"Brown, Dale - Fatal Terrain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Dale)

driveway, eagerly looking forward to getting on the water.
It was a short drive north on Highway 101 to the marina,
just south of the Yaquina Bay bridge. The marina's general
store had just opened, so he had his thermos filled with coffee,
his cooler packed full of orange juice, fresh and dried fruit,
and some live sardines for bait--he didn't have the money to
buy live mackerel or squid, which would really improve his
chances. What he knew about fishing would embarrass himself
if he tried to talk about it, but it didn't matter-if he caught
anything, which was unlikely these days in the fished-out wa-
ters of central Oregon, he would probably let it go. He filled
out a slip of paper that explained where he was headed and
how long he was going to be out-somewhat akin to filing a
flight plan before a sortie-stuck the paper in the "Gone
Fishin' " box near the door on his way out, and headed for
the piers.
His boat was a thirty-year-old thirty-two-foot Grand Banks
Sedan, bought with most of his savings and the sixty days'
worth of unused accumulated leave time he had sold back to
the United States Air Force. Made of Philippine mahogany
instead of fiberglass, the heavy little trawler was easy enough

to handle solo, and stable in seas up to about five feet. It had
a single Lehman diesel engine, covered flybridge, a good-size
fishing cockpit aft, a large salon with lower helm station, set-
tee, and galley, and a forward cabin with a head/shower and
a V-berth with decent but fish-smelling foam cushions. He
turned on the marine band radio and got the weather and sea
states from WXI, the Newport Coast Guard weather band,
while he pulled off the canvas covers, checked his equipment
and made ready to get under way-he still called it "preflight-
ing" his ship, although the fastest he'd fly would be ten
knots-then motored over to the pumps, filled the fuel and
water tanks, and headed out of the marina into Yaquina Bay
and then to the open ocean.
There was a very light drizzle and a fresh breeze blowing,
but the man did make his way up to the flybridge to get a
better feel for the sea. Visibility was about three to five miles




 DALE BROWN
offshore, but the Otter Rock light was visible nine miles north.
The waves were maybe a foot, short and choppy, with the first
hint of whitecaps, and it was cool and damp-again, typical
weather in Oregon for early summer. He headed northwest,
using an eyeball. bearing off the lighthouse to sail into the
fishing area. When he'd first started sailing, he'd brought an
entire bag full of electronic satellite navigation gear, backup