Last Port of Call

by Ginger Marcinkowski

I light a cigarette. Take a long drag. Pull back the curtain. Eye the dock. Reel around and walk the floor—again. My steps are quick and uneasy, a reminder of what will happen once I signal the tanker for permission to board.

I don’t have to worry about wearing a path in the carpet. It’s already dirty. Threadbare. I close my eyes. Rub my forehead. The headache lodged there will not go away. Outside, a bitter north wind stirs up the icy water. Darkness has already swallowed the sun.

Glancing around, I feel an anxiety I can’t shake. I move to sit on the edge of the broken-down mattress. Finger the tattered bedspread. Two twin beds huddle inches apart. Suddenly, I am in my boyhood home once more.

“I hate you,” my little brother cries. Throws a toy at me.

“You are so spoiled!” I spit back at him.

I pinch the memory away.  

The curtains of the old motel must be circa 1940, frayed at the seams with a faded design of log cabins and pine trees. Michigan’s Little Hide-a-Way, the owners call it. I call it a shit-hole. Hate the smell, but I deem the location next to the port more valuable than the nearest hotel another twelve miles away.

At the moment, I hate Branden Steel even more. The MSC Tolston has already done its last run for the season. The crew is ready for a couple of months’ break. Families are waiting for the men who have been gone since March. It is now late November. But the greed of the steel company out of Buffalo insists the cargo ship do one last run.

Anybody connected with the industry knows the business is in decline. If they last another year, I’ll be surprised. I can almost hear the suits saying, “Maybe we can save the business if we pick up that last load in Michigan.” I shake my head in disgust. Spit in the ashtray. Resume my pacing.

I know the steel industry well. Twenty years steering ships into the Thunder Bay Port as a maritime pilot has given me great insight. Though we had a small farm, Dad spent fifteen years at the Gary Steel Mill after Mother died. Back then, we’d listen to Dad’s descriptions of his daily load. See the blister marks on his calloused hands. Feel the heat of the furnace on his skin. Hear the tales of rats big enough to carry the workers’ lunch pails away.

The summer after I left for college, Dad suggested I might be able to get a summer job working beside him.

“The money’s good,” he said. “Should help out with tuition.”

Two months was all I needed to know I never wanted to go back. Didn’t want to farm. Dad figured that. The farm became a wasteland. Frank and I moved on.

I push the guilt I still claim to the back of my mind.

I left for the Great Lakes Maritime Academy. Four years later, I was working for the largest port in the Midwest on Lake Michigan. Lead pilot. Have a reputation of being tough. Fair.

I proved myself that first summer as my boss was directing a fledgling ship into port.

“Left rudder at twenty-two degrees.”

I was two steps behind him during my onboard training.

“Sir!” My voice was barely above a whisper. “The last squall.”

“Thomas?” He turned to face me, a scowl firmly planted on his face.

“There is a new sandbar in less than a quarter of a mile, Sir. If we head in at twenty-two degrees, we’re going to hit it.”

“Command?” The coxswain waited for the pilot’s instructions.

“I saw it yesterday, Sir, when I was out on the tug. Here, look.” I was shaking when I pointed to the newest mark I had made on the harbor map.

The pilot grabbed the chart from my hands letting his eyes land on the red circle. Protocol. He pushed the graph back at me and spit new directions at the coxswain to relay.

“Come hard right to sixteen degrees.” The coxswain repeated the command to the helmsman.

“Come hard right to sixteen degrees, aye aye.”

“Steady on course.” He kept his eyes on the horizon. Pulled in a deep breath of relief.

“Steady on course, aye, aye!

Nothing more was mentioned until the next day when the lead pilot arrived at my office door. Pressed his hand toward me.

“You’ll make the next good lead, Mike.”

I bobbed my head like it was no big deal. I was not used to praise.

“Praise never helped a man eat,” my father always said.

I rose through the ranks quickly. Earned a good chunk of money doing so. I didn’t need accolades. I was fine. I learned too late Frank wasn’t. Emotions of the heart were not a Thomas family trait. Probably why both my wives left. Maybe why my brother ran, too.

Back then, I tried to talk Frank into following my route. The kid was hard-headed. Wanted nothing to do with me or my advice. Hated me all through school. I was sick of trying to help him.

After high school, Frank didn’t want to go to college. Said he wanted to join the Coast Guard. We fought about that like we did everything.

“Can’t you be happy for me? Just once? Encourage me? Would it kill you?” Those were his last words to me.

He enlisted. Finished his training. Became an Aviation Seaman. Moved someplace out East. Married. A wedding he never invited me to. A baby arrived soon after, though I only heard that through a mutual friend. He was a ghost.

I heard he’d been promoted. Though I never told him, I was proud of him. We never had that kind of relationship. Didn’t matter now. Upcoming storms had a way of disturbing even discarded memories.

I move back to the window. The squall has picked up. Rattles the abandoned wasp’s nest still clinging to the rotting overhang. I think back to when Frank and I were young.

Most mornings I was planted on a tractor seat. I’d plow until the school bus arrived. After school, I plowed some more. Still had to uphold my grades. Slacking off was not an option.

Frank had asthma. Was stuck inside with the dog. Maybe I was jealous of him. Frank seemed to do nothing but play. 

Maybe Frank was jealous of me. On weekends, Dad and I spent hours in the fields without him. It was all work. Frank never understood. Dad wasn’t one to show any sentiment. A lesson I’d learned well. Frank on the other hand, was quick with a compliment. Fast with praise. Told Dad and me he loved us all the time.

I take a drag of my cigarette.

There were those moments—when we were inseparable. Wrestling on the living room floor. Teasing each other over girls we’d met. Long talks after we’d been sent to bed.  Now mush, as far as I was concerned. Inside, I ache to hear his words once more.

A telephone ring causes me to jump. I snuff out my cigarette. Walk to the end table to retrieve my phone. Stride back toward the window. I pull the curtain back again.

“Yeah, this is Mike. Any word yet?”

A gust of wind dislodges the wasp’s nest that has clung to the eaves of this old motel for three years. Sends it reeling toward the water. I marvel at the power of the raging storm. The waves are hammering the dock. Entering the harbor in this kind of inclement weather means I’ll have to use every skill I’ve learned to guide the ship through the narrow waterway to safety.

I think back to the rigorous training I’ve been through. Hours of preparation in all kinds of weather situations. Lives are always at stake. I am anxious to get this over with.

“The ship’s about an hour out but they are being beaten up pretty bad.” The tug boat captain, Casey, is my right-hand man. “The Captain says the ship is beginning to list. They only loaded water in Buffalo for ballast.”

I rub my hand over my face.

“How many on board?” Light another cigarette.

“Twenty-seven crew and the captain.”

“Are we the closest harbor?”

“Yes.”

I drop my face toward the floor. Take a deep breath. Smoke from my cigarette plumes around my head. I know the peril they’re in. The Great Lakes are known for vicious winds. Waves that would make a whale seasick. The pilot in Buffalo should have known that before the ship departed. Every maritime pilot is trained to the highest degree. What was he thinking?

“I’m at the motel. Let’s get the Coast Guard’s thoughts before we load up.”

I hang up the phone and push my face back at the window. Another pilot has blown the weather forecast, sending the ship directly into the angry arms of one of the biggest lakes in the world. A bitter lake. Now I’m waiting for a pissed-off Captain’s signal to guide them to safety.

If they make it.

The warmth of my breath hollows out a circle on the pane. It doesn’t take away from the piercing cold I feel inside. Gale-force winds arrived out of nowhere. Created waves that threaten to capsize even the largest vessels. It’s my job to bring them in.

I check the weather map again. Look at my GPS signal. Stare at the infuriated sky. The wind is curling clouds into mighty fists. I imagine the waves battering the cargo ship. Pray it holds together. For now, I need patience.

I stub out my cigarette and light one more. Wring my hands. How had the other pilot let them go? Our training made sure we always erred on the side of caution. Played it safe. So many ships lost in these waters.

Another phone ring jolts me from my thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ve lost all power. The Coast Guard is going out. They say it could be dangerous, but they’ve got some gutsy new crew that want to try.” 

Casey lets the line go quiet.

“Then we’re going too.” I pull in another draw. Rub out the cigarette. The ashtray is full. The stub drops onto the nightstand. Lodges itself near the half-empty whiskey bottle.

“We were told to stand down for further instructions.” Casey’s voice is hesitant.

The hair on my neck rises. Not on my watch.

“They’re going to need us to get that ship into port.”

“They said they’d let us know if the ship is seaworthy. For now, they are looking at a rescue.”

“They think they can get twenty-eight men off that boat and back here before that ship sinks? They are nuts. They need us.” My skin prickles.

“Mike, you know we can’t override them.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I toss the phone to the table and suit up for the downpour. The Coast Guard station is 1200 feet from the motel. The rain feels like it is driving nettles into my skin. I slam the hollow door. Wiggle the handle to secure it. Lean into the wind cursing under my breath. Stride toward the Coast Guard office.

I push my shoulder at the door and fall inside. The room is buzzing with men and women plotting their mission. An officer shouts instructions as the soldiers gear up.

“Seaman Thomas! Suit up! You and Peters are the rescue swimmers for this mission.”

I jerk my head to the left. See my brother snapping his jacket closed. Reaches for a helmet. I suck in a deep breath. Cough it out.

“Mike! Over here.” Matt Keller, the Warrant Officer motions me to his desk. “I know why you’re here. We’ll keep you in the loop, but you’ve got to stand down until we know the situation.”

I try to reason with him. Press him. Insist on being part of the operation.

“At least let me have the tugs wait outside the harbor. If we’re closer, it’ll save time. Maybe lives.”

Matt shakes his head. It is a no-go. I glance back at my brother. Matt catches my eye.

“You know Seaman Thomas?”

Rain is still running down my face. It feels like a knife is being pushed through my chest.

“You might say.”

Matt and I have known each other a long time. He motions me into an adjoining room.

“So?” He eyes me like I am hiding stolen gold.

“He’s my younger brother.” Matt’s face echoes shock.

“You never said you had a brother.”

  I hold my hand up. I know time is of the essence.

“I’ll make this short and sweet. He hates me. Always has. Haven’t seen him in years. When did he get here?”

Matt closes the door. Points at the chair. I don’t sit.

“Got here yesterday. Says he’s done harder rescues at Kodiak Island, Alaska. Has a load of awards. One of the best recommendations I’ve ever had. Does he know you’re here?”

“Don’t think so. We lost touch years ago.” He reads the worry on my face.

“I can pull him if you want.”

I laugh. The kind of laugh that gives away my nervousness.

“Trust me. That’s the last thing I’d think of doing.”

A memory materializes.

“You're not my mother!” Frank screamed the night I caught him drinking a beer at a football game.

“Get your ass in that car—now!”

“You embarrassed me!” I still remember Frank holding back tears when he glanced back at his buddies.  They were laughing. “Why can’t you ever just cover for me?”

The silence on the drive home that night cemented his anger toward me. We were like the nest of wasps outside my motel room. Stingers at the ready.

I move toward the door. Put my hand on the doorknob without looking back. Something comes over me and I stop.

“Tell him I know he can do it—” I pause before pulling the door open. “—and that I’m really proud of him.” I feel Matt’s eyes burrow into me as I leave.

I pull my ballcap down over my eyes. Glance over at my brother. He and his buddy are pulling life jackets off of a pile nearby. The lights flicker. I leave. Practically run back to the motel. My heart thumps hard against my chest. My anger is gone, replaced by worry.

I picture Frank and me as boys, laughing. Pranking each other. Holding each other after our mother died. I still felt his arms around my neck as we cried. The touch of his skin as he held my hand. For that one moment, we bond. Felt real love. Dad told us to quit humiliating him. Went to work the night we buried her. Nothing was the same after that.

I close the door to my room and drop onto the bed. I’m soaking wet. The space smells like stale cigarettes. Every bone in my body is cold. I hear the whir of the chopper blades. The room shakes as it passes overhead. I press my face into my hands and weep. My shoulders heave with guilt. All I can do is wait.

It’s an eternity before the phone rings. The wind pounds against this building. Makes the frayed curtains flutter. I recognize Casey’s number.

“Are we a go?” My voice goes up an octave.

“They got everyone off. Dropped them on shore. Two crews are helping. The ship’s going under.” 

I know something is wrong when his voice trails off.

“Everyone make it back?”

“No.”

A knot forms in my stomach.

“They lost a rescue swimmer. The line was overloaded. He knew it wouldn’t hold them both. Cut himself loose.”

  I take a deep breath. Heave it out.

“Any word who?”

I reach for the Jack Daniels bottle perched on the bedside. Scrape the dirty glass across the scarred nightstand. I haven’t heard a name, but I know. It will take a miracle for anyone to survive the thrash of the water or the icy cold. The waves will wash his body up in a day or two.

A widow will be grieving her loss. A child, her father. A brother—

It was my fault. All of it. I should have fought to go out. Had Matt pull Frank from the duty. If only—

I pound my thigh with my fist.

“Matt said he’d call you later. They’ve got to refuel before they head out for a possible recovery. Not holding much hope.”

I hang up the phone. Race to the toilet. Give up what’s left of my stomach. So many regrets whirl in this filthy porcelain bowl.

Rain seeps under the door. Soaks what’s left of the carpet. I finish the bottle of Jack. Stare out the window. See the remains of the wasp’s nest near the wharf covering a frog. I laugh. Reminds me of Frank and I getting caught in a rainstorm. Tried covering ourselves in leaves to stay dry. Didn’t work. We were soaked. So is the frog.

The sound of the chopper has me reaching for my jacket. I burst out of the room. Race to the helicopter. Seven men emerge from the aircraft. None of them Frank.

“Who was the hero?” No one knows the answer I need.

“The Warrant Officer will release the name if we can’t find him, Sir.” By now I’m shaking. I feel hollow as I return to my room.

Two more hours pass. I am both drunk and claustrophobic in this tiny filthy room. 

The call arrives.

“We lost one man. We’ll resume recovery in the morning.”

“Did you tell him what I said, Matt?”

The phone crackles, then goes dead.

My throat tightens. I punch the wall. Again. Again. Curse myself. Weep.

I expect the police when the knock arrives. Cover my bloody hand with a towel. Jerk the door open.

“Tell me yourself, Brother.”