A Midnight Drama

Ok, I’ll admit it.  I’m still shaking just a bit, and it’s one in the morning, Wednesday August 25.  We are tied to the outside dock at Elfin Cove, with our buddy Steve tied alongside.  It’s been a day.  I wrote a post this  morning (yesterday, now) and didn’t get it online because coverage was poor, and now, this one will preempt it.  So, bear in mind, things are a bit out of sequence.

We started the morning in a leisurely manner after the gale force blow you will read about next, and headed out with the rising tide to the fishing grounds.  I was uncomfortable with the state of my new troll wire, which seemed to be turning rusty brown with only one day’s usage, and I began to detect small pits in the wire where it contacted the waterline.  Having lost not one but two full lengths with gear attached, I decided to examine things closely before I put gear out.  We dropped the starboard heavy down to the 20 fathom mark, and sure enough, about 12 feet of the wire was brown and pitted, with failure eminent.     I did a voltage check on the line, connecting a ground wire directly to the battery terminal and then touching the troll wire.  Normally, I would expect a reading of 0.4 to 0.6 volts DC, a reading I had  observed last week when checking it after the unexplained failure of the wire.  Today, it read 8.4 volts, an extremely high reading, which basically told me my wire was acting as a welding electrode, arcing away at the waterline, destroying things as it  went.  Wow!  We began to troubleshoot, turning off switches, and decided there was a dead short in the hydraulic clutch which charged the hydraulic fluid and passed the high voltage on into my lines.  I immediately pulled the test line in, and we headed back to the Cove to troubleshoot further.  Verifying my suspicions,  we were able to order a new clutch assembly which hopefully is on the float plane scheduled for mail and freight delivery tomorrow morning.  Fish are running, weather is calm, and it’s time to be out there, not tied to the dock!  We spent the remainder of the  day cutting out the damaged sections of wire on each gurdy and splicing on new pieces to have enough to fish with.  Hopefully, we found the problem and can continue to fish. 

After a day of repairs, we were winding down with a supper of a small codfish with fried potatoes, and my cell phone did it’s little “bing-bong” thing that indicates a text message.  I checked, and it was our friend Steve, who is still out fishing with his father in the small boat I have described before.     It was dark outside, 8:33 pm to be precise, and the denizens of the Cove were mostly retired to their boats for the evening.  “May have trouble” was the short message.  “What and Where” was my reply.  A few minutes of waiting, and the reply was “Engine overheated off Column Point.  May need tow.”  Several messages later, it was obvious Steve was having troubles that wouldn’t just go away.  His engine had begun to overheat, and after some avid troubleshooting, he found it was unable to run at all without being terminally damaged.  He is now about 2 miles offshore, adrift in the dark, with the tide running at about 3.5 knots pushing him back into South Inian Pass – remember that?  The nightmare cauldron we came thru to get here?  If not that, then a pretty certain crash on George Island or Gaff Rock would make a mess of things.  For the time being, they were just there, adrift in the middle of Cross Sound.  I told Kurt, who was tied up next to us, that we would go get Steve.  He asked if I was ok with that, and offered to stand by on the radio for moral and technical support.  I felt that the weather, very calm, flat seas, was suitable for my skill level, and we fired up the True North.  Did I say it was dark?  And raining?  It still is.  But, having a floodlight on the cabin roof, as well as a hand-held spotlight like we used to use for coon hunting in Texas, I felt prepared.  Oops, big mistake.

We had no  more cast off from the dock, than I discovered that my visual ability was – zero.  Lovie was on deck shining the floodlight on the channel markers, and I could only see the big reflective outlines, nothing else.  No shore, no rocks, nothing but the nice flag we had on our forward stay, shining to beat the band in front of my eyes.  I told her to go rip it off, and that helped a bit – I just saw nothing, instead of a flag!  Pointing the boat in the direction I hoped was correct, I continued.  The Gut, as it is called, is about 20 feet wide, 100 feet long, and has 6 feet of water at 0 tide level.  We were at 2.2,feet over 0 level, enough to clear in mid channel, but I was far from certain that we were actually in mid channel.  Tide was rushing in like a river, so I had to keep the engine revved to maintain steerage.  A few frantic words between us, and all I got from her was, “I can’t see anything but rain!”  Onward.  I was able to get the computer to show me where we were and the course I had to take to  clear the rocks at the mouth, but things were happening too fast to be certain about anything.  I kept following my GPS course, and Lovie desperately tried to see either shore with the floodlights.  Blinded inside by radar, computer, radio, and sounder lights, I was only able to trust what I saw on screen.  Blinded outside by limitations on the lighting, she only was able to tell me when we were almost touching the rocks alongside.  Finally, the indications were that we were outside the harbor mouth, and could take the first breath.  I put the boat on autopilot, just creeping along at 3 knots, and re-evaluated the situation.  Luckily, I had plotted a “go-home” course line on the chart, leading more or less to the general location Steve had given as coordinates.  I put Lovie on the wheel, telling her to not deviate from the course line, and I went outside to watch for logs and other floating dangers on the incoming tide.  Steve was about 3 miles away, still drifting toward an uncomfortable destination at best. 

I didn’t dare put down my stabilizers, knowing that I would only have to pull them to approach Steve, so the ride was a little rolly as we went out past Granite Cove and thru “Scarey Corner”, the passage between Three-Hill Island and Gaff Rock.  The tide makes whirlpools here, and we were battling a full flood of 3.5 knots.  Off in the distance we could see a wee anchor light at the general location we had for Steve, and we headed for it.

The calm, reassuring voices on the radio offered advice and suggestions on how to approach Steve, how to rig the tow line, how to proceed towing without getting the line fouled in our prop (!! not a good thing!!), how to tie up when returning to the harbor, how to dock.  Thanks, Kurt!!  A couple of other voices joined in, apprising us of light locations, current data, dock conditions, possible anchorages, and so forth.  Wow, what a consolation and encouragement.  Those crusty, piratical, socially questionable fishermen,  calm, collected, full of the right wisdom, there for the next phase should we require more assistance.  Can I ever explain the feeling?  Probably not, but it brought me thru.

Finally, the little light, drifting ever closer to Inian Pass, was within an eighth of a mile.  I had Lovie cut the power, and we slowly bumped ahead until I could verbally reach Steve, and see him standing there in the stern of his boat.  I put it in neutral and rigged a line (thanks, Orin, it was the white nylon one you brought us on a spool before you went East!) from the central cleat on the stern.  Carrying it forward to the bow, I passed it to Steve, where he secured it to his bow.  Then, keeping it out of the water, I began to slowly move forward, passing him, taking out the slack.  Once he was behind us, in tow, I began to try to figure out where we were, and where we were supposed to be going.  It was a bit disorienting, as I could now not turn very quickly lest I entangle him, and I could not see any landmarks in the pitch blackness.  Once again, looking at my screen, I managed to slowly move forward.  The nav program shows a 15 minute projected course, or where you will end up in 15 minutes if you continue to travel in your current direction, and that showed us predicted to land somewhere in the middle of  George Island.  I increased speed, to beat the pull of the tide, and slowly, so slowly, my course came round to  pass between the obstructions, and back to Elfin Cove.  We briefly considered stopping at an anchorage in Granite Cove, as it was near and a tender was anchored there, but I had never been inside the anchorage area, and besides – my hydraulics are still disconnected due to the shorted clutch!  No way to pull the anchor once set, and no way to re-adjust it if needed, so we decided to head back all the way to the outer Elfin Cove harbor.  I followed my (thank goodness!) previously plotted course lines, and we slowly steamed through the blackness toward the blinking warning light just off the entrance to Elfin Cove.

Our friendly radio voices in the night told us that someone would meet us at the dock and assist with tie-up, and sure enough, there in the darkness was a waving, blue flashlight.  We pulled Steve up alongside for the final entry into harbor, for control of both vessels, and slowly, oh so slowly, maneuvered our way to the float plane dock where John, of the F/V Midnight Sun met us with his beautiful dog.  We were able to then proceed to an empty slot between two larger boats, get tied up, and begin to  make things fast for the night.  12:30 pm.  Four of the longest hours of my life, within recent memory.  Steve and his dad, home safe.  Us, wired but happy, home safe.  Whew.  So, there you have it.  The tale of the Midnight Rescue.  I’m older now, and maybe, just a little bit wiser.  Another experience under the belt.  Thanks, boss, for letting us all survive it.

Fish On!