by Ronan Cray
They both agreed that Howie was a nincompoop, and from this common ground they formed a friendship. Things progressed from there. The two women talked daily. When Howie moved in with Maria, it was Barbara's idea. Barbara never believed he could dress himself. She worried about him, like a mother.
Maria’s culture forbade her from living with Howie without a marriage. They held a small civil ceremony, exchanged rings whose budget had been pre-approved by Barbara, and went home. Nothing changed for Howie, and now life was complete.
The next morning, Maria fussed with his morning attire, fixed him lunch, reminded him of his appointments, nagged him about the things she needed fixed or needed bought, called him three times a day to pester him some more, cooked him a big dinner every night (with the direct consequence of his maintaining his immense weight), and practically tucked him in at night.
Maria didn't want children. She said she was too old. They didn't have sex, and that was that.
Every few months, Howie boarded a plane from one life to the other. Barbara got used to being called Maria, and Maria got used to being called Barbara. Women are remarkably adaptable when they have a common cause. Life went on like that for over a decade, and Howie began to think nothing would ever change.
Until Barbara died.
An aneurism stole her with no preamble. When Howie left for work, she was alive. When she didn't make her morning call, he knew to be worried. Thankfully he was in-country.
Barbara's father brought him into the conference room to break the news. Howie remembered how Barbara's father wouldn’t face him; just stared at a wilted, potted peace lily by the window, never looking him in the eye. Howie sensed that this was his fault, somehow. That week, at the funeral, Howie stood with his two children like a dog left outside the back door too long.
The next week Barbara's father called him into the conference room again. There was only one reason he'd kept Howie on so long, and he told him so. "I never saw what Barbara saw in you, Howard. I never liked the idea of you taking a second wife. I thought of bringing you off that account when I heard about it, but Barbara wouldn't let me. Now that she's gone, well..." he trailed off. He stared at the plant again. "Now that Barbara's gone, I'm taking you off your accounts here. You’ve been loyal to the company, at least, and that means a lot to me, Howard. So I'm letting you stay on with the foreign accounts. Seems right, somehow."
Howie didn't know what to say. He had no anecdotes for this.
Barbara's father slapped an envelope on the table. He slid it over to Howie.
Howie’s hands shook as he opened it. There was nothing inside but a single ticket for a cruise line.
"That was in Barbara's will. I don't know when she wrote it. She said when she died you'd need some time off, to recover. She wanted you to take a cruise."
"But..." Howie stammered. "Alone?" He felt foolish and recovered saying, "There's only one ticket. What about the kids?"
"I bought them a flight. Barbara stipulated that Maria take custody of them. They need a mother now, not a cruise." He said "cruise" rather contemptuously.
Barbara's father waited for Howie to say something, rapped his fingers on the table, checked to make sure the plant was still there, and then stood up. "Well," he said, and stuck out his hand. "I guess this is goodbye.” Then he added, with menace or good will, Howie couldn’t tell which,
“Break a leg."
Howie dipped into a trough in the ocean’s waves, dropped into a bowl of moonlight. The troughs were much larger at the surface than they looked from the top deck. Now even small waves dropped Howie’s body so low he couldn’t see over them. They came at him from different angles, too. No sooner had he drifted over one to take a breath than another surprised him in the back of the head. Still, he knew this was a calm sea, and this struck him as odd. There was no storm. It was too warm for icebergs. Even in the dark, he could tell they were nowhere near land. The ship disappeared completely. Why?
Perhaps it simply decided now was the time to fall apart, as if ships could make that decision. "Yes," thought the ship, "This is a good spot."
He was talking to himself, in the voice of a cruise ship. He must be losing it. He needed to think of something else.
He decided to fixate on sharks. How long would it be before sharks hunted the survivors? He couldn't remember anything he was supposed to do. Splash? Don't splash? Hit it in the nose? He could never summon enough courage to punch a shark in the nose while maintaining a perfectly pitched high-C scream.
Howie could hear other people in the water crying, shouting. Someone blew a whistle. He never drifted close to them, though. He hoped the sharks would get them first so he’d have time to warm up his vocal chords.
Debris floated all around him. Howie marveled at how much of a ship floats. Bits of wood, plastic flowers, a patch of glass bottles saved for recycling, a man's hat, tennis shoes, chairs, a green rubber duck. Nothing useful, of course, like a life preserver.
Something wrapped around his leg. He kicked frantically, but it held tight. Struggling and splashing, he managed to pull it free. A bright yellow smiley face stared placidly at his own panicky face. “Have a nice day,” it said. It was a plastic bag from the gift shop.
Every few minutes, objects bumped into him. He imagined they were shark noses nudging him, getting a good whiff of his buttery hide. The next second they would strike. They never did. This intermittent terror was like Chinese water torture. Bump. Pause. Bump. Pause. Bump.
He paddled in the wreckage for what seemed an eternity. The night surrendered no clues to the passage of time. He worried how long he could remain afloat, so he desperately latched on to a five gallon bucket that miraculously popped up in front of him. As long as he kept it upside down, it captured enough air to hold him. He leaned over the top of it, capsized several times, and barely caught it as it slipped beneath the waves.
During his constant vigilance for sharks, he noticed a rhythmic beating sound. It drew closer. It sounded like someone in flip flops slapping past the pool. That didn't make sense. Delirium gripped him again.
An inflated plastic garbage bag hid the source of the sound from view. He started to back paddle, putting some distance between himself and the bag. With his eyes on the bag, something smacked him in the back of the head. He turned to tousle with a plastic deck chair for a moment before he got his bearings.
An enormous shadow approached the bag. A triangular shape smashed through, black, headed right for him.
The prow of the lifeboat pushed the bag under. It was so close that, looking up, he couldn't see who was inside. He let out a woefully ineffective scream, not at all what he’d been practicing. The prow swerved. Strong hands reached out, took hold of him, and hauled him on-board.
For five minutes, he was just glad to be out of the water. He gasped as if he’d been dog paddling the whole time. There were four survivors already in the boat – two women and two men. He thanked them, laughing, smiling. He recognized one of them as the Steward who’d shared his table only a few hours before. “Carter, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and you’re Howard, right?”
“What happened?”
“How should I know?”
“Aren’t you on the crew?”
“I was sleeping in my quarters. Next thing I know, I’m in the water and these boys are fishing me out.” Carter tossed his thumb toward their mysterious saviors.
Two men paddled the boat through the wreckage. They spoke not a word. Don’t lifeboats have motors?
At first glance, under the circumstances, Howie expected to find some kind of natives. Under the moonlight, their tanned hides and woven hats might have given him that impression. He quickly realized they were not. First of all, both men had white hair. They looked too young for white hair. Second, they were Caucasian. They obviously got plenty of sunlight. Their skin was tight as a belt, but their wide eyes and sharp noses gave them away. These were not people borne of sunny climes. Then there was the clothing. Tuck
ed under the benches, their feet were shod in tennis shoes. In fact, just now the man in front reached over to toss a floating shoe into the boat. Now they’re rescuing shoes? Their tattered clothes were definitely manufactured. One wore what appeared to have been jeans in a former life. The other sported a Speedo. It actually still said "Speedo". They wore t-shirts. Most telling of all, their wide-brimmed hats were not of straw, but braided plastic strips. Some of them still bore an imprint that looked like potato chip bags.
“I can’t thank you enough for saving us,” he said to the man paddling in the prow. “What brings you way out here anyway?”
Silence.
“Well, I see you’re busy and I appreciate it. I’d love to thank you properly when you have time. What’s your name?”
Silence. The man wouldn’t even turn toward him. “Maybe you don’t speak my language. I hope I can make myself clear when I say…” The words caught in his throat. The man turned to reveal a leathery face with unnatural wrinkles. A black maw opened, hissing. Cavities dotted stained teeth, and a foul odor emanated from engorged tonsils. Inside that dark, moist space was a stump of black flesh where a tongue should have been. Spit pooled below the stump. Wild yellow eyes stood out to create a most horrifying effect. Howie shrank back, and the man turned back to his rowing.
"Don't bother asking for names," said Carter. "These guys don't talk."
“He has no... He can’t speak because…” Howie stuttered. Splashing water interrupted him. They neared someone else, a man. The White Hairs rowed close, and Carter and Howie pulled him in, Howie less so as his bulked tipped the boat dangerously whenever he leaned.
Their new guest lay at the bottom gasping, grateful, and naked.
“Hey!” shouted Carter, frightening everyone as he pointed at the man. “I know you! You’re the guy who left with the Lady in Red last night, right? Did you get lucky?”
The man stared at him. His expression was clear. Plucked from certain death the first question he faced was about a tryst? No “How are you, are you okay”? He pulled himself to a sitting position and turned toward the ocean. “I think all of us got lucky.”
“Howie,” said Howie, thrusting out a pudgy hand, relieved that this man could talk.
“Mason,” said the man, extending his own hand. “Who else is here?”
The theme for the evening seemed to be clothing optional. The survivors looked like losers in a strip-poker tournament. Whatever the calamity, it happened at night, and fast. No one had time for decency. One woman wore a sport bra and yoga pants like she worked out in her sleep. A cotton nightgown clung to the diminutive body of the second. Boxer shorts and socks covered Carter. Only Howie wore clothing and shoes as he’d passed out fully clothed with a photo of Barbara on his chest.
“I’m Lauren,” said the first woman, a brunette who looked like she could have swum laps around the lifeboat without tiring.
“I’m Emily,” said the tiny blonde beside her. Emily pointedly drew out a bottle of hand sanitizer after she shook his hand. It was attached to her wrist by a thin rubber chord. She slept with a bottle of hand sanitizer. She almost found out if cleanliness is next to godliness.
The sound of retching brought their attention to the rear of the lifeboat. Another man lay there with his head dangling over the side, grasping the bulwark with white knuckles. He only nodded their way, absorbed in keeping the contents of his stomach from erupting, again.
“That’s Max,” said Emily. “He’s a dentist. He sat at my table last night with his wife and daughter.” She paused. The wife and daughter were not in the boat.
Clearly, Max suffered from something other than sea sickness. He continued to puke over the side, and a nutty smell indicated he’d evacuated in the other direction as well. Sweat slicked his face, matting his hair. He lay half over the edge of the boat, like a woodland animal obsessed with its own reflection.
“Norovirus.” Carter nodded knowingly. “Cruise ship virus. Must have picked it up at dinner last night.”
Emily skittered backward, bumping up against Howie who took up the entire front end of the craft. “Is it contagious?” Instinctively, she shook out a dollop of hand sanitizer and rubbed furiously.
“No. You have to ingest it. And that smell isn’t from something I would eat.”
Max’s dry heaving interrupted them. They stared in horror, as if they had invited the Red Death into the relative safety of their confined world.
“He ate the fish last night,” Emily piped up. “Did anyone else eat the fish?” They all shook their heads in tandem.
“Anyone have any water?” Mason asked. They repeated the movement. The White Hairs remained silent. Turning to the one at the stern, he tossed his hand as if holding a cup, the universal sign for water.
Carter snorted. “They don’t speak. That doesn’t mean they’re deaf.”
“Do they speak English?” Mason asked. “This guy needs to keep hydrated or he’s going to die.”
Howie just stared on in helplessness. Amazing, to be surrounded by nothing but water, yet Max could die from dehydration. Despair left the boat silent but for the steady dipping of the paddles and the low suffering noises emitted by the sick man.
Mason turned and spoke to all of them. “There are six of us in this boat. We’re a crew now. Let’s make a pledge, right here, right now, that we’ll look out for one another. No matter what happens. Give me your oath.” He held out his hand. Howie and Lauren took it right away. Carter hesitated and then joined in.
Emily added hers to the pile as if they all had cooties. “Even Max?” she asked.
“Even Max.”
Howie saw half a dozen more boats peppered across the water. At least two others buoyed survivors, but the rest were busy collecting… trash. They used long poles to pick up junk out of the water, particularly plastic bags. Anything plastic went on-board along with anything clear - glass bottles, plastic bottles, pieces of translucent fiberglass.
Hard-core environmentalists? National sea park stewards?
But where did they come from? He stretched his neck searching for land but saw none.
"Hey, Moron! Sit down! You don't want to capsize us!" Carter shouted.
No land. Anywhere.
The boats completed their search of the wreckage and rallied. Silence made a seventh companion as they paddled through the night. Once, from another boat, they heard a scream, a splash, and some commotion as a body was dragged back in. The White Hairs didn’t even slow down.
Howie had to pee.
He couldn’t remember drinking anything, maybe salt water. He wondered what to do. He wasn’t about to pee in the boat, in front of everyone. He wasn’t going to stand up and risk capsizing. The more he thought about it, the more he had to go. Water sloshed around his knees at the bottom of the boat, wet, cold, and constricting. The paddles splashed with wet, dripping noises. Water flowing under the lifeboat gurgled past them in a long stream. Every now and then a wave would jolt the boat, increasing the pressure on his bladder.
He’d played a game at a carnival where he shot a water gun into a clown’s mouth to inflate a balloon. That’s how he felt right now, and whoever was firing the water gun was a deadeye. Every dip of the paddles pumped that balloon. Dip, pump. Dip, pump. Dip, pump. He shifted in his seat, undid his belt to relieve the pressure. That worked for a while, but within an hour it pumped up again.
Shouldn’t he save it? He remembered hearing somewhere that you weren’t supposed to drink sea water, it was worse than no water at all. Didn’t people without water resort to drinking their own urine? That was healthy, right? The thought of saving it just to drink was abhorrent, and he wasn’t about to ask if anyone else wanted some. At this point, he just needed to get rid of it.
They travelled for almost two hours. He leaned into the darkness to catch some glimpse of land, some indication that their journey would close. He craned his ears for some end to the monotony of that vast seascape. Nothing.
Several of his fel
low survivors passed out from exhaustion. Lauren slept with her head on Carter’s shoulder. They looked sweet. Emily’s tiny body lay curled up on one seat like a cat. Mason snored like he was on a camping trip. Maybe I could do that, drift off into sleep until we land. His bulk prevented him from any position beyond sitting up. He let his head roll against the fat of his neck, like a travel pillow. That wasn’t comfortable, so he propped his elbow on the edge of the boat and supported his head on it. His elbow promptly slipped off and the whole boat rocked ominously as he regained his posture. That woke the other sleepers momentarily, grumbling and shifting, until they fell asleep again.
Sleep eluded Howard. He glanced across the calm faces of his comrades. How peaceful they looked! Plucked from certain death, headed into an uncertain future, yet they slept with angelic faces.
Howie wondered how they all ended up here. Raised in different parts of the world, to different parents, with different jobs, income, and family matters, they had very little in common, yet, through some twist of fate, through decisions made somewhere in the midst of time, they converged here, as if their whole lives had been meant for one purpose - bred for this boat. The present, and present company, felt more real than anything Howie ever experienced.
How odd that they would have pursued, or not pursued, college degrees, sought the love of companions, found their soul mates, took jobs in industries that could support them, worked hard, saved or splurged, and somehow reached the decision, all of them, to take a cruise. Whether bought in cash or credit, they paid for this moment, bought it with their lives, and now here they were. Survivors.
A sudden lurch knocked Howie’s head against the gunwale. He woke with a snort. It was daylight.
“Welcome back to Hell,” said Carter. Everyone else was already awake.
“Where are we?”
“In the middle of the ocean with no water, no food, no clothes, and no supplies.”
“You’re so negative, Carter.” Emily unfolded from her seat.
