CHAPTER 2

Warheads, Hammerheads, and The Sweet Spot at Night

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 one-hundred and twenty-five 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.” Jim yawned.

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

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

In my stupidity—only now revealed to me in the clear void of night—I finally woke up to what was going on. Everyone intended to wake up refreshed for diving in the morning and stuck me with the worst graveyard watch.

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

The ocean heaved up and down. I couldn’t believe no one was with me! I searched around for my watch-partner, trying anything I could think of to get our course back. What a sucker set-up! Planned by everyone else who knew exactly how to get their sleep on these trips! “Sure, stick it to the new kid!” I pictured them laughing. The winds and currents had a quick upper hand. It was fifteen minutes of hapless confusion. One minute we were on course, the next we were heading straight up to Cape Cod, the next down to Cuba, and the next we were headed right back to Miami. We might keep going in circles, or even capsize! I had no clue how to correct for the currents and wind, or steer.

Gun appeared on the bridge mocking my helmsmanship, staggering around with his eyes covered to dramatize my ineptitude or the superior ability of a blind drunk. So, I copied his antics, showing him how stupid it was to leave me out here alone. Sudden gusts of wind lashed us across the open bridge. We had words.

“This is your job, Gun! I should be sleeping!”

“Help me out tonight, Caleb. Please,” he requested in the most humble, sincere way. Much of my exhaustion lifted when he did so. The grinding engines joined in a strange rhythm with the wind and the waves.

“Okay, teach me.”

“First, stop chasing the compass heading with the helm!” he shouted over the noise. “Just concentrate on steering by a fixed point in the sky.” He showed me without being too grumpy. He pointed out a star at the precise compass heading of one-hundred and twenty-five degrees, and told me, “Keep your eye on that star. Ignore the compass, and everything else around you.” Then, Gun took a paper bag and covered the compass with it, which I could not believe.

“What’s going on? No compass?” I asked.

He pointed up at the star again, and to a light pole at the front tip of the boat. “Just think about one goddamn freakin’ thing when you’re steering!” he yelled. “Keep that forward light-pole right underneath that star—line it up directly under that star, and hold it steady. There. See?”

I steered by holding a course which kept the forward light-pole in a vertical line beneath the star. Soon we were back on course could relax a little. Flashes of lightning struck the horizon close to our path.

“There’s the most powerful force on the planet, lightning,” he spoke in a solemn voice . “Five times hotter that the surface of the sun.”

“God…” I mumbled, starting to enjoy the increased control I felt over things.

“Lightning bolts travel in ribbons less than an inch wide, you know?”

“Hm, God…” I repeated.

“Yeah…" He observed my steering. "If that lightning comes, say, about half that distance closer, drop everything, and get me fast.” He surprised me with that order. “No, I’m not kidding,” he added. “That’s one-hundred million volts of electricity. You let me know. Got it?”

I nodded, and he departed. The boat veered from side to side and bounced on the rough ocean surface. To reach our destination we had to sail diagonally across the Gulf Stream current and into the teeth of wind-driven waves. The bow appeared to point sideways across the waves because of the power of the winds and Gulf current, but the general direction stayed true to the course.

The heavens were deep purple-blue. Parts of the sky were stormy, parts were clear and starry, other parts were hazy and obscured the stars behind. What a trip being left out here alone in the middle of nowhere! Gun came back over the gunwale thirty minutes later and called up to me, “Much smoother, Cal, keep it like that!”

Proud of my new method, I blocked out everything except that star and the heading, including the drone of engines and whistle of the wind, more spectacular lightning storms on the horizon and drizzles that followed.

At last, my “watch-partner” Ally showed up at 3:00 a.m. with barely a look at me. I continued steering like following a groove across the ocean, trying to impress her. She sat behind me but rose up to check something, saw the bag covering the compass and ignored it. She said nothing except, “Looks okay.”

Before I could strike up a conversation, Ally wobbled astern and passed out on a rocking bench. Then, she awoke and departed without saying anything that I could hear. Meanwhile I lost and regained sight of the star for different periods, compensating by using a cloud, another star, or a different light on the horizon. 4:30 a.m. came and went with no relief. So did 5:00 a.m. But I was fascinated by what I was doing, caught in a form of automatic pilot, glued to the stars and the helm. In a brief time, the boat gave me a whole new perspective on the bravery of the ancient mariners and their incredible feats.

            At 6:00 a.m. the sky became streaked with background light. Jim, the old-timer whom I relieved hours ago appeared next to me again, and recited, “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning…” Wispy white hair blew around as he gripped the bridge frame against the rolling of the boat.

“It’s more pink than red. It’s eerie, though,” I replied. “Is this considered night or the morning?” Another vague flash of lightning struck the horizon. With his far-off stare Jim seemed either preoccupied by more serious matters or not thinking about anything at all, so I needled him. “Millions of volts in that lightning. Just like those electron rays you were talking about back in Miami!”

Before answering, Jim clicked his cheek for some reason. “Yeah, those electron beams would pack a wallop!” He laughed, perhaps dreaming of how to rain thunderbolts from the sky like those electron weapons. “It’s Red Sky in the morning,” he informed me with a smile.

“Still looks pink to me.”

“It would...to you. What are you, some kind of new-age hippie flower child with them copper highlights in your hair?”

“Flower child, yeah. Just call me Tulip.”

“Bet you voted for Obama, Tu-lip,” he added with a sarcastic grin. “Anyway, Joni was asking how you’re doing.”

“Oh, yeah? Everyone’s checking on me?”

“Looks like you have it nailed on the heading right now.”

“How do you know?” I stared down at the covered compass.

“The galley also has a compass.” The man un-wrapped the instrument. “It’s dawn, I’ll take over.” He offered his hand.

“Nope,” I said. “I’ve been at this most of the night. You won’t deprive me of my first dawn behind the helm.”

“Suit yourself, Tulip. But, you won’t be too chipper for diving.”