Page 16 of Weathering The Storm

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop,” I say to Perry. “Cut it off.”

I wave frantically up at the wheelhouse, signaling for Nick to turn in before we’re dragging seven-hundred pounds of uncooperative galvanized steel beneath the surface of these swells.

He maneuvers the boat toward the submerged trap.“What’s going on?”

“This whole thing’s fucked now. Maybe it wasn’t just the fluid,” I say into the radio. “I’m gonna check the hoses as soon as we get this pot up.”

“Copy. I’ll keep us on it best I can. Make it quick.”

I stare up, cringing as the rope oscillates. Loosening when the boat dips, and snapping tight when it rises. “Perry—feather the controls. See if we can get some slack on that line.”

The hauler whirrs like it’s operating, but the rope is already unseated. No matter what we do with the controls, it won’t be enough to get the line back into the groove and pull it the rest ofthe way in. If anything, the problem is getting worse. The whole mechanism vibrates under the heavy strain.

“Alright, stop. Hold on a second.”

I climb up onto the base, putting a metric fuck-ton of trust in my thighs to keep me rooted. Another wave bashes the side of theSuojaand I get a shot of saltwater straight to the face.

I blink rapidly, waiting until the line loosens again to try and get it back on track, but the ocean is too choppy for me to adjust the friction-burned cordage without crushing my hand in the process.

Fuck. It’s wrapped around the housing now.

“Let it go, Rit,”comes through the radio.“I can see it spinning from up here. You’re gonna get hurt. Just cut the line.”

“I might be able to save it if I—”

“Cut the fucking line, Seth.”

From below, Perry shoots me anoh shitlook.

Nick’s never had much of a sailor’s mouth when it comes to giving orders. Of all the times to disagree with him, this isn’t the one.

I take my knife off my belt. “Orlov. Can you hold the line tight for me here?”

I show him where to put his hands and work quickly, sawing through the rope. But even with the line steadied, the load is heavy as shit, and it’s still in motion.

I order Orlov to back off as I hack through the rest of the fibers.

The rope snaps before I can finish slicing it. A metallic ringing fills my ears.

The pot sinks.

Severed cordage whips across my palm, splitting open my glove and my skin beneath it, but cold has a numbing effect. So does adrenaline.

I don’t notice I’m bleeding until I see the red dripping onto the deck in fat splashes. Running down my wrist and disappearing beneath the sleeve of my shirt.

Then I feelit. Salt. Salt everywhere, rubbing into the gash. Stinging.Burning.

“Shit. You’re bleeding,” Perry says. He’s already signaling to the wheelhouse before I can tell him not to worry Nick about it.

This time, I don’t get a radio call. Nick turns the whole fucking boat around, quartering the waves, and steps out onto the landing. “What happened?”

“No big deal,” I shout back up at him. “Rope burn.”

He doesn’t take my word for it. He has a bird’s eye view of my blood all over the place. It’s a crime scene down here. “Perry, think you can troubleshoot the block? Looks like we’re hanging tight until we get that sorted out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jorgensen, Orlov, go ahead and take fifteen.”