by the bilge, tell me if you hear any water running out,” Richard yelled. Then with a painful-sounding whoop of a gasped-in breath, he swung the big hammer.
“Richard, no!” Sam yelled, realizing suddenly what Richard had in mind, but too late. When the hammer hit Courtesan ’s stern, a sickening crunch of fracturing fiberglass reverberated through the boat, up through the soles of Sam’s wet boat shoes. Courtesan inched forward, reluctant as a tub of mud, at the urging of the Nathans; as her prow nosed up to the trailer, they muscled her on center relative to the trailer’s wheels; even if that was as far as they ever got her, Sam thought, it was a miracle.
But the hardest part was still to come. “Now!” Richard yelled to the girl in the truck. “Easy, easy …”
The winch engaged, reeling slack out of the line. But when Courtesan ’s weight hit the motor, it began screaming with strain.
“Stop, stop!” Richard yelled through the motor’s howl. It cut off sharply, the winch’s heavy cable thrumming with tautness. Courtesan wallowed like a way-too-big fish on a too-light line, unable to free herself but still too heavy to be reeled in.
From out of sight below the stern came the crash of Richard’s hammer smashing into the fiberglass again, then his shout: “Push! Push! If we can get her aimed uphill …”
Richard’s plan was simple, Sam realized, but desperately risky. With her prow hauled up onto the trailer, which itself was perched on the slanted ramp, Courtesan ’s prow would be angled up enough so that water could drain downhill, out the holes Richard put in her stern.
It wasn’t an elegant rescue method, and not one Sam would’ve advised. But it was too late now, and—
Sam , someone said. He looked around. No one was there but the muscle-bound man hauling on a second line, up toward the prow.
“Sam!” Richard’s voice this time. “Do you hear …?”
By now Richard Stedman looked as if he needed saving even more than his vessel did. His face was milk-white with a slash of blue lips cut into it as if with a scalpel; the hands sticking out from his black wet-suit sleeves were purplish red from cold.
Sam jumped down through the hatch to the below-decks cabin. He leaned down over the hole in the floor that Richard had rammed the fatal iron rod into while trying to free the centerboard. The hole, awash in black, oily water, looked as if the wet, scaly arm of a science-fiction monster might shoot suddenly up out
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