Flood and fire on the Adak

They say the ten plagues of Egypt were a divine demonstration of power and displeasure. To show how weak mortals are in the face of god.

Well, we here on the Adak have weathered plagues one and nine – flood and darkness as a result of fire – in the space of a week.

Can we just call ourselves convinced? Do we really need the other eight?

*

On Saturday June 15th, on a brilliant sunny morning, I awoke at 5:15 AM to sail out to Cape Edgecumbe to troll up some king salmon for a promised, and woefully overdue wedding gift to a dear friend. That evening, at 6:34, I had reservations on a flight off the island to Aspen, Colorado, where I had lucked into a scholarship to the Aspen writer’s conference – flight, room and board included. The plan was, catch salmon on this glorious morning, process and vacuum-pack, then pack clothes, and hop the bird off the rock for the red-eye to Colorado. The following day I’d be in the company of soft-spoken writers in that cloistered fairy tale land of hot tubs and gas-lit fires.

Stepping from the gunwales of the tug to the bull-rail of the dock, something wasn’t right. It was actually kind of nice – like stepping onto a city subway, rather than the usual perilous hop down. I considered for a moment, then checked the starboard side of the boat. Water lapped just a couple feet from the deck. Nooooo…not right at all.

I pulled off the stern hatch leading to the cargo hold. Oil-splotched, opaque water was up to the third rung of the ladder.

Thus began the wild, awful race to save the Adak from sinking.

I sprinted off the boat to throw the 50-amp breaker at the electrical post. Then called Thom Nelson, then the Harbor Department emergency number. They were alerting the Fire Department and Sitka police. As they described the pumps they would bring I lowered myself into the cargo hold, black water reaching my thighs, globules of oil pocking the surface. The fish freezer was floating, along with blocks of foam insulation, Tupperware tops, and floor planking.

I made a mark for the water line, then half-swam/waded through the dark, ducking beneath the bulkhead into the engine room. The air smelled of diesel; I banged against a floating Jerry can, then a few more, the diesel now mixed with the oil. My headlamp flashed over the engine, the entire crankcase submerged. I pulled myself hand-over-fist on overhead piping because all the floor planks covering the bilge were now afloat. You could balance on top of them, plunging them into the water with weight – like stepping on a kickboard in the pool, balancing so they wouldn’t shoot back up with buoyancy.

The white of the LED showed the water level just a few feet beneath the electrical panel, and the Deutz three-phase generator. I heard the sound of water pouring in off the starboard, and ran the light over the siding of the boat – a through-hull, submerged because of the flood, gushed sea water.

Five months earlier I had taken a drill-instructor class, put on by one of my closest friends here in Sitka, Rick Peterson, at the Alaska Marine Safety and Education Association. One of the exercises required to pass was being put in a simulated engine room. The instructor would throw valves, and you would need to patch leaks springing from the bilge, the boat walls, the engine block.

I’d love to say I took everything from that class and put it to good use to stop this leak. But I didn’t. I had no wedges of wood, no rubber wrapping – which they provided for us in a crate. So decided instead to dig into the bilge, the water at neck-level as I crouched, and fumbled in the dark for the 110 bilge pump, dragged it like a reluctant boa constrictor into the cargo hold. Thom, always thinking ahead, had already taken a cord from a neighboring boat and strung it over to the Adak. He lowered it down through the hatch into the cargo hold, the sunlight as I looked up to catch it blinding. With a gulp and a splash our first pump kicked to life. And simultaneously we both realized how we had flooded – the bilge pump hose had been left in the water overnight, and had been back-siphoning seawater since 5 pm the following day. Once the boat sank beneath the level of the through-hull, water began pouring in, accelerating the sinking.

Thankfully the Honda trash pump was stored high up. With Thom’s help we pulled it up onto the stern deck, pulled out the choke, and pulled the cord. Nothing. Checked the gas, choke, cord, nothing.

“C’mon you little fucker.”

By this time all the renters were awake, and were standing on deck, watching, wide-eyed. Dan Sheehan found some ether starting fluid and we sprayed it into the air manifold. Pull again – and with the growling sound of angels, the creature sputtered to life, and began pumping water over the side.

Second pump online. I went down the ladder again – the water level had gone up an inch. The boat continued to sink, the cumulative weight of water only quickening the sickening process.

The Harbor Department arrived. They had a larger pump, and set it up on the stern. It joined the chorus of pumps with a steady bass, and now three 2-inch hoses were ferrying water overboard. By this time a crowd had gathered on the dock. Who knows how much time had passed – an hour, two, three? As we ran back and forth, checking on pumps, repositioning hoses, it became clear that one of my renters new what was happening. What a great stroke of luck that Bryant, a renter working the summer as an intern for the public attorney, had spent his teenage years working in a harbor. He kept calm, knew how to prime a pump, throttle it up, and patch a through-hull.

I dropped back down into the flooded pit of the engine room, waded through and opened the hatch midship, hauling the 110 pump behind. Bryant met me with a cord, which he lowered down. It was wet, and shocked the bejesus out of me when I grabbed it. Probably didn’t help to be standing in 12,000 gallons of water.  It sparked when, holding it by the neck, I plugged in the 110, Bryant positioned the hose, and we heard the splash of water going overboard. I was worried that, hard as we were pumping on the stern, all the water would go to the bow, and the boat would go down because of the imbalance of weight.

The Fire Department arrived with three pumps. The chief, and assistant chief were on-hand. As volunteers set up pumps the assistant chief asked questions about the boat – how was it partitioned? Did I have plans to salvage it if it sunk? Did I have a diver on-hand? I began to get frustrated, wanting to get back down in the engine room. The water level had gone down slightly in the cargo hold, but the bow was still sinking.

A tall, moccasined gray-haired man joined our klatch. He handed me a card.

“Coast Guard here. We’re going to need to know what’s happening here. And I can tell you if this boat doesn’t sink we’re going to need permanent fixes. Sealing off the lazarette and cargo hold and engine room. That’s if you want to continue to live on her, tied up in Sitka.”

I turned my back and walked away. What else to do? I swear if I hadn’t I would have either hit him, or spit on his suede moccasins. There was a faint mumbling above as I went back down the ladder to check on the pumps. If he wanted to continue the conversation he could c’mon down into the flooded engine room.

Thankfully, the Fire Department and Harbor Department were more concerned with saving the boat. I opened a hatch on the bow, slipped in, and hauled a long hose over the water tank into the forward engine room. Gave a tug and the fireman sparked the engine. With a jerk and gulp the hose started pumping – what a nice sound, a nice feeling in the hands as water flowed. Meanwhile Thom and Bryant hopped into the skiff to patch the leaking through-hull – Thom had his snorkel on-hand and wore his surf shorts in case he needed to go diving. A former Navy SEAL, I figured he’d be fine if he had to get wet. Lucy took her customary perch on the bow, like a coxswain. They dispersed diapers for the oil sheen.

In the dark, looking around the engine room, yellow floor planks and gas cans and yogurt containers floating in the black water, I suddenly began to feel okay. Thinking about it now, I’m not sure why. There must be something to this quantum physics thing, how our bodies are sensitive to shifts in electrons, how we can sniff out the future. Taste in the back of our throat the direction of things. Black water almost belly-button high, pumps in a fugue, gulping eagerly. For the first time I began to think that I wouldn’t be losing all my books, journals, poems, pictures. It was – a good feeling.

“Water level’s going down!” someone yelled from the stern.

Balancing on the old bilge pump, pulling myself back to the cargo hold, I saw that the water line had dropped a good four inches. What a sight for sore eyes.

Topside the moccasined Coast Guard fellow had split, deciding, I suppose, that his work here was done – he was missing his Sunday garage sales. Good riddance, motherfucker.

Hoses snaking over the boat deck, the docks, smell of oil and sound of water spashing. Diapers floating on the surface to absorb any oil. The assistant fire chief found me to explain that once his pumps started hitting oil, I was at risk of being cited by the Coast Guard for pollution. His words couldn’t have been more welcome; oil sat low in the bilge. Much better than inquiring about salvage divers.

A steady chorus of water flowing overboard. Slowly, the bow began to come up. I went back into the engine room to reposition the pump, glorying in the gasping sound it made when it sucked air. I checked on the through-hull – Thom’s patch with Henry’s had mitigated the flow of water. As the boat reluctantly came back up, with a grand sigh, the flow slowed.

One by one the Fire Department shut off their pumps. Hands were shook. People started joking on the dock, about the pink power cord the Fire Department brought. Aiden, Xander’s son, put a line in the water. The Fire Department pulled off, then the Harbor department. Sarah, Xander’s girlfriend, came by with a bowl of bacon and eggs – Thom, Bryant and I stood on deck, in the sun, catching our breath, eating breakfast, hardly a word spoken.

It was just after nine when we switched back on the electric. I spent the next half hour  filling out oil prevention paperwork from the Coast Guard, provided by a cute cadet in a blue onesie.

“It actually looks fine,” she said. “Much better than I would have thought.”

*

With the help of Thom and Darren, I spent the rest of the day scrubbing the engine room, doing battle against the oily coating of engine oil that lay over everything beneath the flood line. It was like seven straight hours of washing a buttery frying pan – except with the cloying smell of old crankcase oil everywhere. We sprayed everything down with fresh water, to stop the corrosion from salt water – paying special attention to wiring beneath water level, and the starter for the Deutz. At 4:30 things looked tolerable. I threw clothes in a bag, grabbed my computer, grabbed Mad Men season’s four and five from the library, and boarded the plane.

*

I’m out of breath with the re-telling of this. So I’ll end by a summarized version of what happened the following Saturday.

The fun began on the flight from Juneau to Sitka. We were supposed to land at 10:55 pm. I had been joking over the course of the day, because Aspen was ranked the most dangerous airport in the country, and Sitka was ranked third. Would make for a great day of flying.

I had a window seat as we descended through cloud-cover toward Sitka. The sun was just setting; mountain tops pushed through the blanket of white. As we lost altitude the wing-flaps extended for landing. We continued to drop through whiteness. And then the lights of the Hackett’s house on Bamdoroshni Island; we were about 500 feet above sea level, dropping quickly. And the pilot suddenly throttled up and the wing-flaps retracted, and I glimpsed the runway for a moment before the plane lifted back into the clouds.

“Folks that’s what we call a missed approach. We’re gonna try that once more. Hopefully some of those clouds will break up.”

Thanks for the explanation.

On the second round, we touched down, and the plane erupted into clapping. The mood was especially festive as people greeted loved ones at the gate. How I love the scene at the airport in Sitka, especially on the late flight, when people let down their guard, and are unfiltered with their love.

Two of my renters, Dan and Bryant, were waiting for me. They were not unfiltered with their love. Strange that they were there in the first place, as my truck was parked at the airport. Grave expressions.

“Thom call you?” Dan asked.

I shook my head.

“The Adak caught fire.”

And so it had. An electrical fire. Thankfully, people were on board when it happened. A frayed line had shorted, and plywood lit up. The Fire Department had wanted to chop through the walls to look for embers. Luckily, an infra-red camera was on hand, obviating the need. But the Harbormaster had locked the electrical box for the boat, essentially saying enough is enough on this boat.

I spent that night drinking wine in the crepuscule of the boat with Thom, Bryant, Dan and Darren. After the preponderance of women in Aspen it felt good to be in the uncomplicated, stupid air of men. We had the fridge and a string of Christmas tree lights going in the galley, from juice filched off the Sitka Spruce. And sat drinking boxed red wine from Mason jars, wondering what was next. Folks made jokes about the gods, about putting out electrical fires with wet towels, about Darren, who subsists on a diet of half-priced burger meat, talking in his sleep, mumbling “burger burger burger burger…burger burger burger burger” – Bryant swore to it.

The next couple days were ones of re-wiring, cleaning, checking lines, learning more about marine wiring than I ever wanted to know. Also writing a letter to the editor thanking the community for the help, going on the radio to do the same.

I don’t know why the Adak is so angry. Ticked that I’m bugging out for the sun and indulgent life of San Francisco. Maybe? Like Cal before I leave, getting ornery and whiney. Someone suggested she’s trying to commit suicide. How awful.

Yesterday morning I met with the harbormaster and made my case to have the electrical post unlocked. Part of it being that a writer for National Geographic is spending four days on the boat – she arrives this evening – to do an article on the history of the Adak.

Yesterday afternoon, after checking all connections, using Ancor 12/3 tend boat wire, coating ten crimp-on fittings with dialectic grease, I stood by the electrical post with a finger ready to flip the breaker. Please let there be light. Please deliver us from darkness.

With a thunk and a prayer, the lights went back on.