Page 128 of Tender Heart
With a groan, I roll out of bed and shove the heels of my palms into my eyes, like that will make them work better. In only my underwear, I stagger to the cupboard and pull on jeans and a shirt.
“Mayday! Can anyone hear me?” The desperate voice crackles through the old system.
“I’m coming!” I yell at the VHF. As if it can relay an untranscribed message.
Fumbling with the radio, I turn the dial to reduce the sound and reverberation.
“Fire Island Lighthouse, we hear you loud and clear. What’s your position?”
“East, I think. I can see the lighthouse, but we are taking on water. On the port side. Was heading north.” The breathless reply rapid fires through the speaker.
“Turn all your lights on, buddy. Make sure you have a life jacket. Stay on the radio, I might need more information. Grab your EPIRB, tie it to your person. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”
“Copy. Out.”
I pluck my cap from the too-empty hooks by the door and shove my feet into my boots. Running for the jetty, I realize I didn’t bring my own phone, only the handheld radio for backup if the boat’s radio fails. No time to backtrack.
Tossing the lines off the jetty, I board Firefly and fire her up. East of the lighthouse means I have to round the northern end before I can gain ground, so to speak, on the vessel in distress. I push the old girl as fast as she can go, praying the man on the boat—and any other passengers, for that matter—have life vests and he did as I asked and grabbed his EPIRB.
“Watch house this is Firefly, come in?”
“Watch house to Firefly,” Errol’s voice slurs.
Great. Just fucking great.
“Heading for a vessel in distress northeast of the lighthouse, requesting Coast Guard assistance.”
“Negative, Firefly. The boat is out on another call.”
Fuck.
It’s standard protocol to radio in for backup. This old tub isn’t built for speed, unlike Emmett’s big shiny boat.
“Errol, I swear to god, man.”
“Radio back if you need assistance when you get there,” he says reluctantly. “I’ll divert the cruiser.”
“Copy. Out.”
I send Firefly faster. The gauges flicker as the engine whines under protest.
“Firefly to vessel east of the lighthouse, do you copy?”
Static echoes back at me.
Double fuck.
We round the northern tip, and I send her into open waters. It’s choppy, and the low, foggy clouds have reduced visibility to around fifty feet. Fucking perfect. My luck, I won’t see them until I’m almost on top of them.
I try the distressed boat on the radio one last time.
Nothing comes back.
Hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles, I peer through the fog, desperate to see them floating. Drifting.
Best case scenario, they are still topside.
Worse case is a capsize.
