Carlos looks past Dmitri to the ice that has again built up on the rails. He knows, from the concerned expression on his first mate’s face, that Eduardo has seen it, too. The southwesterly weather is showing no sign of abating and the boat is wearing its fury like a white badge of honour. With the sea behind them, he knows it would take just one bad decision at the helm to twist the boat up into a wave and roll her under, finishing this off for the lot of them. He checks the seas through the rear windows of the wheelhouse and is relieved to see that the Australis has resumed its place as a distant presence behind the waves.
‘I’m going out to get that ice off,’ Eduardo says. ‘Or we won’t be going anywhere.’
Dmitri clenches his jaw and rubs at his stomach, as if weighing up the risk of letting the first mate back into contact with his men.
A wave lifts the Pescador and pushes it towards Mauritius. ‘The crew can do it,’ Dmitri says. ‘Carlos, you order them out.’ The Russian points at the intercom that connects the wheelhouse to the men tucked away in their cabins. ‘They’re used to following orders from you.’
‘You don’t know them,’ Eduardo says. ‘They won’t cooperate unless I’m out there, too. I always go on deck with my men in bad seas. It’s why I have their respect—something you’ll never have.’
Dmitri goes to speak but stops. Something changes in his face, a flicker. ‘Very well. Go.’
Eduardo gives Carlos a straight smile so full of remorse that the master is left wondering if there is something else his first mate is not telling him. When he is gone, Dmitri continues. ‘And you,’ he says to Carlos, ‘take the helm. I have to use the bathroom. When I am back, you can call the crew. But not before.’ Dmitri uses his finger to beckon the young Peruvian to stand closer to Carlos. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he tells José. ‘And if he tries anything…’ Dmitri makes his hand into the shape of a gun, and leaves.
Carlos watches Eduardo make his way down the external stairs to the deck. He watches his determination as he clips his harness to the rails and lurches towards the bow of the boat. A wave breaks unevenly on the stern, catching Carlos off-guard. The boat swings fast to starboard and Eduardo lands hard on the deck, skidding into a metal strut that he clings to like a long-lost lover. It takes another minute for Carlos to correct the boat’s position, and for Eduardo to get to his feet.
‘I need to call the rest of the crew out there,’ Carlos tells José, reaching for the intercom.
‘No.’ José raises the gun higher, onto his shoulder. ‘Not until Dmitri gets back.’
‘Don’t be an idiot!’ Carlos lifts the handset, but José forces the end of the gun barrel into the back of his hand.
‘I said no!’
Carlos draws his bleeding hand to his mouth for an instant before placing it back on the wheel. His attention is firmly back on Eduardo, alone on deck. The first mate begins work as soon as he reaches the bow, swinging his hammer at the bone-white rails. His whole body works the blows, and chunks of ice fly into the sea. The wind and waves serve some of it back up on deck. The bow resembles a sideshow ride arcing high into the sky before plummeting in a deathdefying dive. Eduardo braces himself against the rails as he works. Seawater falls away in torrents from around his legs and then swamps him up to his thighs.
Dmitri is back at the door, and Carlos reaches again for the intercom.
‘Leave it!’ the Russian orders.
‘Eduardo can’t do this on his own. You said—’
‘I know what I said.’ Dmitri grabs hold of the helm. ‘Your job is done.’ He flicks his head in the direction of the wall. ‘Get back there.’
Carlos feels the boat pitch to port when his back is turned. With José’s gun digging into his side, he looks up in time to see the wash of a large wave over the bow. Eduardo is off his feet and sliding. The boat leans heavily under the weight of water and ice and sucks Eduardo under the rails.
‘¡Jesús!’ Carlos shouts. He casts José aside and sprints the few paces back to the instruments, pressing the manoverboard button on the GPS to mark Eduardo’s position. ‘I’m going out there! Turn the boat.’
Dmitri lets him go.
Carlos pushes open the wheelhouse door, grabs the dan buoy and throws the float over the side. There’s no time for his safety harness. Eduardo has only minutes to live in these frigid seas. Every second counts. Carlos drags himself along the rail against the barrage of waves to where Eduardo’s line is twitching, tightly stretched, against the hull with the combined weight of the large man and the monstrous seas. Eduardo is a flash of orange jacket and a grabbing hand. Carlos claws at the safety line. Without gloves, it’s difficult to gain any purchase. The rope tears at numb flesh. Another wave is breaking over them. Eduardo’s body is beating against the side of the boat like a slain fish. Carlos signals at the wheelhouse with one hand to slow the boat, pushing the air back repeatedly in Dmitri’s view. But the Pescador pounds forward regardless.
‘¡Mierda!’ Carlos swears.
Carlos reaches for Eduardo’s hand again, but it is gone. He can no longer even see the orange jacket.
Carlos is deaf to his own cries over the roar of water and wind. He unties a life ring and throws it, too late, into the hungry sea, but inflated plastic is a poor meal compared with a human soul. Huge waves gulp behind him, consuming their prey. Carlos looks towards the dan buoy to see if Eduardo finds it as the ship moves forward, but there’s no sign of the first mate. He squints in the direction of the Australis but it is too far away. Eduardo will be dead and gone by the time the Australian vessel catches up.
The Pescador is still surging forward. ‘Turn the boat,’ Carlos bellows hopelessly, drawing a circle with his arm to Dmitri in the wheelhouse. But he’s signalling to an icy window five metres above the deck. He knows Dmitri would see him only as a mute, orange blur. Carlos pulls the empty safety line, easily now, onto the deck. The carabiner is bare of Eduardo’s harness. He holds the naked line up in full view of the wheelhouse.
‘¡Condenado! Turn around!’ he screams against the wind, tossing the safety line into the ocean to illustrate Eduardo’s fate. Carlos knows Eduardo would have released himself as a last resort in the expectation that they would attempt to retrieve him. If he had stayed attached to the safety line any longer, he would have drowned anyway, or died from the blows he suffered against the hull.
Carlos again tries to make out the shadow of Dmitri in the wheelhouse but is knocked down by the relentless seas, pressed flat under the icy assault of yet another wave. Water washes over him as if he is a mollusc, loosely secured, on a beach rock. Each wave prises him off the deck and then slaps him back against it.
‘¡Capitán!’ someone shouts. But Carlos is aware only of the growing distance between the boat and his life-long friend. A wall of water, a trough, a wall of water, a trough. Eduardo is gone, consumed in the Pescador’s wake.
Carlos sees Manuel standing over him and feels himself dragged to his feet. It hurts to move his eyes because of the ice encrusting them. His long hair, too, having escaped its leather band, is frozen to his plastic jacket. He is lifted and carried back inside. Manuel peels off the sodden clothes before wrapping a blanket around the master. Another senior crew member, a Spaniard called Roberto, the oldest man on board after Manuel, removes his own beanie and puts it on Carlos’s shivering head. Carlos examines the faces of the other ten crew who are watching on. They appear confused.
‘It’s good that you’re shaking. It’s when you stop that we worry.’ Manuel grins broadly, causing the wound above his eye to weep fresh blood.
‘Eduardo?’ The name is misshapen by Carlos’s numb mouth and jaw.
‘He must still be in the wheelhouse,’ Manuel answers.
Carlos shakes his head.
‘Well, he’s not on deck,’ Manuel contends. ‘It’s you we’re worried about. You’re lucky we found you. What were you thinking going out there alone?’ He spins his finger at his temple. ‘Loco.’
Carlos shakes his head. He had made the same joke with Eduardo only days before. Hypothermia and shock compress his chest and cloud his thoughts. Is he dreaming? Carlos sees Eduardo disappearing through the wheelhouse door, smiling and acting the fool. He thinks of him now, leaden with seawater and death, and sobs.
‘Hey. You’re okay now,’ Manuel says with a bemused chuckle, attempting to reassure the deposed fishing master. ‘We’ll deal with Dmitri in good time. None of us want what he’s offering.’
Carlos holds his hands in front of him, motioning Manuel to stop. He opens his mouth, but no sound escapes.
‘Don’t try to talk. Just get warm,’ Manuel instructs.
‘Eduardo.’ Carlos lowers his head and tilts his shaking bare hands open on his lap. ‘Gone.’ The word is so quiet it’s barely audible. ‘¡Mejodí!’ He blames himself.
The air in the room seems to change as the crew process what Carlos has told them. Carlos sees them finally comprehend what has happened. He wasn’t alone on deck. Eduardo would never have allowed that. Not when he could go.
Manuel’s face drops. ‘Oh God,’ he whispers, resting both hands on the side of Carlos’s chair and hanging his head heavily between his arms. The room is silent, but for the incessant howl of the wind punctuated by the boom of thundering waves.