Vinnie said calmly, “He’s outside the circle of the boat, pick him up first. Get close. I’ll toss the line and we’ll see if he takes it. Forget the boat.”
That’s easy for you to say, I thought. The empty boat was rocking wildly. We weren’t in any real danger. But sometimes when a wave raised the port side of the Martha I could see the man’s face in the water, white and unresponsive.
“Why doesn’t he look up, or wave?” I shouted. “Is he dead?”
“I hit him with the damn line, and he didn’t take it,” Vinnie said. “I’m going in.”
I realized Vinnie had put on his life jacket while I was talking. He kicked off his tennis shoes, threw his cap on the deck, and jumped into the Bay, not two feet from the victim.
Christ, don’t hit him, I thought.
Vinnie was with him instantly, threw back the man’s head and turned his body like it was a rubber toy. He took a few seconds to get his legs untangled from the victim, took about three strokes and he was beside the boat. I shut down the engine, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do, and I didn’t want anybody caught in the propeller. I rushed to the side of the boat and looked down at Vinnie’s nearly bald head, with a few strands of hair draped across his head like wet seaweed. Vinnie was nearly cheek to cheek with a small head of coal black hair that showed no sign of life. I fell to my knees, waited for the boat to rock low once more, then grabbed the arm of the motionless man and flung him into the boat.
“Jesus,” I shouted, not realizing how small he was, or how the adrenaline had increased my strength.
Vinnie had both hands on the side of the boat and was heaving himself in as I laid the man on the deck and started yelling at him.
“Wake up.” But there was no response.
Vinnie quickly turned him on his stomach, hit him on the back, and water seemed to rush from his mouth. He was a little man, with narrow features, and eyes that didn’t open, but were set in deep wells. Even for a drowning man, he looked desolate, like he just crawled out of a cave.
Vinnie flipped him again, on his back, and blew into his mouth. That’s all it took. The man just started all his systems, like the dashboard of a car that lights up on ignition. His eyes opened. He coughed, again and again. His arms rose as he tried to turn on his side.
“Get her started,” Vinnie said, as he tried to help the man get in a comfortable position for coughing and breathing.
“Get the boat,” the little man said. It was a weak voice, pleading. “Don’t leave the boat.”
Criminently, I thought, I almost forgot about the guy’s boat. But who cares. The first rule here is save the victim.
“I’m OK,” he said, “get the boat.”
“Where the hell is the boat?” I muttered, swinging the Martha Claire around to find the circling power boat. It was off my stern, circling at a fairly good speed, maybe seven knots. Like a figure skater, repeating the same circle over and over.
Vinnie was sitting on the deck with his new acquaintance, but he looked up enough to suggest, “See if you can get close enough to board her.”
“Hell no,” I replied, knowing I couldn’t do that even if it could be done. She was going too fast.
“How much gas does it have?” Vinnie asked his new friend.
“Fifty hours,” he muttered.
“Fifty hours!” I exclaimed. “We could be here for days. Let’s call the Coast Guard.”
“Wait,” Vinnie said. He struggled to untangle himself from the man on the floor. He raised the man’s body and leaned him against the engine box. “It will be warm,” he said. “Sit here and hold onto the side.”
I kept the Martha within a few yards of the pleasure boat, but I couldn’t hold the circle and I couldn’t hold the speed. I would fall behind, and then cut across the circle in the water until I caught up again. The boat had made so many circles that its wake seemed like a permanent scar in the water.
Vinnie went below and came back with a dark green army blanket, my father’s. It had been given to Dad by his brother, who fought in the Philippines during World War II. Uncle John had once sent me a hollow coconut from Guam that was finished into a bank, and every year on my birthday he would send a silver dollar to put in the bank. The blanket still had the Army’s insignia stenciled on one corner, but there was a sizable hole in the center where some battery acid had leaked on the blanket.
“Is that for the guy?” I asked as Vinnie emerged from the vee birth.
“No,” he said, “the boat. Pull Martha into the circle wake of that boat. Wait as long as you can, so you know Martha is on the same course as the cruiser. I’m going to throw this blanket in the circle and hope the cruiser hits it. Once I throw, get the hell out of there so it doesn’t hit us.”
I didn’t ask the purpose of this blanket maneuver, but it seemed significantly easier than trying to jump into a moving boat.
I found the wake just after the boat went past, threw Martha in neutral, and waited for the cruiser to circle again. It took a couple of minutes to come around. Finally, it was bearing down on us when Vinnie threw the blanket and screamed, “Go. Go. Go.” We lurched forward, causing our guest to roll on the floor. But Vinnie never lost balance or line of sight. He saw the cruiser approach the blanket, devour it under its sharp bow, and the blanket disappeared under the hull. And then the cruiser coughed. Like a child with someone’s hand over its mouth. Muffled. Then another cough. And the motor died. The cruiser stopped and within an instant was floating in the water as helpless as a styrofoam cup. The blanket had become entangled in the propeller just as Vinnie had calculated, and the big engine stalled.
Vinnie moved in close to the helm and said, “If you can get close, I’ll board the boat and we can tow her in.” He was looking me right in the eye, I think to see if I was shaken by the whole experience.
“Vinnie,” I said, “if I ever drive this boat again, even for one minute, I want you by my side.”
“You got it boss,” he said, moving to ready his jump.
Opening my law practice beside a Calico Cat linen store in what passes for the only shopping center in Parkers was not part of my long-term plan. It was actually Effie Humbolt’s Calico Cat store, with a subtitle: linen and things. More things than linen, and mostly bolts of cloth that appeared to be Laura Ashley knockoffs, priced for the local sewing circles. I noticed a predominance of rose designs, in colors ranging from pink to green, familiar to every family who uses wallpaper. I hadn’t seen much wallpaper since leaving Parkers because the style in Washington had moved to plain walls and ceiling molding, or an occasional stripe. In any case, it gave the Calico a homey feeling that I appreciated, even though my new law office would be spartan modern with plain walls, a wooden desk with Queen Anne legs that I picked up at Rick’s Antiques shop out on Route l, three walnut chairs of mixed origins for the vast clientele expected soon, and a Persian rug of mixed ancestry that gave me the illusion, at least, of some class. All the furnishings totaled less than three hundred dollars and strengthened my sense of frugality.
Every endeavor in life has its fears. The workboat certainly raised physical fears, but the law practice raised economic fears. Clients might never come. Our profession has historically had this high minded idea that lawyers can’t advertise for clients. Too unseemly. But it’s perfectly fine, even recommended, that we join every low life civic club in North America and grovel before the most corrupt politicians available in the hopes of winning a fee.