Chippewa Caw Caw

Chapter 4: Over the Bow Captain McSorely was not the only one pacing back-and-forth. He stopped occasionally to lightly tap the metal radiator with his index finger, as he looked at the floor. He was wishing The Fitz had a fathometer. Known as the heavy-weather captain, he had every intention of bartering for one this winter layup. Along with his master’s Caw Caw’s talons kept time, on his three-inch White Birch limb. Cocking his head to the right- then to the left-, he eyed The Captain and the pilothouse crew and Mr. Pratt who had just come up the interior stairs, to the map room. Silently scooting toward John-D, his left talon quietly swung the cage door nearly shut – just as cleverly, as the first time Iron Arm trained him to do so years ago. His eyes batted hard. Who did he know with that name? No matter. The seconds ticked by, and Caw Caw stroked Plush Teddy’s fur, with a shiny obsidian arrowhead. The storm warped time and brought back another memory: He remembered a dock – no, maybe a low dam, and a tall Indian walking away, with his twin grandbabies in tow. The tiny girl and boy pulled free - and they bravely ran back giving their precious playthings to Caw Caw. A cold draft blew away the memories. The Indian-tooled copper band slid down his leg, to the talon still clutching his once golden teddy. As he sucked it - his black beak and the arrowhead, to his breast, his fine flat black fore-feathers faced starboard. Once again, his dark beady eye pointed larboard, past the wheel, and it perfectly mirrored the circular ice-encrusted windows. Somber blue froze The Captain and crew’s images. Then- The Fitz shot a ‘Mighty Big Sea’. THU- WUMPH! And WHAP! A humongous piece of metal tore off the stair rail and SCREECHED down the outside larboard side to the sea, as a wave hit again from aft of them. The drop launched Caw Caw forward. And, as if, in slow motion - he witnessed blue-on-blue images eclipse bright ceiling lights, and everything careened to matte black. An icy blast knocked bird and teddy the muck. Peeking up from the cage floor he saw gurgling bubbles and glass shards. Every living thing groped the dark. The ship rocked the other way, and the men struggled to stand. Caw Caw dropped his arrowhead. He climbed sideways cack-echoing John-D’s: “‘Aye Sir, Aye Sir…’” Somehow, John-D’s fist hit the round dusty red ship alarm button. Eee-! Rrrr-! … pulsated the alarm, through all the noise. So loud was each shriek that Caw Caw’s attention skipped half-a-second. So sad. If there had been a distress call, it would have gone out now. However, no heavily repeated - MAY DAY - calls moaned out, from The Fitzgerald. Caw Caw seemed to remember what seemed forever in the past: How the calls kept repeating, -back in 1958. When clear across Lake Michigan a Wisconsin Marine Station had caught The S.S. Bradley’s distress calls, and the marine operator shouted: “Emergency! Clear Channel 51!” Deathly silence allowed radio operators, along The Ohio River, and far down The Mississippi waterways hear The Bradley’s First Mate Fleming’s “MAY DAYS! ...” crackle across the airways – as The Bradley’s whistle continued blasting tones: “Seven short- - and one long noise– …” A searing cold blast struck Caw Caw and whisked away that thought. No time for anyone to abandon The Fitzgerald. Another heart-beat and a massive THUD! The Mighty Fitz groaned again - as her captain, maps, monitors, and huge wheel housing all slid down- - landing at the brass rail under the shattered windows. It was a good thing the fuses shorted out, or everything would have electrified. Johnny-D grabbed The Master and the rail. Nearly upside down Caw Caw clung to the cage door. Right-wing spastically racking the cage bars; left-wing locked tight in pain. His friends needed him but he dangled upside down, by beak and talon, and his great flight feathers began to quiver - until adrenaline released his spastic joints. Heavy breast and hard wings thrashed cold bars until the door opened again. Acrid iron racked his beak, as he fought his way out. No one had turned the round handle to lock the pilothouse door. It slammed open – shut – open. Out he shot- finally latching onto The Fitz’s top gutter, in the blinding snow squall. Then he got knocked into wind and, as fate would have it, the starboard bow rail caught him, in the corner above the last D. A lull, in the wind, let him move forward a few feet closer to stairs. All alone on the deck John-D yelled, “Get here!”, as he pulled himself on-deck for Caw Caw. Just as he gained footing, a sheet of sleet cut loose beneath his feet sending him slipping and sliding out, from under the corner railing, past the wide black and white stripe – then he screamed: “What! The Hey- ? ” – and falling into The Deep. Peering after him Caw Caw screamed, “Where are you!?” His constant chatter pierced The Storm: “CAW- CAW- John-D-, ...” Before he had realized that he had spoken aloud - his heart fell with his buddy. He dove. So close did he flap above the water that wide beady eyes were the last that John-D saw before the gale rolled waves over him that last time. He cringed, for he knew the exact location of the bow thruster. His mind’s eye had its blades rocking with the ship’s side-to-side movement. Triangular tail lifted instinctively from the searing surf. He climbed. Feathers whiplashed, by fury, he heard a muffled rush of taconite pellets shifting- below. That seemed minor compared, to his tail feathers whipping his wings, peppered by pellets of the mid-deck’s tempered glass windows. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 7:55pm The Anderson calls again and informs the Coast Guard they have lost The Edmund Fitzgerald both visually and on radar.