Trying to dismiss his added concerns, Hans decided to go aft and below to see how the repair was progressing. While traversing the starboard tunnel, his temper continued to rise, something that was a rarity for a man not inclined to anger under any circumstances. He knew he could not let this mood control him, and more importantly, he could not let anyone see him this way. By the time he reached the engine room, he had gotten better control of his emotions. He was still perturbed, but he had more urgent matters to consider.
What he found there looked like utter chaos. George Oliver, the chief engineer and one of his seconds, Joel Gunther, were consulting with a third man, who turned out to be a shore-bound mechanic. They seemed to be at a loss as to how to repair the existing problem. Hans’s first impression proved to be a little overblown. The solution was fairly simple but, then again, not so simple. They were waiting for a new hydraulic pump to arrive from their shop right there in Cleveland. What that meant was that it could be several hours before they could safely leave port. Hans checked his watch. It was almost 9:00 a.m. He could only hope they would be leaving by noon, but that remained an uncertainty.
With nothing more he could do for now, he joined some of the after crew in their more than adequate mess to have his belated breakfast. He normally ate in the forward mess; so Jim Lawrence, one of the wipers, and Will Shelton, an oiler, were surprised to see him there. He knew both of them well, as he did most of the men, so while they treated him with appropriate respect, there was a degree of comradery to be enjoyed. It took the edge off Hans’s misery, which was exactly what he needed.
He had some of the best coffee on the lakes, along with some sticky buns baked by the able hands of Ernie Tallman, one of the second cooks. Hans thought that maybe things were not as bad as he surmised.
At 10:15, he was back at his post in the wheelhouse feeling much better. Delays were bad, but safety was more critical than a few lost hours.
III
As Phil drove up Route 22 to Interstate 94, his mind was beginning to race. The traffic was reasonably heavy for a Saturday morning. That kept him occupied while he negotiated the Eden’s, the Kennedy, the Dan Ryan, and finally the Calumet Skyway into Indiana. By the time he rounded the southern tip of Lake Michigan and started across the state of Michigan, he was left again with only his thoughts during the lonely ride to Detroit and beyond before stopping for the night in Port Huron.
What—or, rather, who—was on his mind was Jana. He could think of nothing but her. His reflections were not about the present but about how they had first met nine years and several months ago. He could certainly recall the first time he laid eyes on her. It had been at a party he almost did not attend. Having returned that afternoon from a particularly tedious trip through impossible weather conditions, he was bushed. All he really wanted was to find his bed and pass out. By the time he got home, he got to thinking about how his social life had turned into a total zero due to all the flying time he was logging. At the last minute, he changed his mind, even though he had little taste for cocktail parties. No one ever really communicated at those affairs, but he had a small premonition that this one might differ in some good way.
When he arrived, he said his hellos to the few faces he recognized and started to look over the overcrowded room. Just when he decided to stay only long enough to be polite, thinking that the whole idea had been a mistake, he noticed the loveliest lady he had ever seen. She was wearing a scarlet minidress that showed all of what it should, but none of what it should not. He could not cease looking at her long raven hair at the top and her curvaceous legs at the bottom. Four-inch heels completed the picture. She was across the room looking a bit lonely herself. Phil simply had to meet her. As he approached this goddess and introduced himself, her eyes lit up. She said her name was Jana Marsh. Love at first sight is a much-overused expression, but you would never have convinced them at that moment that it could not happen.
They talked and talked and talked during the soirée’ and much more at a nearby all night coffee shop. Both were amazed at how easily conversation flowed between them about anything and nothing. Phil found out that, as good as she looked, her brain was even more beautiful. They discussed their respective pasts, presents, and even their individual plans for the future. They debated some political issues and were delighted to find total agreement. They even conferred about the state of the universe. No subject was off the table, quite a feat since they had just met. He found out that she would be twenty-five in two months, and she learned that Phil would celebrate his fortieth birthday the following February. Their age discrepancy mattered not at all to either of them. Intellectually, they were on an even keel.
They regretted having to say goodnight, but all good things have to end or at least be put on hold for a while. For Phil, a little while would be far too long. He drove her to her condo in Marina City, made a dinner date for two days hence, walked her to her door, and thanked her for a wonderful night. He kissed her gently and promised better things would come to them.
The rest was like a whirlwind, all the while probing each other’s deepest thoughts and concerns. Within two months, there were no more bridges to cross. They were married on an ill-fated charter trip to Las Vegas and have not had one moment of regret since; in fact, their love has grown every minute of every day that they have been together. That is why Phil’s thoughts are galloping. He can barely stand the separation even for a few days, but this journey was an important test for them both. He may cut it a bit short. That would be a decision for later.
By the time Phil returned to the present, he had passed Kalamazoo and Battle Creek and was getting close to Ann Arbor. It was 3:45, so unless he got tied up going through Detroit, he would be in Port Huron by 7:00. As usual, the BMW was purring like the fine-tuned machine that it was. He had no concerns at all except his long-standing distrust in weather reporting.
IV
Knowing full well that he would not be cleared to sail for a couple more hours, Hans opted to try to catch up on some of the sleep he had lost the previous night. Leaving word with Chuck Kendrick, the third mate, who was watching over the nerve center of the ship, to call him if anything changed, he went below to his cabin. He set his alarm for noon, and within minutes, he was sound asleep hoping for the best possible outcome.
When he awoke at 12:00, he went up to the pilothouse, where he was once more the recipient of discouraging news. The hydraulic pump they had ordered was now on board; however, it was not the correct model to serve their purpose, so they were back to the waiting game.
He rang up George in the engine room to try to get a new departure time. The chief engineer said all would be in readiness shortly after the proper part got to them. To install it would take about thirty minutes. When that was done they would have to flush the lines and refill and pressure check the system. Then they could go. He estimated that 6:00 p.m. would be a reasonable guess.
Hans was starting to feel snake bitten. If this was how his last trip was beginning, how would it end? He trusted his black gang beyond any doubts and realized these things can happen, but why now? The word omen crossed his mind once more. He could not blot it out. They had put into port two days ago with the steering gear problem and felt that the difficulty had been corrected after replacing some badly leaking lines. The system had checked out just fine on Friday