We got underway, and the big engines roared when we picked up a little speed. A few people remained topside as Gun leaned back in his Captain’s Chair with hands clasped behind his head, and lazily steered out of the harbor using his feet to control the wheel. We set course for Bimini Island but the boat seemed unstable in the open ocean. It swayed around on small waves and its maximum speed was 6 knots, or about 8 miles per hour. There was always a near-deafening drone of twin diesel engines and generators in the background. I overheard one of the Hammerheads mention these engines didn’t have mufflers.

Gun hadn’t slept for days and the Hammerheads took bets on how long before he fell out of his chair. Until this morning he was in the Indian Ocean doing emergency underwater repairs on a leaking tanker. Then, he had to skipper this charter. I felt bad for my hardworking new friend.

He told me, “I’ll be up all night. It’s no problem.” But he was nodding off. As he leaned way back in the chair with his feet controlling the spokes on each side of the helm, I tried learning how to do it in case he couldn’t go on. He operated the helm with no effort and it appeared straightforward, so I didn’t ask many questions. Every now and then the boat veered with a large wave or gust of wind, but I didn’t realize that Gun unconsciously adjusted to those forces by anticipation, watching over the sea and judging the waveforms around the boat along with the wind’s effects, and prevailing currents.

Spindly 76 year-old Jim who just seemed to talk and talk about adventures of his life informed me that the Hammerheads had assigned watches to each person as was their prerogative, and my shift was coming up at 2:00 AM, meaning that in less than two hours I had to steer the boat which I apparently had no choice about! I didn’t want to cause trouble for Gun so I didn’t complain. Instead I wanted to get some rest but still didn’t feel too tired after all the beers and food. Gun needed the sleep, not me. The dive club members didn’t care. Neither did anyone seem to care that navigation on the high seas in the dead of night was not a 15-minute learning experience.   

Gun’s “cabin” was the size of a tight pantry. I tried grabbing my two hours of rest but cockroaches and tiny red ants greeted me at the threshold. Nevertheless, I drew back the privacy curtain, climbed in the upper bunk and put my head down. In what seemed like a blink, Carl Iman poked his sweaty shaved head inside the curtain to inform me, “Caleb, it’s 2 AM, your turn to go up and steer.” Those were some of the strangest words imaginable to me.

I clawed my way back to the bridge half unconscious, and Jimmy was steering alone through the Gulf Stream current.

He spoke loud over the wind and the waves, “Hold the sweet spot, right here, and keep a heading of 125 degrees!”

He showed me the lighted compass. The dark waters surged, and the whipping waves glimmered with foam highlights. It was warm where he had been holding the metal helm, the sweet spot.

“You sure took your time getting here.” He yawned.

“I don’t really know how to do this.” I tried shaking off my own drowsiness.

“Hey, it’s not my problem anymore.” And he went to descend the ladder. “Better wake Gun up if you have any trouble.”

In my stupidity, revealed in the clear void of night I woke up to what happened. Everyone intended to wake up refreshed for diving in the morning and gave me the worst graveyard watch.

The moment he left I lost complete control of the boat. Panic lodged in my throat and I half-yelled, “Hey! Hey!”