Their lifeboat commander reaches for two sets of oars secured to the inside of their craft. He keeps one oar, and hands the other three to the strongest-looking passengers near him.
“I need you to help me push us away from the ship. If we get enough of an angle, we can lower farther.”
They lean out the door hatch, ready.
“Okay—on three,” the commander calls.
They shove their oars hard against the hull. Their lifeboat eases off the side of the ship enough to drop a few more meters; then it shudders to a stop, resting against theOrchid.
“Again,” the commander grunts, sweating. “On three.”
They heave once more, groaning with the effort. The boat lurches free, drops sharply.
Cheers and applause erupt. The mood shifts. They all fall silent.
“Again! One, two, three!”
They shove with all their strength.
Passengers shout encouragement. “You can do it! We can do this! Go. Go! Heave!”
The lifeboat moves, and slides, and drops and jerks as the cables clang and whine above.
More cheers erupt inside.
The commander’s helpers swap out with three other volunteers. Gradually they inch and budge their craft down the canted flank of theBlack Orchid—push, shove, drop. Cables rattling ahead, another drop. Cheers. More cheers.
A chant starts among passengers. They clap a beat in time with the effort.
Then suddenly—impact as they crash onto the waves with a violent slam. Everyone grabs onto anything they can—the benches, rails, each other—as the shock reverberates through the boat and into their spines.
The waves surge, banging them against the ship. Wind lashes into their craft. Salt spray comes through the opening and wets Poppy’s face. Some guests begin to sob with relief. Mr. Hail Mary thanks the Lord.
With a metallic snap, the crewman releases the hooks that attach their craft to the davit cables. And they’re free.
“Clearing hull!” he yells. “Engines on!”
He yanks the starter cord. The diesel engine sputters, coughs, then dies.
For a moment no one breathes.
He tries again.
The engine rumbles to life. Cheers rise as diesel fumes fill the air. The commander seizes the tiller and steers them away from the ship.
“It’s crucial that we get away from theOrchidas fast as we can,” Poppy hears a man say behind her to his wife. “A ship her size will create suction—drag us under if she shifts or sinks suddenly. Or she’ll crush us.”
TheOrchidtowers above them at an incomprehensible angle.
Their lifeboat commander deploys a sea anchor to help keep their bow facing the brunt of the waves, and to minimize risk of goingbroadside and capsizing. The small engine fights against the push and surge of the tide and driving wind as their commander guides them away. As they gain distance, theOrchid’s moans and groans deepen.
He checks his radio. Nothing but static. He tries again. Still nothing. He steers them slowly toward other bobbing orange lifeboats glowing faintly under red and amber flares across the dark water.
Poppy
Poppy sits shivering on a low stone wall beside a cracked concrete boat ramp. Dawn is pale and gentle over the sea; the wind has softened to a breeze.
It’s impossible to believe the night was even real. But theOrchidis still out there, across the water, almost fully on her side. Survivors are still being brought ashore by the Coast Guard, SAR teams, villagers, helicopters. Bodies, too.
