Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

the cabin. He cleared the last of the mud blocking his access with his hand and found the door to the anchor chain locker. It wouldn’t budge. The little metal door was bent inward by the crushed deck. It felt welded in place. Gabe groped around the cabin for any tool he could use to pry the hatch.

“What’s up?” Carol asked.

“I’m to the bulkhead, but the hatch is jammed. I need a pry bar.”

“Hang on. I tripped over something on the back deck.”

He crawled to the stern, again gingerly stepping around Wilson’s bones, and took the iron from her through the window. Back to the bow.

“Perfect. Thanks.” He put the strong iron bar in place and pushed. It budged, enough to reposition the bar. Deep breaths and second try. This time he put his feet on the bulkhead and used his legs. The hatch gave way, and he fell backward into the mud. The deep breath he wanted wasn’t there. His tank was empty. He found the crossover valve on his harness and turned on the bail-out bottle. He took two good breaths and turned back to the anchor locker. There was the case, jammed in the crushed hull and refusing to move.

“I found it, but it’s stuck,” he told her. “I’m on reserve, and we need to go. We’ll get fresh tanks and come back.”

Before she could answer, a violent crash shook the boat, knocking Carol from the walkway.

Carol lost her handhold and fell, tumbling backward in the current. She dumped the air from the inflatable wing on her backplate and dropped to the bottom.

“Gabe, are you okay?” she shouted into the com.

“I’m okay, but the roof is crushed. Don’t know if I can get out.”

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

Pushing into the current, she crawled forward, praying she was on course. Twenty feet, thirty feet, and she found the dredge hose. She grabbed it and started up just as the boat shuddered from another blow.

“Gabe?”

“Still here, where are you?”

She pulled her way on deck, feeling every inch as she moved forward in the pitch-black water. The port window was crushed with an opening of less than a foot remaining. Not enough room for a diver in gear to get through. “Carol?”

“I’m here at the window. Can you make it?”

“It’s getting hard to breathe.”

“I’ve got air, get here and I’ll give you my bailout bottle.”

Gabe made it to the window and felt his way around the frame. Too tight. He stepped across Wilson’s skeleton to check the starboard window, but the opening was even smaller. They had tried the main hatch before without being able to open it, so he believed the port window was the only way out. He moved back to the port side.

He opened the buckles on the back plate harness, and as he fought to get out of the rig, his last breath sucked the Aga mask tight against his face. His air was gone. He loosened the mask’s spider harness and pulled the mask off. The cold hit him hard slap in the face. He shook it off and felt his way to the window. It was only open enough for Carol to push the smaller tank through. He grabbed the regulator and took a long, deep breath.

Gabe took the pry bar and was able to break out more of the window. He found a handhold in the overhead and put his legs against it and broke out some of the frame. Progress. Maybe it was open enough. He tried and got stuck. Carol had him. She braced and pulled. He pushed again and felt the side of the dry suit rip. Freezing water flooded the suit.

The boat was smashed again, just over his head. Carol screamed, but then quickly said, “That was too close. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, still here,” he answered. “It feels like I’ve got more room.”

The clam bucket’s teeth had torn into the hull. But instead of closing the window frame, the bucket ripped away enough of the roof that the window opening became larger. Almost large enough. Gabe squirmed forward. Carol braced her legs against the bulkhead and pulled him as hard as she could.

Screws from the window frame tore into Gabe’s hip. Startled by the cold and pain, he dropped the bailout bottle, but he was free. Carol ripped off her Aga mask and shoved it to his face. He hit the purge and took two quick breaths and handed it back. In his flooded suit he was freezing now, but sharing air from the Aga, they found the buoy line and started up.

Beneath them, the boat shuddered from a third blow, and they heard the screech of tearing steel. The entire cabin roof ripped away. Bubbles, silt, and life jackets, along with other debris floated up from the mangled hull.

They surfaced to find themselves surrounded by floating pieces of the unsinkable Boston Whaler. The clam bucket had chewed it to bits. They could see two swimmers, downstream in the current, trying to make shore. Gabe was shivering. Carol inflated her tec-wing and Viking suit, making herself a raft that floated them both. She released her grip on the buoy and began kicking downstream.

As they drifted with the current and swam across it toward shore, Carol grabbed a floating piece of the boat, pushed it to Gabe, and pointed to an open space on the bank. “Swim, I’ll meet you there,” she said.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I saw something floating in that bunch of junk I want to check out.” She dumped enough air so that she could move and swam back out in the river to a collection of debris from the crushed Whaler and the sunken workboat. Gabe reached the shore, and when he couldn’t see her, loudly called her name. When she didn’t answer, he staggered to his feet, waded back into the water and shouted to her again.

“I’m here,” she called as she walked the shallows upriver, carrying her fins in one