The witching hour

coffee, which never fazed her immense exhaustion. Her eyes were focused as always on the shifting sea.

Then came Michael Curry, that speck out there-could that possibly be a man?

On his face in the waves, his arms out loosely, hands floating near his head, and the black hair a mass against the shining gray water, the rest just clothes ballooning ever so slightly over the limp and shapeless form. A belted raincoat, brown heels. Dead-looking.

All that she could tell in those first few moments was that this was no decomposed corpse. Pale as the hands were, they were not waterlogged. He could have fallen overboard from some large vessel only moments before, or hours. The crucial thing was to signal “Pan Pan” immediately and to give her coordinates, and then to try to get him aboard.

As luck would have it the Coast Guard boats were miles from her location; the helicopter rescue teams were completely engaged. There were virtually no small craft in the area on account of the warnings. And the fog was rolling in. Assistance would come as soon as possible and no one could say when that was.

“I’m going to try to get him up out of the water,” she said. “I’m alone out here. Just get here as fast as you can.”

There was no need to tell them she was a doctor, or to remind them of what they already knew-in these cold waters, drowning victims could survive for incredibly long periods, because the drop in temperature slows the metabolism; the brain slumbers, demanding only a fraction of the usual oxygen and blood. The important thing was to bring him in and start resuscitation.

And that was the tough part because she had never done such a thing alone. She had the equipment for it, however, the harnesses connected to powerful nylon line running through the gasoline-driven winch on the top of the wheelhouse-in other words, sufficient means to get him on board if she could get to him, and that was where she might fail.

At once, she pulled on her rubber gloves and her life jacket, then fastened her own harness, and gathered up the second one for him. She checked the rigging, including the line connected to the dinghy, and found it secure; then she dropped the dinghy over the side of the Sweet Christine and headed down the swim ladder towards it, ignoring the tossing sea and the swaying of the ladder and the spray of the cold water in her face.

He was floating towards her as she paddled towards him; but the water was almost swamping the dinghy. For one second, she thought clearly: this is impossible. But she refused to give up. At last, nearly falling out of the small craft, she reached for his hand and caught it, and brought his body head first towards her. Now, how to get the damned harness properly around his chest.

Again the water nearly swamped the dinghy; she nearly flipped it herself. Then a wave lifted her and carried her over the man’s body. She lost his hand. She lost him. But he came bobbing up like a cork. She caught his left arm this time and forced the harness over his head and left shoulder, bringing the left arm through it. But it was crucial to get the right arm through as well. The harness had to be well on him if she was to pull him up, heavy as he was, with wet clothing.

And all the while, the diagnostic sense was working as she kept her eyes on the half-submerged face, as she felt the cold flesh of his outstretched hand. Yes, he’s in there, he can come back. Get him on deck.

One violent wave after another prevented her from doing anything, except holding onto him. Then finally she was able to grasp the right sleeve and tug the arm forward and through the harness, and at once she pulled the harness tight.

The dinghy capsized, pitching her into the sea with him. She swallowed water, then shot to the surface, the breath gone out of her as the freezing cold penetrated her clothes. How many minutes did she have at this temperature before she lost consciousness? But she had him harnessed to the boat now as surely as she was harnessed. If she could make it back to the swim ladder without passing out, she could reel him in. Letting his line go, she pulled herself in hand over hand, refusing to believe she could fail, the broad starboard side of the Sweet Christine a white blur disappearing and reappearing as the waves washed over her.

At last she slammed against the side of the boat. The shock jolted her into full alertness. Her gloved fingers refused to flex as she reached for the bottom rung of the swim ladder. But she gave them the order, Close, damn you, close on the rope, and she watched what she could no longer feel as her right hand obeyed. Her left hand went out for the side of the ladder; again she was giving her numbed body orders, and half disbelieving, she found herself climbing up, rung by rung.

For one moment, lying on the deck, she couldn’t move. The warm air from the open door of the wheelhouse was steaming like hot breath. Then she began to massage her fingers until feeling returned to them. But there was no time to get warm; no time to do anything but climb to her feet and get to the winch.

Her hands were hurting now. But they were doing what she wanted automatically as she started the motor. The winch groaned and sang as it reeled in the nylon line. Suddenly, she saw the man’s body rising above the rail of the deck, the head bowed, the arms spread wide and falling limp over the nylon loop of the harness, water streaming from the heavy colorless clothes. The man fell forward, head first onto the deck.

The winch screamed as it dragged him closer to the wheelhouse, and then jerked him upright again, three feet from the door. She killed the motor. He dropped down, sodden, lifeless, too far from the warm air to do him good.

And she knew she couldn’t drag him inside, and there was no time to fool any more with the lines or the winch.

With a great heave, she rolled him over and pumped a good quart of seawater out of his lungs. Then she lifted him, pushing herself under him and flopping him again on his back. She pulled off her gloves because they were hampering her. And then she slid her left hand under his neck, clamped her right fingers on his nose, and breathed into his mouth. Her mind worked with him, envisioning the warm air pumped into him. But it seemed forever that she breathed, and nothing was changing in the inert mass beneath her.

She switched to his chest, pressing down as hard as she could on the breastbone, then releasing the pressure, over and over for fifteen beats. “Come on, breathe!” she said, as if it were a curse. “Damn it, breathe!” Then she went back to mouth-to-mouth.

Impossible to know how much time had passed; she was as oblivious to time as she ever was in the Operating Room. She simply went on, alternating between the chest massage and the lung inflation, stopping only now and then to feel the lifeless carotid artery, and to realize that the diagnostic message was the same- Alive-before she continued.

His body tossed on the deck under her efforts, the skin gleaming and waxen in its wetness, the heels of his brown leather shoes rolling on the boards.

Once she tried again to drag him into the wheelhouse, but it was useless. And dimly aware that no lights were shining through the fog and no helicopter was roaring overhead, she went on, only pausing suddenly to slap his face and call to him, to tell him that she knew he was in there and she expected him to come back.

“You know you can hear me!” she shouted as she pressed down again on the breastbone. She pictured the heart and the lungs in all their glorious anatomical detail. Then as she made to lift his neck again, his eyes snapped open, and his face suddenly fired with life. His chest gave a heave against her; she felt the breath pour out of him, hot against her face.

“That’s it, breathe!” she’d shouted over the wind. And why was she so amazed that he was alive, that he was staring at her, when she had not thought of giving up?

His right hand shot up and took hold of hers. And he said something to her, something murmured, incoherent, something that sounded nevertheless like a proper name.

Again, she slapped his cheek, but only gently. And his breaths came ragged yet rapid, his face knotted with pain. How blue his eyes were, how clearly and certainly alive. It was as if she’d never seen eyes before in a human being, never seen these fierce, brilliant gelatinous orbs staring up at her from a human face.

“Keep it up, breathe, you hear me, I’m going for blankets below deck.”

He grabbed her hand again; he began to shiver violently. And as she tried to free herself, she saw him look past her and straight upwards. He lifted his left hand. He was pointing. A light was finally sweeping the deck. And God, the fog was rolling over them, thick as smoke. The helicopter had come just in time; the wind stung her eyes. She could barely see the blades turning up there.