For an hour or more, Carter, Vanessa, and Jane took turns diving down to the boat. It was a slow, methodical process. By the time any of them got inside the cabin, it didn’t leave much air in their lungs for rooting around and pulling out supplies.
Still, the salvage pile grew, bit by bit. Vanessa brought up two more blankets from the sleeping cabins. Jane grabbed a pillow on each of her two trips down. Carter found a second can of food and another sharp knife.
A new cooking pot came up. Two pairs of socks. A screwdriver. Three more rain slickers.
But it couldn’t go on forever. As the time passed, the day grew windier. The current picked up as well, and each dive was a little more difficult than the one before. Every time the Lucky Star shifted, it pulled a little harder on the rope, and there was another low-pitched groan, or a sharp crack from the breaking hull. It was as if the whole boat was threatening to collapse on itself at any moment. They were going to have to stop soon.
Then, on his fifth dive down, Carter found something he’d almost given up thinking about.
After raiding the galley and sleeping cabins, he’d turned his attention to the storage compartments under the navigation desk. One of the cockeyed panel doors was stuck closed, but he wedged his heels against the wall and pulled, breaking the door right off its hinges.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark inside the compartment, a flash of orange caught Carter’s eye. And then he realized what he was looking at: a signal flare, floating in the far back corner, just out of reach.
This was huge. Flares were nearly as valuable as food, if not more. He knew he had to get it somehow.
But he also knew he was going to need a second wind before he could finish. Reluctantly, he turned away, swam up through the galley’s hatchway, and hurried back toward the surface.
As he pulled himself along the rope, Carter heard another groan from the Lucky Star behind him. It shifted harder than ever, with a strong tug on the line. At the same time, a splash came from up top, and he saw Vanessa fall into the water. It looked as if the pull on the rope had dragged her right off the rocks where she’d been holding the line.
“That’s it,” she said as soon as Carter was there. “This is getting too dangerous. We have to stop.”
“Not yet,” Carter said. “There’s a flare down there. We have to get it.”
He quickly spotted a forked branch among the rocks and picked it up. Hopefully, it would be enough to hook the flare.
“Carter, you’re spent,” Vanessa said. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
It was true. The excitement of pulling the new supplies out of the boat had carried him this far, but he could feel the toll it had taken on his body. His muscles were like rubber—but his mind was still willing. That would have to be enough for now.
“One more trip,” he said. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.”
Vanessa didn’t argue. The fact was, they needed that flare. It was the one sure way to light their signal fire on Lookout Point.
Before there could be any more conversation, Carter got back in the water and headed down. He knew he had to hurry.
As soon as he was back inside the boat’s cabin, he went straight for the open compartment under the nav station. The flare was still floating there—and still just out of reach. He had to press his arm inside, all the way up to the shoulder, and cast around with the stick he’d brought down. His back scraped hard against the compartment’s broken hinge, but he ignored the pain. There was no time to worry about that.
As he worked, the Lucky Star shifted again. A loud grinding sound came up from underneath. The woodwork around him cracked and popped. It felt as if the whole boat was being dragged by the current, across the rock and coral ledge outside.
Carter knew he had to go. Right now, his mind screamed. But another part of him answered back just as clearly: Not without that flare! He pushed hard against the compartment opening, willing his arm to stretch another inch or two.
And then he felt it—a slight drag on the stick as it caught something. He dropped the branch now, and snatched blindly for the flare. A second later, his fingers closed around it. Even with his air running out, the adrenaline of the catch was a sweet feeling.
But before he could turn to leave, the boat took one more turn for the worse. Another heavy scraping sound came up from below. The Lucky Star tilted, and a rush of seawater flowed through the cabin. The whole craft seemed to have reached the very edge of the coral shelf where it sat.
And now it was going over.
Carter yanked his arm free of the compartment. His hand scraped hard across the broken hinge. He felt a sharp flash of pain and saw a cloud of his own blood in the water, but that was the least of his worries. He kept a tight grip on the flare, even as the boat continued its unstoppable slide.
Everything was moving now. The cabin itself turned a full ninety degrees around him. The bow rose up, and the Lucky Star went vertical in the water.
Carter struggled against the current running through the boat. He stroked as hard as he could—swimming up, through the cabin—toward the hatchway over his head. At the same time, the boat slid in the opposite direction. The hatch rushed at him, faster than he expected, and the edge of it caught him hard on the shoulder.
More than anything, he needed out. He could feel himself sinking, right along with the boat. The pressure in his head was building, stronger than ever, and there was no time to clear it.
He was so close—he could see outside the cabin, but his muscles were past the point of exhaustion.
Still, failure was no option. He twisted his body halfway around, trying to align himself with the hatch. A second later, he managed to move up and through it with several hard fluttering kicks—out into the open water at last.
A quick glance over his shoulder gave Carter the last view of the Lucky Star he’d ever have. It fell away behind him, off the coral ledge and down toward the ocean floor beyond. There was still a powerful downward pull in the water, but no more groaning, no more cracking. Everything went weirdly silent, as his lungs sent up a frantic plea for air. His head was pounding like a drum, and his body was spent.
But most of all, that bright orange flare was still in his hand. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t come back without it—and he hadn’t. Do-overs didn’t come easily in a place like this, Carter thought as he kicked toward the surface. And he’d just scored a big one.
Mission accomplished!