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Thread: From The Delta Mud."

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    From The Delta Mud."

    I am an Indie author with seven titles available on Amazon. With permission of the admins I will publish the Prologue of my novel, “From the Delta Mud.” It is somewhat standalone as it takes place 30 years before the actual story. It is 25 pages, and I plan to post a couple of chapters a day until we reach the end of the prologue.
    I’ll post a link to the novel on Amazon at the end of this post. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, PLEASE, leave reviews on Amazon.

    Enjoy.

    “From The Delta Mud”

    Prologue

    July 1992

    John was red eyed with greasy hair and peach fuzz on his twenty-year-old chin. The other deck hand had abruptly blasted him from sleep by flipping on the light in the cabin they shared, and pulling the covers off of him. Shouting would have done no good as the cabin was separated from the twin twelve-thousand horse engines by less than an eighth of an inch of steel. You just didn't have meaningful conversations in the deck-hand cabin when the engines were running. Especially when they were at full throttle as they had been for the last twelve hours. The time was currently eleven-forty pm, and John was starting the six hour shift from midnight to six am known as the second part of the after watch. He sat up and looked through bleary eyes as Stinky, the other hand, satisfied himself that John was awake. Satisfied, Stinky disappeared back out the door to finish the last fifteen minutes of his watch.
    John slid from the upper bunk, pulled on his clothes and grabbed the ever-present flashlight. He killed the cabin lights and stepped out in the companion way. The stairs to the second deck were almost directly across from his cabin and he made his way up them. At the top of the stairs was a small common room with a couch, a couple of chairs, a table, and a TV set. The port holes on his left were actually double pained sliding windows, just like those found in any industrial building. More windows in the front of the room on the wall behind the television looked forward, out over the weather deck and onto the barges that made up the tow the boat was pushing. John crossed the back of the room to the other entrance. This opened on a companion way that led into officer country where the cabins for the captain, the chief engineer, and the cook were located.

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    There is no quiet place on a tow boat while the engines are running. But in these cabins, a deck above and slightly forward of the engine room, conversation was at least possible. John rapped on the door to the pilot's cabin then pressed his ear against it listening for the sounds of someone stirring on the other side. He heard some muffled grumbling, then a groggy, "OK!" Satisfied that the pilot was awake, he went to the chief's door and repeated the process.
    
His duty finished here, John headed back up the hall. He would be back in a few hours to wake the cook, but for now he wanted to grab a snack from the galley before his watch started. Retracing his steps, John found himself again in front of the door to his cabin. In this part of the boat, the rumble and clatter of the engines was something you felt more than heard. When he had first been shown his bunk he wondered how he would ever sleep, enveloped in such a cacophony. Much to his surprise, he slept incredibly well. His body quickly accepted the mechanically steady rhythm of the engines as the gentle sway of the boat rocked him to sleep. The best sleep he ever had was in the dark swaying cocoon of his cabin while two engines, each the size of an eighteen-wheeler's trailer, rumbled their reassuring lullaby.
    He turned aft to a set of double doors just past his cabin that led to the engine room. The main deck companion way continued through the engine room as a catwalk between the engines. Opening the doors to the engine room, the noise which had been a physical sensation, became a physical assault. John made his way down the catwalk and through another set of doors at the other end of the engine room. He was now in another short companion, off of which were the second engineer's cabin, a utility locker, and a head. Continuing aft, John passed through the last set of double doors into the galley.
    The galley was a large space that ran the width of the boat. It held enough seating for twelve people as well as the industrial sized stove, oven, refrigerator and freezer. It looked especially cavernous around midnight with only two people there. Stinky was washing something down with a glass of milk. From the crumbs in his scraggly beard, it must have been the last of the apple pie. Finishing the milk, Stinky tossed the glass and dish into the sink where they bounced around but miraculously didn't break. He was supposed to rinse them, then put them in the dishwasher. Leaving them in the sink for John was just a subtle reminder that Stinky was still a step above John in the pecking order. A forearm across his mouth completed Stinky's hygiene for the evening. He headed for his bunk giving John a friendly slap on the shoulder as he passed.

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    Frank, the second engineer was seated at a table delicately picking at a bowl of chocolate pudding. John did his best to stifle a grin as he stepped to the cupboard and retrieved a mug. Every crew member had a favorite snack, and the cook took great pride in leaving something for the people going on watch. John liked fried oysters, and it was a good bet that there was a bowl of them waiting in the fridge. Bob, the pilot John had just awakened, like chocolate pudding. Every crew member, seeing a single serving bowl of chocolate pudding in the fridge, would understand that it was there for Bob. The cook had asked Frank what he liked. Frank had mumbled that he didn't want anything, then started eating the snacks left for other people. Lately he had been zeroing in on Bob's pudding. The cook even left two bowls so Frank could have one if he wanted it. Frank ate them both.
    Tonight John had instruction from the cook to be sure that Bob didn't eat the pudding in the unlikely event Frank left it. In the two months he'd been on the crew, John had learned there were times you just followed instructions without asking questions. This was a summer job, and John still had a year before he graduated college. But you didn't need a degree to figure out there was probably a couple of bars of ex-lax in that bowl. He appreciated the idea that old Frank was probably getting his just desserts tonight, as well as Bob's dessert. John lifted the coffee pot, but hesitated before pouring any into his mug. He looked suspiciously at the contents of the pot. It looked more like asphalt than coffee. Stinky must have made a pot for the Captain before going off watch. The Captain could chew his coffee as easily as drink it. If you could get another grain in the filter, the coffee was too weak for the Captain. John poured his mug about a third full, then filled it the rest of the way with hot water. It still tasted bitter, but it didn't dissolve the skin on his tongue. He'd make a new pot soon, but decided to wait until Bob replaced the Captain in the wheelhouse. The Captain might want another cup before turning in. He found the expected oysters in the fridge then took a seat as far from Frank as he could.
    Frank gave him a sullen glare as he spooned the last of the pudding into his mouth. He stood then sauntered over to the sink and joined Stinky's social statement by tossing in the unwashed bowl and spoon. John didn't exactly appreciate Stinky doing it, but it at least had the feel of good natured ribbing. Somehow when Frank did it, there was a vindictive edge to it that John really resented. He watched Frank leave the galley. He was pretty sure that old Frank wasn't going to be so full of shit in a few hours. A few minutes later, Bob came through the doors sleepily rubbing the back of his neck
    Last edited by Bigguy; 02-22-2019 at 11:03 AM.

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    "Morning." he said, giving John a friendly nod. He went to the fridge and pulled the door open. Leaning lazily on the door facing, he stuck his head in the fridge and looked around for the bowl of pudding. Convincing himself that it wasn't there, he withdrew and gently pushed the door shut. The hint of a smirk played across his lips. John now knew that the pilot was also aware of the setup, but neither man was going to mention it.
    Bob turned and sauntered over to the coffee pot. He hesitated as he was reaching for a cup. Leaning closer to the pot, he got a good whiff. He wrinkled his nose as he returned to the fridge and removed a small bottle of orange juice.
    "This is probably better for me," he said as he took a seat across from John. He removed the safety ring and flipped the top off. He took a sip to allow his mouth to adjust to the acidity of the liquid. "I'm still going to need some coffee though. You're going to make a pot as soon as Captn' Charlie turns in aren't you?" he asked.
    "I thought I'd check the tow first." said John.
    "I checked with the Captn'." Bob said. "We're still coming out of Victoria bend. The tow ought to be all right for a while. Why don't you wait on the Captn' to turn in before heading out? That way, we can get some coffee before you get tied up on the business end of an idiot stick."
    It was the first bad decision on this shift, in a series that would lead to disaster.
    Working the tow is what deck-hands do. Of course they also wash dishes, help the cook and clean the boat. But all of that comes in the time left over from tending the tow. Tow boats push barges up and down the river. That's why they were there. The McNeece normally ran from Little Rock Arkansas to Baton Rouge Louisiana. On this night she was making one of her rare runs to Paducah Kentucky. She usually pushed eight jumbo barges loaded with anything from rock to grain. On this trip she was hauling dredging equipment back to the company's headquarters.
    One barge was loaded down with forty-thousand pounds of fertilizer in four-hundred, hundred pound, water tight bags. The barges are "wired" together using steel cables half-an-inch thick wrapped around steel posts a foot-and-a-half high at the corners of each barge called turn heads. The cables are then tightened using ratchets attached to turnbuckles. The ratchets handles are steel bars six-feet long, some times called idiot sticks. The name comes as a friendly dig at the deck-hands. It was explained to John that they’re called idiot sticks because when in use, you can find a ratchet at one end of the stick, and an idiot on the other.

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    When the tow is made up, the cables are tightened until they are as stiff as granite. If you tap a properly tightened wire with a ratchet handle, it will thunk like stone rather than ring like metal. As the tow is pushed through the water, torque works them loose. After just a few miles, the wires will actually sag. Left unchecked, the tow will continue getting looser and sloppier until the unequal loading snaps a coupling. A good part of a deck hand's life is spent on the business end of an idiot stick.
    With a little more experience, John might have held out for a quick check of the tow. Stinky wasn't known for going over and above, and John would like to have had an idea as to what kind of shape the tow was in. Still, Bob was in command when the captain was off watch, so John held his peace. "Will we be in the bend much longer?" he asked the pilot.
    "We should be clear in about an hour." came the reply. Victoria bend was a narrow turn in the River. Because it was so narrow, the current was fast. With both engines pumping twenty-four thousand horse power into the screws, it still took the McNeece a little more than six hours to run the mile and-a-half upstream against the current. She had nosed into the bend just as John went off watch, and was only now coming out as he was again coming on watch.
    John felt a little better about the tow. In the bend for the last six hours, the boat wouldn't have been maneuvering much and the tow wouldn't have gotten much of a work out. For the hour or so that the boat would still be in the bend, it wouldn't have to make any hard turns, putting stress on the couplings. That would give him an hour to get a pot of coffee going and get out on the barges. "I guess I'd better get to the wheelhouse," Bob said. He took another swallow of orange juice, then left the galley.

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    Captain Charlie heard Bob coming up the stairs. He took a quick glance out the wheelhouse windows. There was little to see. He could make out the tree line, but there was only inky blackness below that point. He couldn't see where the bank was, or anything in the water. He flipped on the huge spotlights for a quick check. The lights can be directed from inside the wheelhouse, and Charlie scanned them over the bank to be sure it was where he thought it was. He then checked the water's surface in the immediate vicinity of the boat. Satisfied, he flipped off the lights and checked the radar.
    The display looked much as it had for the last 6 hours. The screen showed an ill shaped. curved "H." It is tempting for the novice to think of the radar as a sort of magic moving map. The reality of late twentieth century technology was somewhat less impressive. Though the image was drawn from an overhead perspective, the information was collected from a line of sight scan. The shorter leg of the “H” was the part of the West river bank that could be seen from the radar's position on top of the wheelhouse. The longer leg was the East bank. As the curve of the river takes each bank out of sight around the bend, the images disappears on the scope. The Queen Mary could be sitting in the middle of the river just a few hundred yards ahead, but not show up on the radar if she was behind trees along a curving bank.
    The cross bar of the H was made up of ground clutter in the vicinity of the boat. The surface of the water was choppy from the current and presented enough reflective surfaces to bounce back the stronger radiation a few tens of yards from the transmitter. The radar was also picking up the front third of the tow. 
While the radar had serious limitations, it was still a valuable tool when used by skilled pilots like Charlie and Bob.
    The navigation buoys marking the navigable channel were topped with radar reflectors and showed up well on the scope. No pilot would try to navigate by radar alone, but in fog or rain radar could make the difference in continuing on or tying up. In a business that measured its operating expenses in millions of dollars per hour, radar paid for itself very quickly.

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    Satisfied that the immediate area was clear, Charlie stepped back to let Bob slide into the pilot chair. As Bob settled in to the seat, his hands reached out in an unconscious ritual, lightly grasping the "sticks." He didn't feel as though he had taken control until he extended his tactile self to include the boat. He needed to feel her talk to him through his hands on the sticks. To reassure him that all was well, and she was ready to respond to his wishes.
    Though the control cabin of boats the size of McNeece are generally referred to as "wheelhouses," tow boats haven't been steered by a wheel in decades. Each of McNeece's twin screws could be rotated independently through three-hundred-sixty degrees. A pole running from the top of the control console to the overhead controlled each screw. A handle protruded from each pole at ninety-degrees. When both screws were aimed dead ahead, the handles stuck out straight back. These are the "sticks" that guide the boat. With the ability to independently steer each screw through three-hundred-sixty degrees and independently apply a range of power from full forward to full reverse, a skilled pilot can actually move a boat sideways.

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    Charlie took a seat on the bench behind the pilot chair. This is the time when the pilots share information, the man going off watch making sure his replacement knows about anything going on. It also gives the man going off a chance to wind down a little. To reverse the process Bob just went through and draw back in to himself.
    Normally Charlie was an animated captain. He constantly pulled on the sticks, making adjustment that were necessary more as an expression of his personality than to guide the tow. And on a six-hour watch, he would pour kilowatts of his pontification into the ether on the marine bands. Often he would stand next to the pilot for an hour or more after going off watch holding the mike and continuing a conversation with the pilot of some other boat.
    Tonight had been hard on Charlie. He had been blocking the bend for more than six hours. Boats behind him also going upstream couldn't enter the bend under these conditions until he got clear. If he lost power, or his tow broke up, a boat down stream would be unable to maneuver out of the way. As a result, they just tied up to the bank. Boats coming down stream also could not enter until Charlie got clear. The current would sweep them through the bend in a little more than a half an hour. But they would have little control, and the river was narrow so they also were tied up waiting on Charlie.
    Charlie was not a popular man on the river tonight. Most of the other captains thought that he should have acknowledged that his boat was simply not powerful enough for the current, and tied up for a day or so until the river went down a little. So Charlie had been deprived of the banter that usually helped him sit in the pilot's chair throughout a watch.

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    With one avenue of relief gone, Charlie's tension had poured out the only other channel. He had been pulling on the sticks all night, wagging his tow up river. The more he worried the tow, the looser the couplings got. Since his maneuvers were always short, the tow never had time to swing fully one direction. Water pressure kept each barge pushed to the one behind it, and the last barges in the tow up against the push knees of the boat. While Charlie knew the tow was a little sloppy, he didn't understand just how loose those couplings really were.
    "I'm going to leave you with it," said Charlie.
    "Good night captn'," said Bob. "I'll still be here in the morning."
    Charlie stepped through the door at the bottom of the stairs into the companion way on the second deck. Usually he would have gone to the galley for a last cup of coffee. Tonight though, he was exhausted. He went straight to his cabin, took a warm shower and hit the bunk.

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    — — —
    John looked at the clock on the galley wall. It was twelve-thirty. He knew the captain often hung around the wheelhouse for an hour or more after going off watch. Still, he was anxious to get out on the tow. At twelve-forty-five he decided to expedite things. He poured a large mug of coffee and headed for the wheelhouse. The captain had his own mug, but John could fill it from the one he was carrying. He'd get permission to start a new pot, then get out on the tow. Reaching the wheelhouse, John looked around. "Where's the Captn'?" John asked.
    "Dunno," said Bob. "I thought he was in the galley."
    "I haven't seen him," said John.

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