Life Guards in the Hamptons (17 page)

I manned a different telephone for an hour or so, reassuring families that yes, survivors were coming in, no, no fatalities reported yet, and telling them how to access the computer information and twitter feeds as they got posted. No, they would not be permitted to enter Montauk.

Someone had me make a recording, so the ladies’ fire auxiliary could be freed for other tasks than answering frantic calls.

The scores of official phones kept ringing, with reports from the field, from the scene, from the air. Everything got recorded, transmitted, sent over speakerphones.

I refused to be interviewed by the one reporter and cameraman assigned to the firehouse. “I’m with him.” I pointed toward Matt. “He’s waiting to tend to some dogs on the ship.”

The reporter rushed to get a new story angle, since she couldn’t speak with the survivors or the rescuers. All the techies and big shots were too busy for her, and too boring. Nothing like a handsome hero vet to pique a newswoman’s interest. Except Matt had no heartwarming story to tell. “We’re waiting,” was all he said, before going back to watching the screens. The reporter went to
talk to the next best looking guy in the place, Walter, the pharmacist from Paumanok Harbor. His job was to check medical histories when survivors got to the triage area, to warn the EMTs and doctors on site of drug interactions. He told her that almost every private doctor or nurse—retired or active—on the South Fork had shown up in Montauk or at the hospital, or the two emergency clinics where minor cuts, bruises, and sprains could be attended. Then he told her she’d be more help bringing water or coffee to the people at the computers who hadn’t stopped working for ten minutes. She went off in a huff. Matt and I carried cases of water to hand out.

The statistics came faster now, as bigger boats came in with larger numbers of passengers. Montauk’s Harbor Police waited at the mouth of the inlet to direct them to alternate drop-off sites to ease congestion. EMTs, ambulances, and the computer guys they were partnered with raced from dock to dock.

Now that more boats and divers were in the water near the
Nova Pride
, the helicopters concentrated on getting the worst injured to emergency rooms. No one was brought to the temporary morgue set up on the soccer field near the center of town.

A constant stream of rescues got reported from the beach, along with dolphin sightings, as kayakers and surfers joined the dorymen to bring the dolphin-towed rafts up to the beach, then load the people into the waiting trucks. As soon as one pickup or SUV left to transport, another moved over to take its place, up and down the beach. Huge flatbeds from the lumber companies stood nearby to carry the rafts back to the harbor, to go back out with the next empty boats.

Some of the volunteers showed up for coffee and sandwiches before returning to their posts. I handed out sodas and listened to the news. It was all good, all working like clockwork, making headway on the manifests of passengers and crew. More than half the names on the big screen were in black now, safe on land. A lot of the crew was accounted for, but the uninjured ship’s officers
stayed on the scene to help since they knew the ship better than the rescuers.

Matt’s cell phone rang. We both jumped, edgy from the waiting. It was one of Montauk’s fire captains, at the communications center, on a three-way call with the other vet.

The Yorkie and its people were landing. Since Jenny was the local vet—or her stand-in, anyway—and first on the scene, she got to take the first run.

She called back in an hour. She’d caught the Maltese, too, at the same location. She had both dogs warm, dry, and sedated at her facilities for the night, to make sure neither contracted pneumonia. The owners were at a bed and breakfast within walking distance. “I’ll stay here. You wait for the Newfies.”

Who might not be found, ever. Matt would be devastated; I could see it on his face. I hated her more for having two relatively unscathed dogs to tend.

No more calls came in. Matt and I found bunks in the big empty concrete space where the fire trucks were usually parked. Cots had been set up for the volunteers to take shifts. We chose two cots next to each other and pulled them closer still so we could whisper and hold hands, trying to reassure each other that there was still hope.

Matt fell asleep in minutes after the long day and tense night. I couldn’t. My body was exhausted; my mind wouldn’t shut down. Besides, there was too much light, too much snoring, too much coming and going as men and women came in for an hour’s rest, and too much noise from the TVs on the upper level. I kept hearing the announcements, then cheers when another boatload arrived on the screen, when twelve more names changed to black, then eight when another raft came through the surf.

A dragger captain came in with his mate to get a quick nap before another run. They were still laughing about the last rescue they’d made when they had to argue with a guy in the water, with no life jacket. He didn’t want to leave the dolphin that had kept him afloat
for hours. It was the best experience of the guy’s life, he swore, on top of the worst experience of his life.

“But the ship ain’t gone down yet?” a sleepy voice from nearby asked.

“Nope. No idea why, neither. No one can figure it, but it’s giving the divers and the captain of the ship time to search what they can. Unmanned subs and experts’ll be here in the morning to give us a hundred reasons. I say it’s the power of prayer.”

I prayed it was M’ma.

Later someone whispered that the president had been on TV, praising Montauk and its neighbors for the fine job they were doing. We should all stand tall, he said, tall and proud. I curled up in a ball on my cot, mortified I might have had a hand in the catastrophe.

At least there were still no fatalities.

But no black dogs, either.

“W
E’RE GETTING YOUR DOGS.”

The com-tech asked the caller to hold, then repeat when he was on speakerphone.

“Right. This is Cap’n Gino on the
Dorothy Mac
. They’re bringing me three black dogs on a Zodiac, about ten minutes off, but the call said they lost the parrot.”

“What parrot?” I recognized Russ’s voice, sounding dismayed. “We have no parrot in our manifest data.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your manifest destiny. You want the dogs or not?”

Tempers got short, after a night without rest.

“Yes!” Matt and I shouted.

“Then you should thank the fucking parrot. They said the damn thing was yelling about pastry at the top of its lungs down in the cargo area, what was half full of water. The scuba guys would never have spotted the black pups on top of some crates in the corner, but for the screeching. Not much light except some weird emergency flares or something down there to help them see survivors. No sound from the dogs.”

“Pastries?”

“They couldn’t make it out so good. Sounded like pethtry to them. Figured the bird didn’t have a big vocabulary, maybe didn’t speak English, maybe he was hungry. Who knows? Then more lights came on so they could follow the sound. They figure the parrot could open the cages. You ever seen the beak on those things?
Take your finger right off. But how the pups got on top of the crates, out of the water, is anyone’s guess. Anyway, they got the dogs out—took three of the guys to carry ’em—but the bird took off. Then they saw it fall into the ocean. Still yammering about pastries. Or pests.”

Pets, Tree. Tree’s pets.
You did good, Oey. Real good.
I don’t know if he heard me. But I sent hugs and kisses across the mental void, with a picture of the birdfish nestled in willow branches. I added fireflies to the mind picture in thanks to the lantern beetles that must have lit the dark ship so the missing passengers could be found and brought to safety. Maybe they kept the dogs warm, too. Uh-oh.

“There were no fires, were there?”

“Hell, no, or we’d all have to back off and the divers’d have to evacuate.”

“Do you know the dogs’ conditions, Captain? This is Dr. Matt, from Paumanok Harbor.”

“Sorry, Doc, word is not good. Not moving, cold to touch. They must have been in the water five or six hours. The guys in the raft think they’re breathing, but barely. I’ve got some survival blankets still left to wrap them in. A couple of hand heaters. Not much else.”

“Any hot water? Even a warm thermos to tuck under them? Can you lay them over the engine hatch or something?”

“I can try, Doc, but I’ve got half my quota of survivors on board in the cabin. More coming. They’ll need all the hot coffee my galley can churn out.”

“Do the best you can. What’s your ETA?”

We could hear the captain shout to someone onboard. Then he came back. “Sorry. Dumbass female thought she’d climb up to the wheelhouse. In high heels. Not on my boat. ’Specially not tonight. Bad luck altogether. Not that we ain’t had enough.”

“Your ETA, Gino, please. The dogs need help fast if they’ve stopped shivering, stopped moving.”

“Sorry, Doc. I’ve got two different rafts headed my way, and no one else near except a useless hotshot in a cigarette boat. Most of the others are still trolling for survivors or towing rafts. I can’t leave until my latest
batch are all loaded and secured. It goes slow with the inflatables, you gotta understand. Can’t chance dropping one of the drifters back in the drink.” He cursed. “Or convince some dipshit female to take her high heels off before she puts one through the rubber.”

“What about the cigarette boat? Could he bring in the dogs?”

“Good idea. Rich asshole’s not doing much of anything else but shining his light around. I’ll get him on the horn.”

Two minutes later Gino came back on the phone. “It’s a go, Doc. We’re rendezvousing with the rafts in three minutes. Tourist named Francis Costain says he’ll get those dogs back quicker’n I ever could, passengers or not. Fifteen minutes, tops, once he clears this area in case we missed anyone in the water. He says to get clearance for him to dock at the Coast Guard station on Star Island. He’s got to head that way anyway, toward the yacht club, ’cause he’ll be out of gas by then.”

“I’m on it,” Russ said.

“Hey, do you think I can give him the woman, too?”

“Is she injured? Will she need an ambulance waiting?”

“Hell, no, not unless she makes another heel mark on my deck. The broad never got a fingernail chipped. She’s just a pain in the ass. Tina, the lounge singer. Grabbed a life jacket and hopped right into the first raft. Now she’s pissed she had to wait so long to be picked up while they went after people in the water first or the injured. She’s ready to sue everyone in sight. I figure the hotdog who owns a half-million-dollar cigarette boat can afford her better’n I can.”

Russ laughed. “I’ve got a Martina D’Angelo on my crew list as an entertainer. Get me confirmation and some details so I can track her on the computer, and I’ll get her off your hands.”

“You’re doing good for a lubber, kid.”

“And you’re doing great for a bub, Gino,” Russ said, using the local term for a native or near native, old-time seaman. “Thanks.”

*   *   *

Susan had sent clean clothes for me with her father’s last trip to drop off donated supplies and more soup. Bless her heart, she’d included a toothbrush, too. Uncle Roger reported the dogs at home were fine, except Little Red peed on my bed for being left alone so long. And we’d given away all our extra blankets.

I’d deal with it later. I changed and washed up as best I could while Matt was on the phone with the Coast Guard. They weren’t accepting survivors, not with almost all hands out on the water. They only had a skeleton crew and two senior citizens from the Coast Guard auxiliary on base, but they’d take the dogs, gladly. And the lounge singer. Especially the lounge singer.

They promised to get pots of water heating, the thermostat turned up, and a bed turned down for Miss D’Angelo. And they were cooking bacon and eggs, okay?

That sounded like heaven to me, the vegetarian. The brownies were a long-ago memory.

“Good luck, Doc,” all the dog lovers in the firehouse called after us.

“Don’t let them be our first fatalities,” someone else shouted.

One of Russ’ crew handed us a slip of paper with the breeder’s name and info before we left. Peg Winters, forty-two, divorced, professional dog breeder and trainer from the Bronx, traveling with three pedigreed Newfoundland dogs, age six months, had gone into shock. That time she couldn’t refuse to be airlifted to Southampton Hospital. The telecom operator said he’d get word to her as soon as possible, with the doc’s cell number. “Okay?”

“Fine. And tell her she can call and one of the returning ambulances can fetch her back to Paumanok Harbor if she’s released tonight. This morning,” he corrected, seeing the first hint of color in the sky. “Or I’ll have my receptionist go pick her up later. She can stay at my place as long as she and the dogs need.”

“Damn nice of you, Doc.”

Yeah, I thought so, too. There he was, dead tired, in yesterday’s clothes with yesterday’s beard, ready to face
another long, hard fight to save three drowned puppies, and he still cared about their owner. Damn nice.