In reply to a question, Davidson said, “Should get better all the time. Right now we’re on the back side of it. O.K.?”

But they were not on the back side of the storm, and conditions were not going to improve. They were in the northern eye wall, and getting pushed to the southwest at twice the storm’s speed. Joaquin, meanwhile, was intensifying into a Category 4 hurricane.

Davidson called the engine room. The chief engineer explained that he would not be able to get the lubrication pumps going until El Farogained more of an even keel. When he got off the phone, Randolph asked, “They having trouble getting back online?”

“Yeah, because of the list.”

“Uh-oh.”

Davidson punched in the number for John Lawrence and left the voice mail. He then called the answering service and encountered the operator—“Oh, God!”—before getting patched through to Lawrence. By the time he finished the conversation with Lawrence, full daylight had come. The chief engineer called, and Randolph told him there was nothing more that could be done from the bridge about the list. Davidson instructed her to send out the electronic distress signals, and she did. Speaking of the outside world, he said in an urgent tone, “Wake everybody up! Wake ‘em up!”

Schultz had returned to the bridge. He said, “I think that water level’s rising, captain.”

“O.K., do you know where it’s coming from?”

“At first the chief said something hit the fire main. Got it ruptured hard.”

The fire main had a large-diameter pipe that led from an opening in the hull to a powerful pump at the aft bulkhead at the bottom of three-hold. The pump was protected from the cargo by steel barriers, but the pipe itself was not. It was equipped with a shutoff valve, as all through-hull fittings were, but that valve was now lying deep beneath the black waters of the flooded hold—and the cargo of cars was floating around and shifting wildly in the storm. Access to the valve was impossible.

There are problems for which there are no solutions. After 10 minutes of considering all possible improvisations, the crew collectively ran out of ideas.

X. “Everybody Get Off!”

El Faro had two lifeboats, but they were outdated—not enclosed and launched on stern rails as modern lifeboats are, but hung from davits on El Faro’s port and starboard sides, open to the sky, extremely difficult if not impossible to launch from a listing ship in hurricane-force winds, subject to shattering against the ship’s steel hull, and certain to capsize in breaking waves. El Faro also had five inflatable life rafts, four of which were packed in canisters near the lifeboats. The life rafts were easier to launch but more difficult to board, and nearly as vulnerable in the storm. The only hope was to take to the life rafts.

Davidson radioed to Schultz, who was somewhere on the ship trying to monitor the flooding. He said, “Hey, mate, chief mate. Just a heads-up. I’m gonna ring the general alarm. Get your muster while you’re down there. Muster all, mate.”

Schultz answered, “Roger.”

Davidson called the engine room and got a junior officer. He said, “All right, captain here. Just want to let you know I am going to ring the general alarm. You don’t have to abandon ship or anything just yet. All right, we’re gonna stay with it. Is the chief there? Yeah, all is fine. When he’s got a minute just let him know I’m looking to talk with him. But let everyone know I’m gonna ring the general alarm.”

When he got off the phone, Davidson said, “Yup,” as if to himself. Then he shouted loudly, “Ring it!” A high-frequency bell could be heard everywhere. Davidson said, “There you go.”

Schultz called him on the radio. Davidson said, “Go ahead, mate.”