Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1998

		Dave Chambers A few years ago I wrote a short story about a rescue at sea which went wrong and the lifeboat came to grief. The story is set in the early nineteen sixties. When I read it to the workshop, the opinion was that I had taken the easy option and killed everyone off. I denied this; I had just left them swimming at sea in a hurricane-force storm without a boat. OK they said, you put them there, you get them out. I really put them in trouble. There are many ships involved now over a large area of sea. Here is the rescue of one of the lifeboatmen, the one who was trapped under the boat when it turned over. The Gardener - Chapter 8 Able Seaman Yalanov had a firm grip on the guard-rail and his safety-line was secure. He knew that because he had tied it himself. The big Russian trawler rolled heavily, and he hunched himself up into the heavy oilskin-coat and flinched against the hurricane-force spray which hit him hard while the ship went downwards to meet the next wave, threatening to sweep him off into oblivion. It was in the moments between going right up, as the ship rolled to port, and coming down as she rolled to starboard, those moments when they were nearly level, that they could get their best look out for anything unusual in the water. It was also at those same moments when the spray seemed to be at its worst. Stinging the face of the unwary; what it did to the eyes was cruel. That went with the job, lookout. And they were all lookouts today. They get these jobs because the big trawler, with its radio and radar aerials, also carried a doctor. It seemed that a small boat had gone down and some of the crew were still missing. This small boat was a lifeboat, unsinkable they say. But it turned over, and the crew were thrown into the water in the darkness of night and separated from each other. His next brief glimpse, through slitted and hurting eyes, gave Yalanov his first sight of the Dutch ocean-going tug, which signaled that it had spotted the lifeboat. The trawler slowed down, causing it to roll even further to each side as it approached closer to the tug. On another day this would be very different, but today the Cold War was over, set aside in a common cause, the only enemy being the vicious westerly threatening them all. Within a few minutes Yalanov saw the white blob which was the upturned hull of the stricken lifeboat. He looked for a moment wide-eyed then instantly regretted it. He used one hand to wipe away the water and shield his eyes, and the familiar action in the unfamiliar surroundings triggered a powerful memory. It was his sixth birthday, not long after the end of that other war, and he was disappointed that his father was not at home. His ship was late. In the afternoon of that day two men came to the house to wish him happy birthday and gave him a model battleship which his father had made. The two men were the captain and first officer from his father's ship and he remembered feeling very important that two such men should come and wish him happy birthday. His father was lost at sea and his mother cried and cried. He remembered trying to comfort his mother by telling her that daddy was only lost and he might find his way home one day, maybe he would be home in time for next birthday and he could paint the model. The young Yalanov never did come to terms with "lost at sea", and when the time came he himself went to sea not really to look for his father, but to know where he was lost. They were closer now to the tug, and Yalanov could see one of their crew throwing a grappling-hook over the small boat trying to grip it and then do something, he was not sure what. Both ships had almost come to a stop and were rolling very heavily. The grappling-hook was being thrown for the fourth time, the man being hampered by his heavy-weather clothing and safety-line. This time, the hook caught the side of the boat and the Dutchman took a couple turns on a bollard to keep a grip. At that moment the tug rose high on a wave, then tilted over and dropped into the following trough. The grappling-line tightened quickly and, before anyone could react, pulled hard at the boat and it turned turtle from its previous position, then the grappling-hook lost its grip. Everyone stared. There was a lost second or so while those watching took in what they saw. When the boat turned over the force with which it turned almost rolled it the full 360 degrees, but it stopped at the critical point, only to be rolled back with great force, then stayed upright, rolling violently. Even the experienced deck officer, Kemerovitch, was transfixed as he and the others saw the body of a man in the boat. At first it was thrown against the side in the violent roll, then thrown just as violently against the opposite side, after which it balanced precariously then slipped quietly off the boat and into the sea. At no time was there any flicker of life. He had obviously been trapped under the boat, but it was a pity that he had fallen off, because now they might not recover the body. Yalanov watched in horror as the dead man's head lolled from side to side in time with the waves, supported by the yellow life-jacket. He blinked against the spray and saw two men talking to his mother. He blinked again and saw an unpainted model battleship. And the feeling of being himself unpainted, somehow unfinished, washed over him, more powerfully than any of the wind-driven waves. Kemerovitch was trying to think of ways to help the Dutchman get a towline on the boat, wondering how good a position his captain could give, and how well the storm was known so that they might find this body later as the storm abated, when he was startled by something striking his right leg. He looked down, puzzled by what could possibly have broken loose from its place on his deck. It was a heavy oilskin-coat. He looked up and immediately began to loosen his safety-line so he could move quickly. He took a deep breath so he could shout an order. He was too late. Able seaman Yalanov launched himself over the top of the guard-rail into the upside of the oncoming wave. Kemerovitch changed in mid-thought and called out that dreaded shout: "Man overboard!" The shout was repeated and reached the bridge in seconds. The captain cursed, then yelled, "Stop engines, starboard thirty." "Stop engines, starboard thirty," the bridge officer repeated. The engine telegraph bells began to ring, and the helmsman swung the wheel without waiting for the hydraulics to answer. The captain moved to the starboard side of his bridge and looked down at Yalanov swimming for his life and cursed again. "Midships!" he shouted. "Midships!" came from the helmsman who fought to bring the wheel back as fast as possible. In trying to move the ship around to protect his man-overboard, the captain was in danger of collision with the Dutchman who had also moved, but to port to try to protect the same man. Within seconds, Kemerovitch had the full deck-crew, who had been on lookout, working harder than they had ever worked to get the trawl booms moved, to overhang outwards, so they might have a chance to pick up the errant Yalanov without smashing him against the ships side. Yalanov was a powerful swimmer but this sea had no respect for such puny powers. He hoped he was still heading in the right direction, and when he felt himself moving upward in a wave he looked around to try to spot the white boat. He began to wonder again about his father. Was he following too closely in his fathers footsteps? Or was this man his father? He must not think like that, he must concentrate, he blew out a mouthful of seawater, looked around again and kept swimming. The Dutchman started to use the grappling-hook again and, with the closeness of the two ships giving just a hint of shelter, managed to get a good grip on the lifeboat which he could now see properly. He held the line tight, while his younger deckhand took advantage of the momentary lessening of the storm and stepped into the lifeboat, which was by now very close. Fearful of what had already happened that day, the deckhand quickly secured a towline from the tug. He allowed the lifeboat to drift away from the tug, so as not to collide, then looked around to see what was happening to the Russian in the water. He heard shouting above the noise of the storm, and looked up at the big trawler and saw some men waving at him. They gestured a throw and the young Dutchman held up an understanding hand. He caught the line first time as it came across the boat only about three feet from him and gathered it carefully, coiling it, making ready to throw it to the Russian. Yalanov was swimming in the right direction and was closing on his target, as much by luck as by judgment. He was spurred on when he saw the bright yellow, and a few more powerful strokes later took hold of the man's lifejacket. The small respite gained as the two ships closed in on each other was gone as they moved apart to a safer distance. Now he began to think about how to get back, he felt alone for the first time. He wondered if his father had felt so alone. His ship, his home, only a mere twenty metres or so away, looked like thousands of kilometres, but he dared not take his eyes off it. His shipmates did not seem to make sense, as they shouted and pointed away over his head and behind him. The waves thundered in between the ships, and it was becoming more difficult to stay on the surface with his charge, while trying to swim back. Eventually, he got the message and turned around. There, he saw a young man in the lifeboat rhythmically swinging from side to side. This man looked very small. Yalanov could not know that he was kneeling down and tied in for safety and preparing to throw a line. This boat was much nearer than either of the two ships, but, close to exhaustion, there would be little chance of being able climb aboard even with the help of the young man, so he watched with trepidation as the line uncoiled in his direction, but landed a few feet to his left. Another wave, and the boat seemed to rise almost as high as the ship and then disappear, until Yalanov rose up the same wave and he could look down at the boat. The spray stopped hurting, there came instead a wall of water that tried to stop him breathing. He was a small boy and his father was speaking but he could not hear what was being said. His father smiled and gestured to him to come closer, to reach up straight and tall, on tip-toe even, to hear a whispered word, and young Yalanov eagerly reached up so he could hear a precious secret. He coughed and spat out the sea water and the spray hurt again. The young Dutchman was shouting, and Yalanov momentarily raised a hand. This time the line uncoiled its way straight towards him and landed within arms length. At the end of the rope was a loop which Yalanov widened then placed around himself and the lifeboatman. He looked again at the Dutchman, and raised his hand again, only to see the Dutchman raise his hand with the rope in it and let go. It took him a moment to realise that he was being hauled back towards his own ship, where the other end of his lifeline was fixed into one of the trawl-booms. Yalanov placed his arms around the man with him and held on as tight as he could. A few moments later, he was lying on deck with the medics trying to put a blanket around him before the line had been released, and someone was shouting his name angrily. Suddenly, one of the medics shouted and it seemed that the whole deck crew were rushing to help. The dead body Yalanov had brought on board was alive, barely, but alive. The medics, and some of the deck-crew, hurried off to sick-bay with the casualty, one medic remained. He had a firm grip of Yalanov and a white-fingered grip of a stanchion. He was shivering with cold, and as wet as his patient. Deck officer Kemerovitch stopped shouting and looked at Yalanov. "You did not know?" he asked, then shook his head and said, "do not answer me, please." He gestured to two men to help the medic take Yalanov to sick-bay, then looked over at the Dutchman. They were waving and shouting, cheering. The flashing aldiss lamp on the bridge had carried the news, and the Dutch crew knew the man was alive. Kemerovitch held on tight to the guard rail, straightened up almost to attention and waved back. He was proud of his ship, proud of his deck crew, and proud of the Dutchman, and he was proud of Yalanov. He looked around, his deck-crew were beginning to return from sick-bay. He beckoned them to him. It was still early morning. The deck had to be secured, there was a long day ahead.