The training takes time too. Cold-water survival. Stabilizing vessels in rough surf. Getting people off boats that don’t want to stay upright while lines and gear swing around your feet. All of us have trained with the Coast Guard. They’ve spent hours teaching us how to keep things under control until they are able to arrive with the heavier rescue equipment when needed.
Most of the time it’s routine.
A stalled boat. Someone who slipped and broke a wrist. A fisherman who pushed a little too far offshore.
But the ocean doesn’t always stay routine. Sometimes it turns on you without much warning.
When Cruz and I step back into the bay, Estrada, Dinsmore, Baldonado, and Vo are already loading the last of the equipment into the truck.
“Let’s move,” Estrada says.
We climb in, the engine roaring to life a second later.
As soon as we pull out of the station, the ocean opens up in front of us. Even from the road, I can see the swell rolling in, long gray walls of water rising and falling beyond the harbor mouth. It’s rough out there today.
But it’s nothing we haven’t worked in before.
It’s just another call.
We clear the harbor mouth, and the swells are already bigger than they looked from shore.
The rescue boat climbs over a swell and drops hard on the other side, spray kicking up over the bow. Estrada keeps the engine steady while Baldonado stands near the stern watching out for the distressed vessel.
“There,” Dinsmore says, pointing off the port side.
The fishing boat comes into view between the swells, drifting sideways in the water. Even from a distance, I can see the problem immediately. The bow keeps swinging toward the rocks every time a wave pushes through, the captain fighting the wheel even though it’s clear the boat isn’t responding.
“Motor’s dead,” Cruz mutters beside me.
“Looks like it,” I say.
Estrada guides us closer, easing the rescue boat alongside as carefully as the conditions allow. The two vessels rise and fall at different rhythms, one lifting while the other drops, the gap between them widening and closing with every swell.
“Easy… easy…” Estrada calls.
A man appears at the rail of the fishing boat, gripping the side with both hands.
“Engine won’t start!” he shouts over the wind. “We’ve got someone hurt!”
Cruz steps forward immediately.
“Where are they?”
“In the back!”
I glance past him and see a passenger slumped near the stern bench, another man crouched beside him trying to hold a towel against his forehead.
“Alright,” I call out. “We’re gonna stabilize you first.”
Baldonado tosses a line across the short gap between the boats. The captain catches it, his hands shaking slightly as he loops it around a cleat.
The decks are slick with seawater. Every few seconds, a swell rolls through, and both boats lurch again, the gap between them shifting just enough to keep everyone on edge.
Cruz moves toward the stern to help the injured passenger while Dinsmore keeps a hand on the rail, watching the boats' movements.
“Line’s not holding,” Baldonado says.
The rope slackens for a second as another swell lifts the fishing boat.
