by Pat Connid
Without even stopping, the machine then jumped forward, and lying there, I watched my hands pass back over me, then my head and chest lifted from the sand as my body was folded into two—
“Aw, hell,” I breathed hollow
—and, at that point, the only way to avoid being snapped in half was to either let go or spread my legs as wide as possible.
Inexplicably, someone in my head decided upon the latter and for the first time in my life, after years and years of occasional and far less aggressive attempts to accomplish this feat, I did the splits.
However, as you might guess, any joy brought about by this accomplishment was mitigated by the wailing pain of my inner thighs and the curious, yet unconfirmed departure of my testicles, possibly having taken refuge somewhere inside the body cavity via my navel.
Seconds later, I was being dragged behind the vehicle, my bloodless fingers clamped onto the metal hook.
We were racing toward the shoreline, the sand biting at my chest and stomach, and the grit and dust filling the air around me to where I couldn’t even breathe. Even in this tiny, diesel generated sandstorm, I held fast, thankful for the cover of the spray, white-knuckled to the racing machine.
Most people don’t associate sand with pain. Sand is the sort of thing you lie in next to lapping, frothy waves. Sand is what children make castles from and occasionally (and, hopefully, just temporarily) bury each other in. “Sand” even sounds soft.
Not this stuff. Every bump felt like some mob heavy was whacking my ribcage with a thick garden hose.
After ten seconds or ten minutes, the driver made a sudden hard bank left and my grip broke, and I twisted and spun like a figure skater leaping high above the ice as my body tumbled across the hard sand, the dizzy-vertigo spell shocked to a halt by the blast of frothy, cold seawater.
In two feet of ocean, I maneuvered up to my hands and knees, spitting out snot and saltwater while fighting the rip current. Whatever it was, at that moment, I actually felt truly happy for the first time all day.
“Wow, that actually worked,” I said—realizing that one would liberally have to include ‘getting oneself run over by a small tractor’ in this new definition of ‘worked’— and crawled slowly through the darkness toward the big boat, only my head bobbing across the water. “No way that shoulda worked.”
Getting closer to the hull of my destination, I tried to pick out if there were any voices above me. But as I strained to listen, the cacophony of sound coming from the beach, along with the roar of waves around me, this turned out to be an impossible task.
Bobbing toward the tail of the boat, once my fingers got to the hull it took a little effort to fight the will of the current. There was nowhere to grab onto, the walls wet and slick, and I was worried about ending up underneath it. And, having hit my daily quota for being overrun by motorized vehicles, I focused on the alternatives.
At the stern, there was the ladder I’d hoped for. My fingers tentatively went up, grabbing the cold, metal rungs. Slowly, hand over hand I inched up onto the boat.
At the top, I peeked over and saw that my jolly driver was loading a crate onto the deck with the help of three crew members, each of them dressed in dark green overalls, no shirts (I briefly wondered if somewhere in West Africa, the opening act of some low-budget ladies cocktail night had gone missing that very evening).
The crate might be diapers or cocktail weenies, I didn’t know. What I did know was that everyone seemed focused on the crate so, taking my chance, I snuck aboard and headed for the first set of stairs downward.
The plan was, as soon as we went and picked up the passengers (if I’d worked it out correctly) and they started filing back on, I’d mingle back in and begin weaving my tale of treachery.
“Robbed?” they would say, mouths agape.
“Yes,” I’d reply, sipping a clear cocktail poured into a short plastic cup and brushing my dirty clothes for effect. “Took everything. Well, everything I had on me.”
“Dreadful,” some woman would respond.
“I’m just happy to have my life and my health, my dear friends.”
And they would all nod and we’d get crocked, mulling over this wisdom, bouncing along the whitecaps, heading back to the comforts of the ship.
But standing in the dim light dipping below deck into the lower cabin, these quarters were rather cramped. How many people could they actually get aboard this hunk of junk?
Boxes were stacked, uneven and sloppy, to the ceiling. The cheap plastic table in the center of the room, bolted to the floor, was littered with cigarette burns.
“What sort of operation is this?”
One particular breaker shuffled the boat, a “bubbly wave” someone recently had described it to me, and my hand shot out and grabbed the edge of a small cupboard to keep my balance.
That’s when I heard footsteps above me, getting louder, coming my way.
My surroundings didn’t lend themselves to creative ideas about concealment: a battered old fridge, a skinny broom closet, half-open crates, rags scattered across the floor… nowhere great to hide.
There was a small pantry next to the fridge and, voices now accompanying the footsteps above me, my stomach gave those choices two big thumbs up. Before the first foot hit the stairs above me, I was in the pantry, door closed.
A pantry!
I turned for a moment and looked at the offerings. Most of it was unrecognizable. One item in front of me was familiar and, somewhat reluctantly, I grabbed the can labeled “Spam.”
Peeling back the metal lid, my fingers cut into the fake meat, scooping bits into my mouth (I didn’t remember it ever tasting so good). I watched as two men from the deck began hauling in armfuls of supplies.
Supplies, in this case, would be a polite word for guns.
Bits of Spam were dribbling off my lip and chin, and I nabbed each salty, oozy morsel, shoveling them into my mouth.
Maybe these guys were just cautious. These were, possibly, standard security measures for little boats like this in big, scary waters. At least, if they’d been bringing food on, I would have likely been caught in the pantry and could have ended up with a fist thrown into my greasy Spam-face.
More supplies: grenades, rifles and rocket launchers.
At that point, I’d decided a punch in the face would have potentially been a more desirable alternative.
By the time I’d half-finished my tasty faux meat, all the little bits were falling into place (not just the ones on the tips of my fingers).
In fact, not too long ago, I’d seen CNN reports on this very thing at the tire store.
Sure, we were going to a cruise ship. It seemed that part I’d gotten right.
But there weren’t any passengers to shuttle from some island party. No cocktail weenies. No clear drinks in plastic cups, no comforting words.
These guys were pirates. Pirates with rocket launchers.
We were headed to a ship to either rob or ransom it. A boatful of pirates hopped up on “lemon” “horse” was preparing to rob, kidnap or rob and kill the “money” “people.” It was so obvious, now. Except the “lemon horse” bit, which I was pretty sure I’d gotten entirely wrong.
Either way, having escaped African gunmen, then pursued through a sun-scorched village, becoming a stowaway on a truck traveling high-speed down the worst road ever constructed and, essentially, being run over twice by an all-terrain fork lift, I was now going to make it close enough to actually see my salvation but never get to it.
At that point, my militant shipmates would terrorize the ship, maybe even sink it, or the cruise ship was going to whip out some hidden cannon, just under the lifeboats, and splatter our limbs across the top of the ocean.
Too exhausted to be scared anymore, I was just happy, for the moment, to have the Spam.
NAUSEA WAS BECOMING A factor even before stuffing the fourth or fifth handful of maraschino cherries into my mouth. Not exactly sure how much time had passed, I estimated it would n
ormally take a good fifteen minutes to properly eat four cans of Spam, a jar of pickled tomatoes (could be onions), three candy bars, a packet of dry gravy washed down with a pull-top can of chicken broth and now most the supply of cherries.
A twelve year-old must shop for these guys. What I wouldn’t have given for a turkey sandwich and a lettuce wedge at that very moment.
Sometimes you have to take the small victories and, as fast as the boat bounced across the sea, I’m proud to have gotten most of the food in my mouth. The rest of the meal, time permitting, I could eat off my shirt.
My first thought that didn’t involve food was that the pantry was a very bad place to be for very long. Surely one of the pirates would want to come down for a can of olives or crackers for the parrot.
Then again, as fast as we were moving, it didn’t seem these were the sort of fellows to pop down for the quick pre-rape-and-pillage finger-foods.
How was I going to get off the pirate gunboat with a breath left in my body? At least, back on land there were some very horrible options available to me. Speeding across whitecaps, there was just the one alternative. But going over the edge, even in a raft, would be suicide, so I eliminated that choice despite the small chance of satisfying my penchant for small, deserted islands and endless days chatting with best-friend volleyballs.
The ship somewhere ahead of us, it seemed, was still my best option. Only option. However, since joining the crew of Captain Blueballs, it seemed getting the cabin with the balcony and ocean view on the next ship was growing less and less likely.
A horn blast nearly stopped my heart!
Not like a Toyota or even a Trucker Abe’s Freightliner. And, again, something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It seemed those years that had gone quiet in my mind—the blind spot after the accident— were shaking off some sort of dampening material and finding their rhythm, their voice, once again. I didn’t honestly know if that was a good thing, or if I would regret remembering some of the things I’d heard but lost for the past few years.
The engine wail of our boat dropped an octave, and the craft shifted slightly to stern as it slowed. It appeared we’d come up close to the target ship, and, another horn blast, the captain or some keen-eyed crew member was sounding the alarm.
Another drop in the boat’s power and for the first time since we’d left the shore, I could hear the sounds of churning water around us. Poking the pantry door open, a little at a time, I finally stepped back into the galley area. The dim light swayed above me like a carnival hypnotist’s watch. What was the next move? There was no question that the time for taking some control over the next few minutes of my life was short.
A voice, echoing across the water, was amplified by a loudspeaker just above me. O. Captain, My Captain was barking out angry, hateful words in French. Which, sure, sounds somewhat redundant but I know a little of the language and, thus, am trained to hear the difference.
The pirates were making their threats and demands. There were no more than five or six of them aboard, so the number of passengers-cum-kidnap-victims couldn’t be more than a few times larger. Even with their weapons cache, how many people could a handful of men legitimately hold?
I sneaked up the metal stairs and peaked out. Two men stood on opposite sides of the deck, rifles across their backs and pistols in both hands. Between them, I could just see the top of another man’s head. Above and behind me, someone was popping their rifle, as the skipper manned the loudspeaker.
In an inexplicably sublime moment of calm, I looked up at the deep night sky, and my breath caught in my chest at the sight of so many stars. Just beautiful.
A few more steps up, the two gunmen in front of me laser focused forward, it looked possible to slip up and whip around to the back of the boat. I tried to remember the topside layout, but the constant chatter of threats above me made it difficult to recall anything. If I were to sneak out, would the man at the wheel see me?
Another step and the pirate just ahead of me came fully into view. He stood, bracing himself against what looked like a fifty-caliber gun that had been mounted to the bow of the ship. Even more curious, I could now see the big, gorgeous boat ahead of us.
It was white, massive, three stories and glittering like a Christmas tree. As if on cue, the ship’s horn blasted across the water, briefly drowning out the pirate captain. Finally seeing its source, the faded memory that the ship’s horn had stirred revealed itself to me, crystal clear.
Back when I’d been recovering from the accident, I spent a lot of time watching TV Land, old cheaply syndicated television. Six Million Dollar Man, Fantasy Island… and the one about the floating love-nest of the sea:
“Hello, Captain Stubbing,” I said under my breath, climbing up the remaining steps. “Have Isaac pour us up a couple stiff ones.”
Tiny, red lifeboats lined the deck of the cruise ship like droplets of blood, as if it had been abraded by an enormous garrote, and there was a large, now less festive, certainly, formal party taking place near the ship’s bow. Small clusters of elegantly dressed men and women had sought refuge on the opposite railing, while smaller groups of men dressed in either white or black looked very busy at the nearer rail.
Waiting for the right moment, I was given it when a voice came from the cruise ship this time, another loudspeaker. Must be standard issue on boats out this way. In seconds, I’d scrambled up on deck and crawled toward the rear of the trawler.
Behind me, the new voice was not French. It sounded a little Spanish or even something that resembled what Arnold Schwarzenegger might bark out after sucking down half a case of stout.
As this new player prattled back to the pirates his pleas of mercy, threats of counterattack, or details of the dessert cart menu, I crawled father along the deck, finally making it to the back of the pirate gunboat.
Up on the bridge, the captain was back on the microphone, shouting down the other man’s echoing words, trying to regain control of the conversation.
I crawled behind one of the fishing chairs I’d seen from the water and, of course, they were not chairs at all but, instead, more big, bolted down guns. One in the front, two in the back: these were the sort of guy’s used to being chased.
From his perch up on the Good Ship Lollypop, it didn’t seem likely that Capt. Stubing-on-the-Loudspeaker had any idea of the firepower that weighted down the tiny boat.
The verbal volley went back and forth for a few moments more, each man’s voice getting louder and more strident in their respective tongues.
Clomp-clomp-clomp
Someone was running my way, and I scrunched my body into the darkened corner.
Clomp-clomp-clomp
Hidden in the shadows, my heart began to thump in rhythm with the man’s footfalls.
For a moment, I tensed, thinking he was coming for me because it sounded as though he were making a beeline to my corner, but instead, the pirate crossed in front of me and, fumbling for a nearby crowbar, quickly pried open a crate and dug inside.
I was happy to not be his intended target. Not happy, though, that this man came out with two long, gray tubes. Rocket launchers.
What did they want? Money, hostages, an open bar...?
That wasn’t my problem.
My problem was that my ticket home—or at least out of this situation—was right in front of me. And there was no damn way I could get to it.
Easing out of my corner, I crouched, and peaked over the edge. Swim? No way. Ahead of me, there was a burst of French voices, and then a whoosh as a flame lit up the deck, like the tip of a huge blowtorch sparked to life and doused moments later. Standing, I watched a rocket arc toward the cruise ship, as the formal party flattened to the deck, their cries scraped across the short span of water. The missile then looked as if it would sail harmlessly, arching over the top of the boat, but instead took out a spinning microwave antenna, effectively making it mute in further calls for help.
“No, no, no!” A second voice came from
the big ship. “Você pôde matar-nos!”
The voice on the loudspeaker from my boat was now shrill and the three at the front of the ship pumped their arms, energized by his furious heightened tones. Once again, came the clomping of footsteps. This time, I moved forward into the shadows of a seating area. In the light above me, again, I saw another tube produced, and then disappear to the front of the boat.
That crate was like a Denny’s wishing well but instead of having crappy little plastic toys it had an armory tucked inside. What other treasures did it hold?
After the guy ran back to the front of the boat, to the soundtrack of another fresh verbal assault from this boat, I slinked up to the open crate, cast a glance to the front, and then looked down at the contents.
“Holy cats,” I said. Rifles, pistols, boxes full of ammunition bigger than Sharpie markers, and big ass military-issue, scary tubes of doom in various sizes. Surface-to-air missiles, maybe, grenade launchers, water balloons… I didn’t know much about stuff that went boom but these guys were ready for a fight. A short, very explosive, high-caliber fight.
One of the tapes that Pavan had pulled from the library for me dealt with naval combat in World War II. Not really nitty-gritty stuff but some basic tactical stuff, how there were two types of wars being fought. There was the ground assault, supported by aircraft. And there had been an element of air combat separate from support, sure, but really the “second” war was that on the water, and it was fought in an entirely different way.
Movements were slower but, timed correctly, often it was formation, not firepower, that marked the difference between success and annihilation. And, if a tank crawling the beach got hit, you take out a handful of men. A ship gets a direct hit, well; you could sink an entire regiment.
So those old ships were fortified with hulls made of iron, capable of taking a couple blasts before sliding downward.
