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“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.”
The thin voice, crackling with static, whispered to Donald McCaffrey. He leaned forward, pressing two fingers to his earbud. He took in a deep breath, squeezed the Transmit button slowly, summoning forth an inner calm.
“Vessel calling Mayday, this is Comox Coast Guard Radio.”
He waited, breathing in and out, a tense silence. Static popped in his ears like the sound of distant gunfire. A tiny plume of steam rose from his coffee cup. He held his breath, felt his jaw tense.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.”
Static engulfed the call, as though it was coming to Earth from a distant planet. Don dropped his head and exhaled.
“Vessel calling Mayday, this is Comox Coast Guard Radio.”
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is the sailing vessel Rebecca Anne . . . ”
Don closed his eyes briefly, nodding his head. He ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair, following the contours of his scalp. The caller sounded like a woman.
“Rebecca Anne. This is Comox Coast Guard Radio.”
Nothing.
Suddenly, words broke through the static like the sun’s rays piercing through an overcast sky.
“Comox Coast Guard, this is the sailing vessel Rebecca Anne.”
Don punched the air with his fist. “Yes.” He let go a tense victory whisper.
“Rebecca Anne. State the nature of your emergency.”
“This is the sailing vessel Rebecca Anne. The sailing vessel Rebecca Anne.”
She hadn’t heard him.
“I say again, ma’am. State the nature of your emergency.”
Don leaned back and closed his eyes again. He sifted through the darkness, imagining that he could hover above the Strait of Georgia like a gigantic eagle surveying everything below.
“Comox Coast Guard, this is the sailing vessel Rebecca Anne. We believe we’ve hit an uncharted rock. We’re adrift without an engine. We’ve damaged our hull. We’re taking on water fast.”
Her voice sounded stressed, but not panicked. The transmission, though still peppered with static, came through more clearly than the others. Don lowered his shoulders.
“Rebecca Anne, Comox Coast Guard. Ma’am, do you have a bilge pump aboard?”
“Roger. Our bilge pump is on continuously. My husband is operating a handheld pump. So far we are able to keep up.”
Don nodded. This woman communicated clearly.
“Ma’am, do you have a GPS unit aboard? And can you give me your present location?”
Don reached around to massage the back of his neck, then he picked up a pencil.
“Comox Coast Guard, our present location is . . . ” She paused. “Forty-nine point thirty-three degrees north. One-hundred twentyfour point zero-five degrees west.”
Don scribbled.
“Rebecca Anne, copy.”
Don spun around to a computer, typed in the coordinates. A chart flashed onto his large LCD screen. A red X pulsed below and to the right of the Ballenas Islands, which were inside a red polygon marked WG. He tapped on the screen with his pencil.
“Ma’am, could you please stand by.”
He didn’t wait for her response. He popped out his earbud, picked up a red telephone handset, and punched in four numbers. A moment later, a man answered.
“Winchelsea Control, Herndon.”
“Comox Radio Operations Center calling to confirm the status of area WG.”
Herndon’s voice tightened with impertinence. “Whiskey Gulf is active today from 0700 to 1800 hours.”
Herndon hung up.
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