by D. F. Jones
We slithered down at the expense of a cut hand—Bill’s —and tom pants—mine—in no time at all, scrambled back to the dinghy, sculled over, picked up the line, and returned to Mayfly. With the line aboard, we spent the last few minutes of daylight adjusting the lines to Bill’s satisfaction.
Now Mayfly was secured at three points: the anchor about twenty degrees off the port bow, the line to the beach about twenty-five degrees off the starboard bow, and the line to the northshore palms going directly over the stern. The yacht’s bow was pointing to seaward, facing the southern gap.
If anyone had illusions that we would relax, Bill promptly shattered them. Karen was sent scuttling below with orders to pack two cartons with canned food and drink. Bette was tersely instructed to add a couple of flashlights, an axe, candles, matches, and to fill a two-gallon container with water. I was not left out.
“Mitch. When that lot’s ready, I want you to take it over to the beach, and stow it near the palms.”
Already it was nearly dark, but there was enough light for him to see my expression.
“You’ll find your way if you follow the rope. Coming back will be no problem. We’ll have the lamps lit.”
Of course, he was right. I unloaded and stacked the stuff beside the clump of trees, and paddled slowly back, tired and hungry. Supper was ready: soup—thinned with seawater—cheese, crackers, oranges, and beer, a water economy meal. No tea or coffee. It was no great shakes as a dinner, but with the improvement in our position, we had a little more interest, and ate with enthusiasm. Bill preserved a massive silence, and none of us felt inclined to break it. Finding the place was my big triumph, but the rest was up to Bill, and if he wanted to keep quiet and think, no one was going to get in his way.
But one thing did get in the way: the news from Sydney, and if we had begun to feel our hopes rising, that newscast flattened them.
It was confirmed that Honolulu had not been contacted since two forty-five. Nothing had been heard by radio or cable.
We sat, staring at each other, watching the fear we felt mirrored in another’s eyes. Bette opened her mouth, but Bill motioned her to be silent. The flat-voiced Australian announcer went on; now there was an edge to his voice, he was less detached, and with good reason.
The inhabitants of northeastern Australia were warned that the waves would reach them in about twenty-four hours. While it was confidently expected that the passage of the Great Barrier Reef, plus the protection of the Polynesian islands would markedly reduce the force of the impact, precautionary measures were being taken. Martial law had been proclaimed. Towns were being evacuated. There was also a general warning to the islands, but little advice could be offered, apart from the counsel of perfection, “keep away from low-lying seaboards.”
Then the announcer read a short item about the United States. It was believed that the gas cloud, of continental proportions, was moving across the land, too high to touch the devastated West Coast, but it was believed that it was descending…. There was a total failure of communications with the Mid-West.
Finally, a flash from RAAF HQ. It was estimated that the waves were nearly an hour ahead of the original estimate. News of their progress would be broadcast as soon as received, and again at the hourly bulletins.
Bill, who had been figuring on a scratch pad, looked up at that last item.
“Right, that settles it! With the northeast trades pushing, they may even accelerate. I think we will have a little time in the morning, but it would be foolish to bank on it. So you three are for the shore tonight, and I want you up on that north ridge at first light. On one of those ledges just down from the ridge you should be as safe as houses.” He grinned. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“You’re joking, of course,” I said at last.
For a moment I thought he was going to lose his temper. His jaw muscles worked, and his eyebrows came down, practically meeting in the middle. Then he drew a deep breath, and spoke with his usual mildness.
“No, I’m not. You, Mitch, have a job to do. I want you up on that ridge at first light to give me advance warning. There’ll be little enough down here.” He kept talking, drawing away from our objections. “I expect that the water level will fall sharply ahead of the waves, but that lip at the entrance will stop the lagoon being drained. All the same, the water above that level is going to race out, and, of course, with the passage of the waves, it’s going to damn well race back.”
That was the understatement of the week, and my face showed it. He gave me a slight, confidential grin, and went on. “I’m not just going to sit here like a lemon! For the first bit, I intend to be going full astern on the mighty engines, and full ahead for the second half. It’ll ease the strain on the lines, and if anything parts, well, it’ll be better to be under full power.”
And that was an even bigger understatement.
Bette spoke in a dangerously calm, even voice. “And while all this is going on, we sit up on the ridge and watch?”
Bill nodded. “Not exactly, I rely on you to signal the approach of individual waves. You must take my semaphore flags—”
Bette cut in. “Mitch is right; you must be joking! If you imagine that for one single moment—”
“Look—I’m the captain of—”
“Yeah,” replied Bette, unmoved. “And right now you have a mutiny on your hands as well.” Her tone changed; she was pleading. “Be sensible, Bill! You just can’t handle the engine, the tiller, the ropes, watch for our signals, and bail out if necessary—and you know it! You must have one more hand. Me.”
“Hell, no!” I said violently, part of my mind wondering where I got the courage from. “If anyone stays, for sure it’s me!”
We all began to talk at once.
“And leave us two girls—”
“But, Bill—”
“Quiet!” Bill barked, glowering at us. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s time you stopped acting the hero,” said Bette stubbornly. “You may be a cross between Drake and Nelson, but you know damned well you need another hand. It would be crazy any other way—and I don’t expect we would thank you, marooned on this rock.”
He held up a hand in acceptance. “All right, I agree. To be quite honest, I hoped you’d see it this way, but I had to give you the chance. It will be more dangerous here, but the chances are greatly improved with two.”
“Actually, do any of us need to be ashore?”
“Yes, Mitch. I for one will feel a lot happier with a lookout up there, and we may need help from the shore— afterward.” He did not expand on that point. “Also it cuts down on the crush on board. That’s settled, then. Mitch and Karen go ashore.”
He was right, but all the same, I started to speak, halfheartedly, “Aw, now—”
“Oh do stop, Mitch,” cried Bette in annoyance. “You know it’s the only decision!”
I shrugged. “Okay, okay—how about you, Karen?”
She was looking at Bill. “Is this what you want, Bill?” Her voice was calm, yet it seemed to me that there was more in what she said than was evident to me.
He smiled very faintly, perhaps acknowledging this secret message. “Can you think of a better arrangement?”
She looked away, admitting defeat.
Bill pressed quickly on. “Well, now! Let’s have a drink, we’ve all earned it. Then you two had better head for the shore with a couple of sleeping bags—and another two gallons of water….”
He was determinedly bright, but got little support from the girls. He fixed the drinks, talking conversationally about the morrow, playing it down. This could be our last time together. It could be our last time anywhere, but he had in full measure the British horror of What he would call a “scene,” and he pushed us gently but firmly onward, allowing no lingering over the drinks.
“ ’Way you go!” He shoved us off, and watched, Bette silent beside him.
I rowed the well-laden dinghy, looking past Karen’s drooping shoulders at the ye
llow light streaming from the yacht’s cabin, wondering if I would ever go aboard again, wondering….
Karen sat very still and quiet. She had hardly spoken since Bill had answered her question. She had had two large gins, both taken very quickly, and had not replied to Bill’s cheery goodnight as we left. Hunched forward, her knees gripping the precious water container, I guessed the night air was fighting the gin. In the blunt bow were the two sleeping bags and some more canned food. With the stuff already landed, we had enough for five or six days and enough water for the same period. Bill had explained that he wanted to reduce the weight in Mayfly, but he didn’t kid me any. If Mayfly was lost, we might survive.
… My mind shied away from that. The yacht had to come through.
Following the mooring line, ghostly white in the bright starlight, I had no difficulty in hitting the beach in the right spot. The rubber boat rasped noisily on the coarse volcanic sand; I shipped the oars and got out, the water cool around my ankles.
In silence we unloaded the stores and got them dumped with the rest, and the dinghy hauled up and secured to a tree. With a flashlight, I surveyed the area, found a reasonably flat stretch clear of the palms, and got the sleeping bags laid out.
“This be all right, Karen?”
She did not answer at once; she was staring across the water at the yacht. She sighed, and spoke without turning. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Aw, come on honey! It’s not that bad! This time tomorrow you’ll be safely tucked up in Mayfly once more!”
I got a disbelieving half-laugh. She turned, a small black figure against the stars. “Ugh!”
“Now what’s the matter?”
Again the half-laugh. “What isn’t! I don’t like this place. Why couldn’t we stay on board until the morning?” The gin lent an aggression to her voice.
“Because we’ll need all the time we can get, humping these stores up to a safe level, and that,” I said thoughtfully, “is going to be my job. While I’m doing that, you’ll have to keep watch on the ridge. C’mon, let’s get sacked up.”
She remained still and clearly unconvinced. She thought of something else. “Anyway, I’ll bet this place is infested with six-inch bugs and snakes and things.”
“Be your age, Karen! This is the genuine authentic tropical isle—whoever heard of snakes on a tropical isle?” All the same, I suddenly thought about land crabs.
She sighed again, but the effect was spoiled by a sudden uncontrolled burp. “Okay, Mitch. Anything you say. We’re stuck with it…. Which is my sack?”
“Take your pick.”
“This’ll do.” Without further argument she began to peel off her jeans. Hastily I turned away. For my sake, not hers. I got my pants off and slid into my bag, not looking at her. We lay silent, four feet apart, looking up at the brilliant tropical stars. Although tired and nearly spent with the long day of tension and fear, I found sleep did not come easily, and Karen was obviously much the same, shifting around in her bag, seeking the least uncomfortable position.
Looking at those stars, thinking of the morning, I tried to be practical. Carting the dinghy clear would be a problem. Karen would have to give a hand, that would be the first chore. We would do it on the way to getting her settled on the ridge, as lookout for the waves. The waves…. I stopped being practical and a large variety of thoughts churned messily around in my head, dominated by the vision of those appalling walls of water, rushing on—
Karen gave a muffled yelp of alarm and sat up, shaking her head, beating frantically at her hair with one hand.
“Hey—what’s going on?”
Her voice was squeaky with fright. “Something touched my head!”
I grabbed my flashlight, switched it on, panned it around, and saw nothing.
“It’s nothing, honey. Maybe you dreamed—”
“Who are you kidding!” By this time she had her own flashlight working. She too failed to locate any cause for alarm, and calmed down slightly. “There was something!”
“Sure, Karen, but whatever it was must be all to hell and gone now, with all this light around.”
“Maybe, but I’d like it a whole lot more if you moved closer.” She had a final hunt around, then switched off the flashlight and retired once more into her bag.
“Okay, I’ll shift my sack.” I rolled over once. Now we were practically touching. She reached out, felt my arm, and appeared satisfied. We settled down again. Silence. “Mitch.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you thinking?”
Right then I was thinking of land crabs,’ recalling horrifying yams about them attacking en masse in the dark, but I could hardly mention this to her. “Oh, nothing in particular, I guess.” I had an idea. “We’ll have to move a little before first light. Seen from Mayfly we might not look so good, this close.”
I wished I’d told her about the land crabs.
“Ha! That’s a helluva good one! It really is!” She sat up, leaning on one elbow. “And what d’you suppose they’re doing back there, right now?” She was real angry, bitter, the gin still boosting her. “Okay—so you don’t want to know! Don’t tell me you really imagine Bill’s in the saloon and Bette’s in the bunk! Don’t give me that!”
“You’ve no right, no reason—”
“Oh no? You know, Mitch, I can’t make up my mind about you: either you’re as blind as a bat, or just a natural-born ostrich! You listen to me; I’ll tell you something. Remember that time when I hurt my ankle? Remember how, after the storm, you had the watch, Bill and Bette were in the saloon. Guess they thought I was asleep—”
“Aw, can it!”
“Sure, you don’t want to know! Like I say, you don’t want to know?” She emphasized each word with a thump of her fist on the sand. “I didn’t hear it all, but what I did get was enough…. Bill said something about how he could sail around the world with a girl like her—”
“So what? She’d just done a fine job, sailing—and patching your ankle!”
“Don’t kid yourself, Mitch! Maybe the words were okay, but I got the general idea from the tone of his voice.”
“How come you heard all this in the bunk?”
“Well, right then I was in the head—”
“And you stayed there, listening!”
“After what I’d heard, I had to!”
“What else, then?”
“Like I say, it was his tone—gee, give me credit, I know Bill!”
Several minor questions were answered for me. “So that’s why you were so goddam starchy!” I was angry. “I thought you had more sense! You hear a few words and turn them into a full-length novel!”
“Aw, what’s the use? I knew you’d never believe me! Well, let’s hope she holds out tonight!”
“You’ve got no goddam right to talk that way!”
“Yeah? I know Bill—and men. Weak as water, and tension sharpens him up quite a bit! I saw the look he gave her when she said she’d stay—and if she as much as uncrosses her legs, he’ll have her for late supper!”
“Cut it out, Karen!” I shook her shoulder. “Bill’s not that sort of guy!”
“You’re all that sort of guy! And why not? I know as well as anybody that this could be our last night on earth! If he can lay her, I’m not blaming him, I just don’t go overboard for the idea! You think, Mitch. Right now, this very minute, he could be—”
Anger, pushed by my doubts, welled up. This I had to stop. I reached over, found the zipper, and opened her bag. Mine was already open.
“Hey, Mitch—what—”
“Okay, honey, if they’re playing, why not us?” I had an arm around her buttocks and hauled her out.
“No, Mitch!” Her temper had gone, she was pleading, but I felt that she was tempted. Up to that moment I had meant no more than to throw a scare into her, but now, one hand grasping a cheek of that shapely butt…. She struggled, but had no chance. Tomorrow we might die, but right now…. I wrenched her shirt open; I was on top, arched over her, h
er cool legs outside mine…. And then her tension went; she no longer resisted. Her head turned to one side. I could have her, do as I wished, but I would do it alone. She was crying.
That finished me, and I went limp. Slowly I raised myself from her, panting. I got up, pushed her legs back in the sack, and walked down to the water’s edge.
For a long time I stood staring at the light on Mayfly, thinking of Bette and Bill, and me. It flashed across my mind that I was not much better than that medical student. It was as big a shock to me as Bette’s realization that she had meant to kill her attacker in Denver. Few of us can afford to feel superior to others; it is a question of circumstances….
Shivering slightly, and feeling a little sick, I bedded down again beside Karen. We were close, but for all she had to fear from me, we might have been a thousand miles apart.
“I’m sorry, Mitch—I just couldn’t—”
“You’re sorry! Guess how I feel!”
“No. You don’t understand. You’re a swell guy—I don’t forget the way you helped me. It’s hard to explain: it’s not that I didn’t want you—you know that, but—”
“Yeah—but! I know—Bill!” Yet if she really thought Bill was giving Bette a tumble, what stopped her? Could be she didn’t really believe it, that she was just jealous.
“Yes, Bill. Another time it might be different, but tonight, well, I can’t forget that tomorrow he has got to fight for his life, and ours. Do you see?”
I saw all right.
“Anyway,” she said with a remarkable lack of conviction, “I could be wrong—”
“Okay, Karen. Let’s forget it.” I did my best to sound unconcerned. “But if they should drift out to sea with the waves, we’ll have a swell time while the food lasts.”
