He takes a slow sip of water.
“If you breach two, maybe three watertight compartments on a ship like theBlack Orchid, you can maybe stay afloat. But if you rip open four, and you have lost your main engines, you’ve lost control of your vessel. It’s a huge thing—a dire thing. We were in unprecedented territory, dealing with a disaster no master of the sea would ever want to face. I ... I certainly would not wish this on anyone. Never.”
He falls silent. Swallows hard.
“We were maybe three hundred and fifty, four hundred meters from the cliffs on a section of the caldera called Scylla. A cruise ship like theOrchid—she’s tall. Over fifteen stories high—like an apartment building. The sides are very sheer. All the little balconies—each one catches wind and acts like a sail. When you lose propulsion so close to land, and you have heavy winds, the tide, waves, and you are being pushed toward land, you are going to strike that land. TheBlack Orchidcame to rest on a sloped underwater drop-off beneath the cliffs, and when she did, she lurched violently portside toward the cliffs. She began to capsize. She was sinking. A Mayday call indicates imminent danger to life.”
He pours more water with a slight tremble of his hands.
“The order to abandon ship is only ever given if there’s no other option, because it’s risky. It causes panic. It causes accidents. It can cause loss of life itself. But when a master has no alternative, they must do whatever they can to safely evacuate everyone from the stricken ship, and get them into the lifeboats, and away into the sea. If a ship can no longer support life, youmustleave the vessel. Lifeboats should be able to be launched within thirty minutes of the abandon-ship call going out.”
He reaches for a tissue, blows his nose, then continues quietly.
“But the lifeboats on the port side—they were trapped under the listing weight of theBlack Orchid. They were going underwater. With those craft out of use, we had twice the number of people trying to get to the starboard lifeboats. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, and cramming of guests who wanted to get in first. Younger men pushing old women aside. Stronger women scrambling over the weak—they weren’t thinking about other people.” He pauses. “They were thinking only about survival. Self-preservation.”
He falls silent. The only sound is a soft hum in the room.
Arrabella
Arrabella leaves her hotel and goes outside to join the growing crowds. Wind lashes at the cliffs. In the darkness, hotel guests, staff, and local villagers are gathering along a wall overlooking the caldera. They talk in a mix of Greek, English, German, Dutch, French, and other languages Arrabella can’t even identify. Some point; others hold hands to their mouths in shock, disbelief, incredulity.
Chest tight, Arrabella squeezes her way through a knot of people to the front, where she can lean against the low stone wall. In the distance, the ship is still mostly dark, but spotlights sweep from its decks, and a helicopter hovers above, panning the vessel with searchlights. Smaller lights glimmer on the water, coming from lifeboats now bobbing out to sea.
Another chopper approaches, thudding through the darkness as it crosses the caldera. It begins circling the ship, also with bright beams raking over the surface.
Arrabella realizes theBlack Orchidis listing heavily—she’s almost fully on her side against the dark cliffs across the caldera. The searchlights illuminate whitecaps on the water, flashing silver as waves strike rock.
A chill runs over her body.
She covers her mouth with her hand as wind tears at her hair, whipping strands across her face.
She can see lights from smaller boats now leaving Santorini harbors and heading toward the crippled ship on the far side of the caldera.
A man pushes through the thickening crowd and squeezes in beside her. He watches the scene for a moment, then swears softly in English.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“TheBlack Orchidstruck something. She’s breached her hull and is sinking. The captain’s issued a Mayday.”
He’s American. Tall. Dark-blond hair.
“Fuck,” she whispers as she turns her attention back to the ship in the distance. She stares. “Patrick.”
“You know someone on board?”
She nods and her eyes fill with tears. Her skin has gone cold.
“My fiancé,” she says.
They both stare at the distant lights. A small plane approaches. Arrabella hears the roar of a bigger boat leaving the harbor far below. Everything seems surreal. Like it can’t be happening—just a strange silvery dream in the moonlight and wind with the clear sky and stars above.
“Me too,” the man says.
She turns to him, holds her whipping hair back off her face. “You have someone on theOrchid?”
He swallows and looks toward the leaning white vessel. “My son,” he says quietly. “And my wife. They’re traveling with my father-in-law. I—I was going to be joining them in the morning.”
Arrabella’s mouth opens. She regards the man, stricken.
