by Chris Thrall
Penny unbuckled Jessica’s buoyancy vest and cylinder and laid them on the seabed, then inflated the bright-orange marker with a blast of air from her mouthpiece. It shot to the surface, pulling line from the hand reel. Hans would spot the sausage-shaped buoy and close in to pick them up, and by clipping the reel to Jessica’s equipment Penny could retrieve it later.
The bull shark became increasingly agitated, bashing its ugly snout into the cave entrance and smashing off chunks of coral. Rotting fish flesh streamed from rows of savage teeth like morbid souvenirs. Penny eyed the gruesome pennants and shuddered.
For the briefest of moments Penny’s mind fixated on the enormous danger they were in. Her adrenaline waned, weakening her resolve. People don’t survive shark attacks – not without serious injury!
Her breathing was out of control, wasting precious air, and she suddenly felt nauseous.
Remember Jessica! What would Hans do in this situation?
As if Neptune had prodded her with his trident, Penny snapped back into action, closing the valve on Jessica’s cylinder and purging the system of air so she could unscrew the hoses. Then balancing the tank on her knee, she waited for the shark to return.
Seconds ticked by . . .
With a rapid tail-finning motion, the shark attacked, its mouth opened wide, exposing soft pink throat tissue. Penny cranked the valve and sent a jet of high-pressure air shooting into the beast’s cold black eyes. The shark jolted and peeled away.
It was now or never . . .
Hearing Future’s motor overhead, Penny placed the equipment on the sand with the cylinder’s valve fully open. She grabbed Jessica around the waist and pushed off with her feet, using the frenetic screen of bubbles as both cover and deterrent. She held a finger down on her buoyancy vest’s air-inlet button until the overfill valves vibrated.
They rocketed upwards.
Catching sight of the marker and the constant stream of bubbles, Hans knew something was wrong. He positioned Future a few feet away, donned a mask and fins and was about to dive overboard when the girls burst to the surface. He wrenched his daughter from the sea with one hand, dragging Penny unceremoniously up the ladder with the other. They collapsed in a heap in the cockpit.
“No safety stop then?” Hans raised an eyebrow.
“Thought we’d give it a miss, honey. We had company,” Penny panted.
“A big shark, Papa! He tried to eat Penny!”
“Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t. She’s cooking supper.”
- 38 -
Following their close encounter with the barrel of Naseem’s shotgun, the boys hadn’t ventured out of the hut at night except to visit the latrine. Ahmed figured they had loosened the outhouse’s boards enough, that a sharp tug would see them swiftly inside and securing at least thirty kilos of hashish between them. They spent the dark hours improving their English and poring over the diagrams in the Swedish sailing guide.
The next trip to Tangier began as usual, Al Mohzerer ordering Ahmed and Mohamed to load the pickup with blocks of Golden Monkey, ready for delivery to his customers in the city. The boys stacked the regular amount in a neat pile in the corner of the flatbed and were in the process of pulling over the tarpaulin when the Grower interrupted them. “No. More!
“How much more, sayyid?” Ahmed asked.
“All of it.”
The boys’ spirits sunk.
There must have been a thousand half-kilo blocks in the outbuilding – four months’ worth of production – delaying the boys’ escape indefinitely. Hiding their shock, they continued the task in silence, but at the first opportunity Ahmed hissed, “We’re ruined!”
“No, we still have our savings.”
Stashed under the floorboards in the hut was over a thousand dollars in euros, converted from dirhams in preparation for the trip.
“It’s not enough!” Hard as he was, Ahmed looked on the verge of tears.
“Hey!” Mohamed took Ahmed’s hand and squeezed it. “What would the wolf do?”
“He would improvise,” Ahmed replied reluctantly.
“And?”
“He would adapt . . . and overcome.”
“See? I have taught you well, friend!” Mohamed grinned.
Ahmed couldn’t help but smile.
Footsteps approached, catching them off guard. Their hands dropped.
“What do you talk about?” Al Mohzerer demanded, his scar turning the question into a sneer.
“We say we must work extra hard to replace the product, sayyid.”
He grunted and nodded to the door of the truck.
- 39 -
On the fifth day in port, Hans was lounging in the cockpit inventing pictures for Jessica to draw with her Etch a Sketch when Penny returned from the marina’s clubhouse visibly shaken, tears pouring down her face.
“Jessie, could you take Bear inside and play awhile?”
“Okay, Papa.”
Hans stepped ashore and ran toward their companion. Penny stumbled along the pontoon as if drunk, until her legs gave way. Hans crouched beside her as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“Baby, what’s up?”
“It’s all over the Internet, Hans.”
“What is, honey? Come on, you can tell me.”
“Sietske. The crew of the Jenny H found her drifting ten miles off Las Palmas and pulled alongside to see if Marcel needed help.”
“Did he?”
“He wasn’t there, Hans. Just some rough-looking locals crashed out drunk. And they had guns . . . uh-huht-huh.”
Over the next few days, Hans and Penny attempted to make sense of what happened, the yachting community alive with gossip and all-round disbelief. Hans learned from the harbormaster, whose thirty years on the job saw him a man in the know, that the Canadian couple found Sietske with her sails flapping and dark-red blood splattering the cockpit. He believed pirates had murdered Marcel and thrown his body overboard.
Piracy was a constant topic in the media due to a spate of container ship hijackings off the coast of Somalia. Prior to the trip, while researching on the web, Hans learned these attacks had been going on for years and yachts were easy targets. The harbormaster’s grave nod confirmed this.
Penny recovered from her initial shock but remained noticeably nervous – obviously worried they might experience a similar fate. Hans did his best to assure her he would not let that happen. While in the UK he’d considered buying a firearm on the secondhand market to stow aboard Future for such an occurrence. But knowing the trouble it would create if a customs search uncovered the weapon upon their arrival in a foreign port – namely, him being arrested and Jessica placed in the care of social services – he’d decided on a less overt arrangement.
That evening, as Jessica slept in her bunk, Hans and Penny mixed up mojitos and lit candles next to a postcard-sized picture drawn in pastel chalks. It was of the three of them together with Marcel, sitting in Sietske’s cockpit in Brest, arms around each other, all smiling and raising cocktails and set against a beautiful sunset. Hans had found it taped to the helm when they departed Spain. In the corner of the drawing, high in the sky, was a little stick man with what looked to be a spliff stuck between his lips and a speech bubble that read, “Ahhhhhhhh!” On the back of the card, scrawled in spidery handwriting, were the words “Don’t forget to pull your reserve! Big love, Marcel. X.”
Downloaded to Hans’ laptop, “How Fast Can You Live?” by the Stoner Brothers played quietly the background.
. . . around the edge
A long way to get here
You won’t see me cryin’
Just see me disappear
Without you
There is no way ahead
Without you-ooh-ooh-ooh . . .
Setting a solitary flower adrift on the water, they cried some more.
- 40 -
The Grower looked on edge as he navigated the perilous bends carving down the mountain. The boys knew better than to say anything, both staring ahead as
a million questions buzzed in their minds.
Once in town Al Mohzerer dropped them off outside the cinema with strict instructions to meet him at Old Man Ali’s carpet shop in the medina at three o’clock.
“What shall we do?” Mohamed looked to his friend for guidance.
Ahmed stared upwards for a second. “We continue as normal until we can work out what’s going on. Besides, I need time to think.”
Ahmed went up to the ticket booth and asked the attendant for directions to a nearby restaurant. When the man walked outside with him and began pointing up the street, Mohamed slipped into the cinema. Ahmed thanked the attendant and bolted off to peddle more squidgy black hashish.
The boys reunited at the harbor in the afternoon and began chatting with a crew of young English guys, who were more intent on discussing soccer than the art of seamanship. With their endeavor now thrown into jeopardy, the boys were happy to talk about something other than sailing.
Walking toward their rendezvous with Naseem, Mohamed stopped in his tracks, looking outraged.
“Beckham! Why he don’t play for an English club?”
“He’s gone overseas, where the money is, fool!” Ahmed grabbed his friend’s ears. “Like we must do!”
- 41 -
As far as sailing was concerned, the hop from the Canary Islands to Cape Verde proved to be the most enjoyable part of the trip, though thrust to the back of Hans and Penny’s minds was the loss of a friend and parting company on arrival.
Not since meeting Jessica’s mother had Hans experienced such a strong connection with a member of the opposite sex, not to mention the base desire whipped up by their union. He could tell Penny had feelings for him too, figuring they were both hesitant to act on them for fear of creating additional confusion for Jessica.
Awaking at dawn to take over on watch, Hans emerged from the cabin to find the cockpit deserted. A bikini top and denim shorts lay on the cushions.
No!
Hans’ mind attempted to make sense of the situation. A chill crept through him. Had she taken advantage of a lull in the wind to go for a dip, only to see Future sail on without her? Or perhaps suffered some kind of breakdown? Either way he felt sick as he pictured explaining this to Jessica.
“Penny!”
The sound of water sloshing on deck stopped his panic in its tracks.
“I’m right here!”
Hans turned to see a naked Penny grinning as she took a bucket shower. “Oh! I was worried you’d fallen overboard. Er, I’ll give you a minute.”
“Don’t be so silly! I was hoping someone would soap my back!”
Hans let out a nervous chuckle. Every so often on the trip, glimpses of unadulterated femininity escaped Penny’s tomboyish exterior, drawing him in with an allure he neither could nor wanted to resist. He was deeply in love, and every cell in his body knew it.
Hopping onto the cabin roof, he felt a range of emotions and adrenaline pulsing through him, resulting in a pleasant state of anxiety. Streaked blond by the sun, Penny’s damp tresses cascaded down her back, white bikini lines interrupting her deep tan to add further lasciviousness to her natural beauty. Hans trembled like a teenager on a first date.
Penny passed the bar of soap over her shoulder in a fake attempt at modesty. Hans took it in one hand, slipping the other under her breasts to pull her close.
She turned her head . . .
The soap fell . . .
Their lips met—
“Fishing time!”
A fiberglass pole emerged from the cabin, flopping around as the seven-year-old on the other end attempted to control it.
“Well, well, well!” Hans winked at Penny. “We could just do with some fish for breakfast. In fact, seeing as though the wind doesn’t want to play, I think today should be a fun day.”
“Yay!”
Making good progress in these warmer climes, they were able to take plenty of time out, furling in the mainsail to fire up the barbeque, grab the fishing and snorkeling gear and make the most of their ocean playground.
“Birds in the water!” Hans echoed a line from The Perfect Storm as Jessica lowered a set of spangled lures over the side, controlling the spool with her thumb to prevent it paying out too fast and tangling. “So what are we going for, First Mate?”
“Fish, Papa!”
“And what kinda fi—?”
Jessica’s pole slammed against the guardrail. “Penny!” she screamed as line ripped from the spool.
“Let it run, sweetie.” Penny leant over and loosened the clutch on the reel. “You’ve hooked a beauty!”
Up until now the only thing they had caught were horse mackerel and baitfish, but this time pulses raced all round. After a minute or so the fish ended its run, and Penny urged Jessica to reel in, but the animal shot into the depths and tore off more line. The pattern continued for a good twenty minutes, until Hans, even with his hands-on approach to parenting, felt obliged to assist.
“Nah!” She gave a firm shake of the head, focus unwavering as her exhausted arms trembled.
Eventually, the catch weakened, flashing silver as Jessica brought it to the surface, yet a final bid for freedom saw the line tighten and stay that way.
“Agh! It’s hooked around the propeller,” said Penny, craning over the side shaking her head.
“You swine!” Jessica shook hers.
“Come on, sweet pea, time to go swimming.” Hans vaulted into the cockpit, dashing through the companionway to grab snorkeling gear and a knife. “Are you ready?” he asked as they stood on deck kitted up.
Jessica nodded – the same nod she would give if her papa announced they were going to fight bears.
“Right, let’s go fishing.”
With a big grin, he picked her up and flopped over the side.
Breaking the surface, Jessica blew seawater from her snorkel and scanned below. Indeed, the line had snagged around the propeller, the exhausted tuna giving the odd flick of its tail in a vain effort to escape.
Hans duck-dove and swam down through the warm blue water. He cut the nylon free and drew the fish toward him. As he was about to kick upwards, Jessica appeared, finning like crazy, by his side, reminding him of the wind-up scuba toy she and JJ used to play with in the tub. He wrapped the line around her hand and gave the thumb sign for Let’s surface. She returned it, and they floated upwards.
“Well done, honey. You got us a yellowfin! Don’t let go now.”
“Onk-onk!” Through her snorkel, Jessica sounded like a goose.
“You clever girl!”
Penny helped her up the steps and then gaffed the tuna through its gill – for, weighing a good ten pounds, it could easily rip itself off the hook if hauled by the line.
Using the gaff’s hefty handle, Penny dispatched the fish, and Hans showed Jessica how to prepare it. Soon there were ten ruby-red steaks sizzling on the barbeque, all splashed with Worcestershire sauce, a tangy British condiment chosen by Penny. Hans threw the fish’s head onto the coals, ready for a dare with Jessica.
One time while serving in the SEALs, Hans had been sitting outside a restaurant in West Africa finishing off a fried snapper. A group of ragamuffins assembled and began ogling what to him was an empty plate. Hans gestured there was nothing left except bones, but a couple of kids rushed over and plucked out the fish’s eyeballs, wolfing them down and indicating with belly rubs they were an important part of the dish. It was a memorable moment, bringing home to Hans how privileged he was to be born into a culture that could afford to throw perfectly good food away. Ever since, he had customarily followed their example while reveling in nostalgia.
Jessica eyed the translucent globule with suspicion, the staring black pupil adding creepiness to the off-putting “delicacy.”
“Yuck!” Her face screwed up.
“I will if you will.” Penny snatched the other eye and popped it in her mouth. “Hmm . . . not bad.” she fibbed as blood and goo ran down her chin.
“Hmm . . . not b
ad.” Jessica was never one to be left out.
- 42 -
Mitch didn’t know anything about sailing. There was not much call for it in Fort Worth, Dallas. He spent his time watching DVDs, Discovery and playing Gulf War II on his Xbox when not working a twelve-hour shift in the call center – or the Shed of Broken Dreams as he thought of it.
A girlfriend seemed a long way off. He had not been in a relationship since splitting with Darlene, and that was seven years ago and counting. And he certainly wasn’t the sporty type, despite running a half marathon a couple of years back following a drunken wager with a colleague – near killed him, and two hours forty wasn’t exactly something to be proud of.
Now, browsing shopping sites on the Internet, Mitch considered splashing the $1,400 in his savings account on one of these widescreen televisions that had suddenly become so popular. Watching a recent documentary, he learned that the factories in Japan could not churn out the sets fast enough. Packed into huge containers, they would then be loaded onto cargo ships for delivery worldwide. Apparently, thousands of these containers fell over the side in rough seas every year, floating around for months and creating a significant hazard for yachts.
The money was supposed to be for Vegas. He and the Budmeister planned to hire Harleys and ride there next summer. Only Bud had gotten all sensible, tied the knot with Jeanie and moved to the East Coast, so that trip was doomed.
Come on, Mitchell, think! He rubbed his eyes. You work your ass off all week. You don’t exactly socialize much, and you ain’t got any hobbies other than spending time in front of the TV. And that little set you’ve had since college is on its last legs.
Yes, he reasoned, he would treat himself. After all, the Hitachi 42-ES-1080 came with HD, surround sound and VGA connector – a gamer’s paradise!
With a feeling bordering on surreal, he clicked the “Buy” button on Digital Direct’s website and then typed in his address and credit card details.
