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It was twenty three miles off Point Conception in thirty knots of wind and twelve foot seas when the boat hit the half submerged container. At least Benson thought it was a half submerged container. Could have even been a sleeping whale. Could have been a capsized boat already half sunk by the storm. All that really mattered was that it was big and hard and heavy and that Arial hit it at over eight knots of speed.
Containers routinely fall off of cargo ships and are made to stay afloat. They can float for weeks or even months, a few inches above the water, almost invisible during the day, completely invisible at night and do not appear on the radar screen. They can sink boats that hit them. But so can whales and so can half sunken boats. Whatever it was, it was hundreds of feet behind the boat by the time Benson was somewhat awake.
He picked himself up from the cabin floor where the impact had thrown him from the pilot berth. He stood there disoriented near the companionway steps that led to the cockpit. He had fallen asleep in his full foul weather gear, including his inflatable life jacket and harness, so exhausted he had not bothered to take them off. Just as well since he had perhaps five minutes to determine if the boat was going to sink and try to prevent it.
No time to dress. Only time to scramble around and see if the boat was holed. He should have been in court presiding over a complex trial involving the removal of a trustee. He should be acting judicial and wise and be thinking about eating dinner at Sams after the day in court, perhaps working out at the gym before dinner, then rereading Tolstoy before going to sleep.
