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“What kind of ship?” he asked. The words came out funny. Their lips were nearly frozen.
“A nice big yacht,” Joe said. “With a few playmates, some Hawaiian Tropic girls, and a fully stocked bar. I think I even hear a jazz band playing some Louis Armstrong.”
“You’re losing it,” Kurt said. “But if you must fantasize…”
He stopped midsentence. Strang
e as it was, he thought he could hear the thrum of engines in the distance as well. Had there been any wind at all, he might not have heard it. But the still air was awfully quiet.
He threw the edge of the thermal blanket back, much to the consternation of the others. “Hey,” someone grumbled. “What are you doing?”
“Quiet.”
“What?”
“Joe heard a ship, and so did I.”
Kurt was staring out into the night. If there was a ship out there, its running lights should have been visible in the darkness. He saw nothing.
“I hear it,” Hayley said. “I hear it too.”
With an abundance of caution, Kurt considered the possibility of mass hysteria. It happened often enough among shipwreck survivors, but usually after days of exposure and dehydration.
“Give me a flare,” Kurt said.
Joe handed the flare gun to Kurt. By now, the thrum of heavy diesel engines could be heard clearly. There was a ship out there, running dark for whatever reason and moving closer.
Kurt aimed the gun skyward and pulled the trigger. The flare rocketed straight up, casting a white light down on the sea around them. A half mile off, Kurt spotted the prow of a freighter. It was heading roughly in their direction, though it would miss them to the east.
“It’s not one of ours,” Captain Winslow said.
“Nor is it a yacht with a band and a bar,” Joe replied. “But I’ll take it.”
The flare had a forty-second life, and the darkness returned once it dropped into the sea.
They waited.
“There’s no way they didn’t spot that,” Joe insisted.
Kurt loaded another flare into the firing chamber. “Let’s hope they’re not sleeping or watching TV.”
He was about to fire the second flare when the sound of the big engines and the reduction gearing changed.
“She’s cut her throttles,” Winslow said gleefully.
Kurt held off on firing the precious flare. Waiting. Hoping.
A spotlight came on near the aft of the big ship. It played across the water until it locked onto the orange raft. It went dark for a second and then began to flash a message.
“Use the flashlight,” Kurt said.
Joe moved to the edge, snapped on the light, and began to signal an SOS in Morse code.
More flashes followed from the ship.
“They’re coming around,” the captain replied, reading the message before Kurt could speak. “They’re going to pick us up.”
A cheer went through the boat.
