Williwaw Winds

The skipper grabs the radio transmitter. “Mayday, Mayday,” he calls in, repeating the earlier-transmitted information with new latitude and longitude readings. “We’re on our side with williwaws … waves sixteen feet and very close together,” he adds.
    I can barely hear him in the wind. While waiting for an answer, the boat rolls ninety degrees again. And again the power goes off.
    The skipper slams the microphone on the dashboard. “Radio’s gone. Everything’s gone.”
    There goes our only connection to help. Without engine power and communication, we’re adrift at the mercy of the sea. It’s still halfway dark out. It won’t do any good to keep beating ice.
    Will it do any good to pray? Without thinking, I start mumbling the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Before I finish, the others—all of them—are repeating it with me. How they even hear me over the noise is beyond me.
    The skipper’s mouth is drawn. Marv runs his hands over his eyes and sniffs. Patrick and Freddy look down until I clear my throat.
    “So what do we do now, Skipper?” I ask tentatively.
    A look of defeat crosses his face. “It’s time to suit up, boys.”
    Five bright orange survival suits are stored in a box in one corner of the wheelhouse, held tightly behind a bolted chair. The suits are insulated and have enough buoyancy for up to six hours of survival in the cold water. But they’re clumsy to put on. During our practice drill on the way out, it took me forever to crawl into mine.
    With the boat’s violent rocking, it’s even harder to get into my suit this time. I manage to pull one leg over my boot, but in desperation I kick off my other boot. Now it’s easier. I shrug out of my rain jacket, tug the suit up, zip up the front, and cover my head with the hood. It’s tight around my chin; I feel like a stuffed sausage. The other guys are still struggling into theirs except the skipper, who tries to keep order in the room.
    “You know your jobs from the drill, boys,” he reminds us.
    I almost forgot, I’m in charge of the EPIRB—the emergency locator device. I unzip my suit, push the bowling pin-shaped device down into it, and zip up again. We can’t risk losing the EPIRB. It’s about twenty inches long and four inches in diameter. Before our trip even started, the skipper had it coded with the name of the boat, destination, his name, and other vital information.
    My whole body shakes. The EPIRB slips clear down past my knee.
    “Lord, please don’t let the EPIRB batteries die,” I pray aloud, hoping its flashing light will keep blinking. “Let the signals to the satellite reach someone who can find us.”
    But then I wonder if the Coast Guard even heard the skipper’s Mayday call.
    The other guys look somewhat like the orange buoys we send out on our crab pot lines. A hysterical giggle erupts from my shaking gut. Marv’s gaze pierces through me. I swallow hard to keep my hysteria down.
    The seas are gigantic. If we ever get into our little raft, will we be bobbing in the sea like the buoys at each end of our fishing lines? Will anyone even see our bright suits in these gigantic waves?
    “Launch the raft,” the skipper yells. “Hurry! She’s going down soon.”
    
            We don’t have much time. But how can we manage to stay in that little thing, open to the elements as it is? We can’t, I’m sure of it. A taste of metal fills my mouth. I try to swallow, but fear makes me gag.
    One by one, we crawl along the swinging boom out to the raft.
    Patrick jumps, clearly desperate.
    “You next, Marv,” the skipper says. “Hurry, I need your weight.”
    Immediately following Marv’s jump, Freddy gives me a thumbs up. “Yer next, Horn. Hurry. Don’t leave me here alone.”
    Crawling along the boom, I’m terrified. I cling to the slippery ice. Every time the boom swings, my muscles tighten. My heart pounds like a bass drum. The tiny raft bounces on huge, icy waves that churn like a gigantic washing machine.
    Swallowing hard against a mouthful of cotton dryness, I inch my body along the boom. The guys in the raft beckon me frantically.