Blackstrap Hawco (73 page)

Johnny Cole laughs it off, yanking Billy to his feet. ‘New legs on ya?' shouts Johnny.

Fred Rumsey says nothing. Bent near the drill stem, he loosens the slips to draw up the pipe. Ten thousand feet down. Deep into water, then a shaft cut into the ocean floor. Gouging into rock and earth where the oil is buried. Working with the stinging lash of snow on his face.

 

Later that night they are playing cards. Earlier, when he had passed the radio room, Blackstrap remembered it was Valentine's Day. Men
waiting in the room. He never put his name down to use the sea-to-shore telephone last night. A long list of men calling home to their sweethearts. Valentine's Day usually nothing he ever paid attention to.

Feeling regret now, Blackstrap cannot get Susan out of his thoughts. He should have bought something for her before he left. If he had known that day was coming. She is nearer to him the way she is off at a distance. He thinks of them in her upstairs apartment. The fire going. Both of them at the table, eating food off of dark blue plates. What he wouldn't give to be there now, because sadness is seeping into him. Sadder and sadder until he thinks of Agnes. Never can he seem to get clean of her. Snagged in his heart, the way her memory pulls.

Twenty-one days, twenty days, nineteen…

The storm has picked up and is turning ferocious. Blackstrap remembers when he fixed Susan's fireplace, her saying how they might be snowed in. It never happened but they pretended, not leaving the apartment until Susan had to go to work in the bright winter morning.

February on the Atlantic Ocean. These sorts of waves were not meant to be endured. Hurricane-force winds. The barometer steadily dropping.

Susan and the fireplace. The living room solid beneath their feet. A house built on earth.

There is a feeling of disquiet in Blackstrap's bones. In the water of his body. If these men, most from fishermen stock, were ever out in a boat when this gale started up, they would have headed for shore at the first whiff of it. They would have known better. Otherwise, they would have perished. But the Yanks know even better, their ‘better' adding up to dollars. Sixty-, seventy-foot waves. Never in a boat. But this is a boat. A ship anchored at four corners. A ship designed to endure the extremes. The biggest and sturdiest oil rig in the world. So says the information behind the plexiglas screwed to the bulkhead outside Blackstrap's room. He took a few moments to finally check it over just after coming off shift. Billy Cullen there at his side like always. More noise than usual in the radio room when he passed. With the weather being what it is. Billy reading, ‘The
Ocean Ranger
is designed to withstand simultaneously 115 mph winds, a 3-knot current, and 110-foot waves. The helicopter deck will be rated for a Sikorsky S-65 helicopter. The
Ocean Ranger
will
accommodate 100 men in its living quarters and will drill at the 80-foot draft in water depths up to 3,000 feet when equipped with 3,000 feet of anchor chain.'

Blackstrap wonders who wrote those words. If the man had ever stepped on a boat.

The cards are dealt out.

‘What happened widt that story?' asks Blackstrap.

‘Wha' one?' asks Fred Rumsey.

‘The guy who punched Cuntz.'

‘Yeah,' says Johnny Cole. ‘Wha's up widt dat? Widt Duanne?' He says the name Duanne with a toothy twang.

Billy Cullen looks at his cards. Frowns like there's nothing but bad at the end of the story. ‘Duanne and his brudder. Dey were sent off on a supply boat.'

‘Yeah,' says Blackstrap, tossing out two cards.

Fred Rumsey deals to Blackstrap. ‘Cuntz put Duanne 'n 'is brudder in a net basket 'n had da crane operator hold dem out over da rig. Supply boat down below, bobbin' around. A blizzard blowing. Told da crane operator to hold 'em dere. An hour and a 'alf in da basket. Out over da sea in a blizzard.' Fred deals more cards to replace the ones thrown out by the others.

No one says another thing for a while.

‘Dere were almost a riot over dat,' says Fred. ‘Dem fuk'n Yanks. Da Newf'nlanders were gonna kill 'em all. Wipe 'em out.'

Blackstrap bids, tossing in a few chips.

Johnny Cole folds.

Billy Cullens bids. Then raises.

Fred says he's out.

Blackstrap sees Billy Cullen.

‘Full house,' says Billy, laying down his cards. Proud as punch.

Blackstrap lays down his cards. Four aces. His face showing nothing. Never. And then the slow smile that can't be helped when winning comes like that.

The men look at him. The ace of spades edging away from the others. A vibration in the table.

‘Jesus,' says Fred Rumsey. ‘Lucky frigger. What're the fuk'n odds?'

Blackstrap looks at the wide splay of chips. A few of them in the pile begin to slide. A little to the left. The quiet threat of an avalanche. An illusion. The body tipping. A ship's movement. Not supposed to be that way. Not what he suspects. Not on this rig.

The men all look at each other. Their faces registering surprise. Instantly grim. What about the ballast system? Everything always upright. As steady as a hotel. Never anything like this. And the stomach-aching dread as the room begins tilting. Coming awake. Coming alert. Rising.

‘Christ,' says Fred Rumsey.

All of them on their feet without knowing.

The cards and chips slide along the table. Hands go out to prevent the chips from spilling. But it's too late.

‘Fuh'k,' says Johnny Cole. ‘Who owns what now?'

The chips fall onto the floor. Clatter around and roll toward the bunks and lockers.

Johnny Cole watching them all roll.

A siren starts blaring.

Blackstrap's arm on the bunk edge. He checks the porthole. Black in landless darkness and fizzles of grey almost white. A wave hits the glass. Three feet away, he can feel the force of it.

The lights flicker.

Off for a while.

Then on.

At once, the men move for the corridor. To join the sounds of other men already hurrying up toward the office. The sounds of disunity and confusion. Where the bubble in the glass is no longer centred. Across the way, the radio room is full of men. Men already there to call their sweethearts. Others there now, too. Ones without sweethearts.

Why hadn't he thought of buying something for Susan? He had seen the hearts in the stores. The advertisements for the special event, but he couldn't have picked out a card. He didn't know what it might have said. How badly he was in love with her or not, printed there for her to read.

There is much fast conversation.

Jack, the radioman, saying: ‘There is a serious problem. We need to get people off now.'

‘Where're da lifeboats?' says Billy Cullen. Barely words through a dry throat. Knowing nothing now. Not having learned about this. His head a mass of fright. His young voice not hiding the scare. His worse nightmare never expected. Sounding even younger. A helpless boy.

Blackstrap looks at Billy. Sees Fred Rumsey's face. Snatches of other men's alert expressions.

Then the lights go out.

The rig tips more. Bodies fall against him. The radioman is calling into darkness: ‘Mayday. Mayday…' But nothing at the other end. His words going nowhere.

A light sweeps through the room.

A light in a tunnel.

In a shaft.

In a mine.

All faces turned that way.

‘Come on, boys.' It's Cuntz with a flashlight. ‘Let's get to the lifeboats. Move.'

Blackstrap remembers the two survival suits. In the room across the way. He goes in there and catches a flicker of orange. From the flashlights sweeping around. Another light on now in someone else's hands. He grabs both suits and follows after the push of men. Up the stairs to the drill deck. One of the survival suits caught on something. Or someone trying to tug it away. He holds on. A blinding blizzard with savage wind. The howling blackness. The air wet and mercilessly stinging. A barrage of needles. The men press against the wind. Some of them in shirts and pants. Faces dipped to be shielded. Trying to look everywhere, even up. Eyes squinting. Others in green or blue overalls.

He sees Billy Cullen and grabs him.

‘Here, get back under,' Blackstrap shouts, dragging Billy back toward the stairs. The noise of steel straining. Like wood that cannot snap. Only bend. Creaking. The sharp groan felt in the fillings of his teeth as the rig tilts more and a wave sweeps behind them. Up onto the deck. Eighty feet above the sea. Men washed away. Gone before anyone realizes a thing. The impossibility in an instant. Blackstrap sees as he turns, hurrying now. An arm in water. A leg. The back of a man. Gushing by. No way to try for them. He pulls Billy fully into the door. Down the stairs with
water sloshing in after them. Along the corridor. Leaned against the bulkhead. He struggles to get his suit on. There are men in the darkness. Flashlights up the stairs. Inside the door. Flashes of Billy's face watching it all. Men not wanting to go out. That open door and the fierceness of the weather reaching him where he is. More water pouring down the stairs. The smell of it where it was not meant to be. In here. The stink of salt water and oil below deck.

‘Get ta da boat,' says Blackstrap. But he cannot see Billy Cullen. Only a voice coming back to him. If there was one. Up the metal stairs. ‘You dere? Billy?!'

‘Yes.' A voice behind him. Following after him. Up the stairs. Up to the door. The flash of a lightbeam. He looks back. Billy's face. Terrified. No orange suit. ‘Where's yer fuk'n suit?'

Billy doesn't answer.

‘Billy!'

The temperature nips at the flesh. Waves pound the
Ocean Ranger
. The deck floor is awash. Blackstrap wonders what comes next. The ugly tilt of the rig. A place on a boat. The cold will kill him. He knows this. Without the suit. His mind on his chances. They are zero. If this rig goes over in the black rising swell of Atlantic. He stumbles sideways. His feet slipping. Ice washed over and over. Freezing thicker. Growing. Shoots out his arm to brace himself against a steel wall. Falls against it. His feet almost going out from under him. Eye strain in the darkness. Billy Cullen on top of him. Holding on. Fingers dug right into his flesh. The pound of a wave. Against a cliff that will go over. A group of men at the lifeboat. Fifteen feet away. Only one lifeboat on this side. The side leaning toward the water. The other two, on the other side, would be unlaunchable. Swung in against the rig, the davits wouldn't work.

Who designed this fucking thing?

The fucking Japanese.

Fred Rumsey in there. In his overalls. A plaid shirt. The sweep of flashlights. Illuminating flecks of snow. White and dead moving. Waving him over. Light full on Blackstrap's face. Shivering over him. Blinding him. A greater sense of unknowing now. When the beam moves away. Billy Cullen lit up too. While others try to board the boat. Fred pulls them in. Shouting. Enough room for almost everyone. Before
two other men. Right in front of Blackstrap. Greg from Heart's Content and Peter from St. John's. Men trying to climb into the boat. Are hit by the thousand-pound wash of a wave. Their feet flipped out from under them. A bully trick. Bodies tipped and swirled. Ramming them forward. Toward the derrick. Spray in Blackstrap's face. Stinging. Blinding. A mouthful of it because he was shouting to them. Like the others. He wipes at his eyes. His mouth. Hawks and spits. Vomits without even bending down. A bone-rattling shiver close to a sob. He thinks of crouching to hang on better. Another wave pounding. His hands already half dead. Losing their grip. When the sizzling wave pulls back from the platform. Greg and Peter are gone. His boots soaking wet. Feet frozen stiff already. No feeling in his toes.

There is a noise.

More shouting and crashing. From another direction.

Blackstrap turns to see nothing. Black white sky. A shadow coming from the other way. A shimmer from the other side. Then a bulk of something. One of the lifeboats launched. It bounces by Blackstrap's head. Not a sound of it in the wind. Just the silent fullness of it, gaining. Until it smashes against the deck. Cracking and splintering as the men spill out. Five of them flat on the platform. Sliding in the wash of water. Fish in the bottom of a boat. But their faces. Others trying to rise to their feet. Washed away by smaller waves. Big enough to pull them to the edge. And over the railing. Arms and hands jerking for a grip. And calling mouths open. Gone in the black drop.

Hold…fucking…on.

The body picked up carried high in the water. Lost. Then a face. Surging around Blackstrap's boots. An arm, a hand, snatching, almost pulling him down. He backs away. He lets go his hold. The count of the next wave. ‘Go,' he shouts to Billy Cullen. Rushes and grabs for the lifeboat. With the weight of Billy not knowing. Grabs hold to the handle. No idea how many men the boat holds. Sixty or seventy. The boat has been lowered to the deck by one of the men. But the waves bash the door. Fill the boat with water. Make it impossible to close the door. There are men in there. Soaking wet. Trying not to get sucked from their places. Then the two up front are swept out. A tumbling fall into the sea. Eighty feet down. Speckled-white blackness to blacker
blackness. Bodies tinier. Blackstrap gets Billy Cullen in there. Billy Cullen there in his hand. Frozen to him. Shoves him in. Snapping the ice that bonds them. Then tries climbing up. His leg in someone's hands. Trying to climb up on him. Or hold on. He will fall back from the strain. Into the black sucking pull of gravity. Andy Coffin on that ladder. What will he hit if he drops now? Falling for all eternity. The arms let go and he is in. His stomach turned by the possibility of dangling. There is no more time. Pulled in by Fred Rumsey. Chances not so zero now. The rig listing more. A man puking next to him. All over his suit. The sound of retching as men slide away. In the waves. The howl beyond the opening. The big rig leaning toward the water. A monstrous jungle of steel about to go under. Like a ship after all. Just like a ship. A creaking, straining ship and the snapping of anchor chain. The snapping of steel no stronger than wood.