by Chris Thrall
Jessica gave him a toothy grin and shoved her arms in the air, her tiny biceps smothering her ears.
“Yaay!”
It took the best part of two hours to fill the beaker. Hans stuck to his resolve not to drink for two days. Instead he topped up the gas can to replace their first night’s consumption. The beaker half filled a third time as the rain petered off.
Jessica eyed the all-important resource.
“Okay, just a little.” Hans held up the cup and let her take a couple of sips, then as an afterthought took one himself to check its saltiness.
“Tphuh!” He spat it out.
It tasted vile, like bitter almonds. The chemical impregnation in the canopy’s fabric must have contaminated the collection, and not just the water in the Disney mug but now the gas can too.
It was yet another crushing blow.
However, Hans was no stranger to disillusionment, developing immunity from a young age. No one ever said life was fair. That had been his experience, his creed, and now was no different. Rather than indulge in regret, he assessed the situation with a clinical detachment – a requisite quality in his former profession. He once watched an army ranger use a comrade’s dead body as a windbreaker for his field stove. “You gotta roll with reality, brother,” the soldier had said, casually stirring his chow. That same ranger made a satphone call to his wife a month later when insurgents surrounded his recon patrol in Afghanistan. “You better cancel Christmas dinner, honey” he told her.
As far as Hans was concerned, death was not something to fear, just something to delay if possible. He had to keep his head for the girl. The dilemma facing him was whether the water in the gas can was drinkable, despite its awful taste. Jessica looked okay, but she’d only had a sip or two. He doubted it was poisonous but worried it might make them vomit, leading to further dehydration.
A second rain shower compelled him to act. He emptied the gas can overboard and, using the filleting knife, sliced the bottoms off three ziplock plastic bags. With one of them turned inside out, Hans was able to connect it to another by pressing their nylon zippers together, thus forming a protective chute. After lengthening it using duct tape to stick on the third bag, he wrapped one end of the makeshift liner around the radar fins and draped the other down through the neck of the portal. The plastic now formed a barrier between the canopy’s foul chemical treatment and the incoming flow. With the drops growing heavier, it looked as if their worries were over, but as the Disney mug slowly filled . . . the rain ceased.
- 64 -
According to the instruction booklet, the US military had used this type of solar-power still since the Second World War, and it could yield up to three pints of water a day. Two feet in diameter, the device consisted of an inflatable see-through plastic dome with a black cloth wick covering its base to create a distillation chamber. Floating on the sea like an enormous jellyfish, the unlikely contraption utilized the sun’s rays to vaporize salt water into fresh, which then condensed and trickled down the sides of the dome to collect in a bag dangling in the ocean on a length of tube. Hans blew the still up and filled it with the recommended amount of brine, streaming it alongside the raft on its fifteen-foot tether.
Despite his reservations, their survival might soon depend on it. The area they drifted in, the Sahelian Belt, received minimal rainfall, as the dry wind blowing off the North African desert didn’t have sufficient time over the sea for precipitation to occur. The rogue weather battering the raft previously was likely a Cape Verde hurricane, a twice-yearly phenomenon in which humid air sweeping upwards across the Central African savannah meets warm offshore water to create a tropical storm. It was unlikely they would experience such ferocious conditions again, nor the lifesaving commodity accompanying it.
Hans took up the pump and began replacing lost air from the tubes. They leaked more and more as the days passed, leaving the raft flaccid and slow in the water. The pump itself was inappropriately suited to the task, the type of foot-operated device you might inflate a rubber dingy with on solid ground – the terra firma desperately lacking in this scenario. In the end Hans resorted to squeezing it like an accordion, its tedious wheeze not a composition any self-respecting musician would play.
The gash in Hans’ head showed signs of infection, with swollen red lips surrounding the scab as it attempted to heal. His right eyelid was permanently half-closed. Every time he tried to open it, yellow fluid trickled down his cheek and pain shot the length of his arm. Sores had broken out all over his body – but not on Jessica, who appeared to weather the conditions better. Particularly bad were his knees, hips, and ankles, the joints in regular contact with the raft’s wet floor. He put some serious thought into how to repair the punctures in the rubberized groundsheet, the ones made by the filleting knife when abandoning ship.
Again he rejected the repair kit’s aluminum plugs, knowing he would have to widen the slits to accommodate them. The risk being if anything caught on the fatheaded screws, they might rip out and create an even bigger leak. Instead he rummaged through the rest of the equipment.
Pulling eight Bic ballpoints wrapped in an elastic band from the ditch kit gave Hans an idea. He removed a lid from one of the pens and, using the chopping board and filleting knife, cut notches in the shirt pocket clip to form an arrowhead. Having snipped the clip from the lid, he used the cigarette lighter to melt and flatten its end, the result a black plastic tack with a self-anchoring shank. He eased the improvised plug into one of the slits.
Damn!
It was a fraction too long, which meant it would ride up and create a snag. Hans repeated the process using another pen lid, this time paying attention to the finer detail. Squeezing it into place, he felt the little jaws grip the underside of the raft as the head of the tack came flush with the rubber deck.
Perfect!
He did the same for the other leaks, the gratification of something going favorably for once seeing him take a celebratory swig from their limited water reserve.
“Oh . . . ooh-be-doo . . . I wanna be like you-ooh-ooh!”
“I wanna walk like you!”
“Talk like you toooo!”
Singing aloud, Hans hugged his baby girl with all the strength he could muster.
The ballpoints reminded Hans of something he had read in Steven Callahan’s account of his seventy-six days in a life raft. Using elastic bands, Hans lashed three of the pens together to form a right-angled triangle. He now had a crude sextant. When pointing one pen at the horizon and another at Polaris, the North Star, the V-shaped angle it created equaled their latitude. He could measure the angle using the degrees printed on the Silva compass. What with paying out the horseshoe float to give an idea of speed, Hans was able to estimate and chart their progress.
Kneeling in the doorway, he stared out across the endless undulating mass. By now the ocean’s rise and fall had become a part of him, like a second pulse. He wondered if the sensation would continue after rescue – if rescue ever came. If not, Neptune’s mocking embrace would be with them to the grave, continuing well into the afterlife until the raft succumbed to the waves, sinking to the seabed and taking their bleached bones with it.
At their current rate of drift, it would take almost a month to reach the shipping lanes, six hundred miles away across the desperate watery flat. With supplies running low, it was imperative to source food and water soon.
Despite them being in the tropics, as night fell there was a distinct drop in temperature. Hans shivered, stroking his daughter’s cheek as she lay on her sleeping bag staring into space. Not once had the little girl complained. He felt as proud as ever to be her father. He pulled in the leash to retrieve the solar still, delighted to find a good half pint in the collection bag hanging down in the sea. Raising it to his cracked lips, he took a sip . . . and promptly spat it out. Somehow salt water had contaminated the distillation process. It was another blow to morale.
His little companion girl gave him a look. It said everythin
g but nothing.
- 65 -
“There’s one, Papa!”
The small fish darted for the foil attractor but veered off at the last moment. Jessica watched, excited.
Beneath the raft, barnacles, algae and seaweed had begun to form, initiating a traveling ecosystem in which these innocent minnows seemingly spawned from nowhere. Having no bait at hand, Hans had wrapped silver wrapper from an energy bar around a hook to form a lure, the sets in the fishing kit far too big for the mouths of these tiny creatures.
“I see it. Damn!”
Even with the smallest hook tied to the handline, it proved impossible to impale one of the tiddlers. To add to the frustration, every so often a shoal of flying fish burst through the surface, their tail fins powering from side to side to get them airborne, followed by a graceful hundred-yard glide to evade the ocean’s predators. During the night a rogue fish had slammed into the canopy, shaking Hans from slumber but rolling off again to deprive them of a meal. Now desperately low on food, they needed to catch something soon.
That night searing pain kept Hans awake, denying him respite from the constant fear and doubt. Never in his life had he felt so desperate, so powerless and vulnerable. He pictured their home life in Portland, images so vivid he could almost reach out and touch them . . .
“Good efening, sir, madam. Nice to see you again,” announced Aldo in his Latino tones, leading Hans and his wife to a table overlooking the harbor, the navigation lights on passing craft rebounding off the jet-black water to add a jazzy aura to this treasured seafood hideaway, Aldo’s pristine white shirt open to the navel to expose a hefty gold medallion bouncing against the thick mat of hair sprouting from his olive-skinned chest . . . Hans ordering a bourbon and a beer, his partner – as always – a dry white wine and a starter of house chowder . . . Cracking open fiddly lobster shells before going on to the opera. Ahhh, the opera! Arriving at the Merrill Auditorium’s nondescript building, its retro-style marquee more fitting of a movie theater than the world-renowned acoustical experience lying behind its blocky gray façade. Passing through the foyer to enter a sea of red velvet and sit beneath an impressive art deco ceiling with similarly exquisite cream-and-gold flair surrounding them, his wife as ever stunning in lilac silk and the beads he bought her for their anniversary. Then a libretto to savor as Bizet’s Carmen unfolded. Carmen’s mezzo soprano trill fluttering around the hall, holding the audience in awe and complemented by José’s robust tenor pleading for her to return to him from the arms of Escamillo the Toreador. The knife plunging into her breast as Escamillo receives applause from the bull pit’s bloodthirsty crowd . . .
Simple daily events, such as making coffee, watching a ball game on TV or chatting to a neighbor, now seemed such unbelievable luxuries, so taken for granted at the time. How he yearned to be there now. He would appreciate every moment. Forget faxes, emails and telephone calls. Forget healthy living, adventurous vacations and improving his marathon time. Forget bills, mortgages and saving for the future. None of it was remotely relevant – pointless distractions to keep you from appreciating and enjoying the essence of life and the wonderful gift of just being, which cost nothing. He would willingly relinquish it all in exchange for rescue, for the chance to sit in the sand with Jessica on East End Beach tossing pebbles into the sea, content to never venture further than knee-deep in the waves lapping against the shore.
Upon their return to Maine, he would sell up and buy an RV so they could travel the United States and experience some of the unparalleled beauty the country had to offer, meeting interesting individuals along the way, all with their own stories to tell. Black, white, Hispanic, Jew, Muslim, Asian, Native American, young, old, rich, poor . . .
They would visit sites of historical importance – Little Bighorn in Montana, where Custer’s cavalry bit off more than they could chew by taking on Sitting Bull and his nation of braves . . .
Man, I’ve never been there!
The Great Lakes, the Hoover Dam . . .
Ah!
The list would be endless.
Of course, Jessica would be in charge of the itinerary. He would even let her drive, sitting on his lap along the dirt tracks in the desert. They would make campfires, grill the fish they caught and gaze at the stars. It would be her trip, her future, her fulfillment. Content with having his feet on dry land, safe and secure with the sun on his face and fresh air in his lungs, Hans would want for nothing, his needs met, the trauma of being held hostage by a merciless ocean a far-distant memory.
The sense of not being alone interrupted Hans’ muse, and, although irrational, he got up off his sleeping bag to check it out. When he crawled into the doorway to scan the horizon for the umpteenth time that evening, the scabs on his knees ripped off, seeing him wince in further agony. In this damp environment the sores never got a chance to heal and the red raw patches had turned into ulcers that oozed pus and grew larger by the day.
In the blackness he could just make out the contrast between sea and sky. No ships lay ahead or to the right of the opening. He kicked himself for his pathetic false hope, for acting like a child who keeps sneaking out of bed on Christmas Eve in the hope it will make the big day arrive sooner.
Out of bitterness and frustration he considered ignoring the left-hand side of the vista, but the obsessive-compulsive regime of raft life saw him unable to resist. He leant out around the canopy and, after a cursory glance, was about to retreat inside when a red dot caught his eye.
A ship! Definitely a ship!
It was heading straight for them.
Flustered, heart pounding, Hans fought to compose himself, the pain racking his body for days miraculously disappearing. He paddled the raft around so the doorway faced their rescuers and then retrieved the strobe light from its mesh holder. Fingers trembling, he switched it on and, after clipping it to the outside of the canopy, fumbled with the lid of the Poly Bottle containing the flares.
“Rescue, Jessie! We’re being rescued!”
“Can we play Bop Rabbit again with Penny, Papa?” She looked at him in earnest.
“We can play Bop Rabbit, sweet pea, and . . .”
Hans grabbed a pint can of water and peeled off its plastic lid. He reached into his pocket, pulled out Jessica’s clasp knife and spiked it through the top of the can twice. After placing it in her lap, he grabbed a parachute flare.
Whoomph!
The fiery red ball soared skyward and turned in a graceful arc before beginning its illuminating descent back to earth.
The vessel drew nearer.
Hans judged it was not approaching them directly but would pass at an angle some distance away. He reconciled himself with the notion the skipper had obviously spotted their plight but decided to intercept the raft’s drift from downwind to avoid any last-minute complications. To acknowledge the unspoken yet understood arrangement, he fired off another flare.
By now the deep rumbling of the ship’s engines eclipsed all other sounds, engulfing the tiny raft in an atmosphere of exhilaration. A thousand thoughts ran through Hans’ mind, his soul enraptured by the prospect of closure. In addition to the red navigation light, he could now make out a green and a white one too, as well as the sodium-yellow glow of the bridge lighting as it radiated salvation from the block-shaped superstructure on deck. To celebrate, he spiked the lid of another pint can, guzzling its contents in homage to emancipation from the ocean’s cruel grip and the further luxuries soon to be bestowed upon them by a welcoming crew.
As if to seal the deal, he let rip one more flare, reveling in its profligate flight and reassuring red blossom, feeling certain the vessel would slow at any second.
It thundered right on by.
In horror Hans witnessed the unmanned bridge, like that of a ghost ship, passing just fifty yards away, with no welcoming committee lining the decks ready to receive them. He fired off another flare and then another and another in hopes a crew member might be smoking a cigarette on the quarterdeck and raise the alar
m.
Oblivious to Hans and Jessica’s plight, their best chance of rescue slipped into the conspiring night.
Hans slumped back in the raft, his whole being telling him to scream aloud, to purge his anguish and not stop screaming until the vestiges of life drained from his useless body. Instead sheer shock and confusion saw him sit in silence, staring into the Poly Bottle to see all of the parachute flares gone. The pint can of water had spilled in Jessica’s lap.
- 66 -
Once outside the farmhouse the boys headed straight for the truck. Ahmed took the shotgun and climbed in the driver’s side.
“Push!” he ordered, shoving the key into the ignition.
With bandoliers of Naseem’s ammunition wrapped around him like Rambo, Mohamed heaved at the tailgate and then scrambled into the cab as the pickup started rolling.
“We keep the lights and engine off until we get out of here,” said Ahmed, whose driving experience was limited to a one-off joyride.
“Good idea,” Mohamed agreed.
“Oh . . . oh . . . oh!”
“What is it?”
“It . . . won’t steer!”
The truck picked up speed, and Ahmed, unfamiliar with steering locks, began to panic.
“Look out!” Mohamed shrieked. “Ghost!”
A white-haired figure in a white robe loomed in the darkness.
“Noooo!” Ahmed stomped hard on the brake. “It’s Saleem!”
Without engine power to the servo, the pickup took an age to stop, the bumper inches from the old man.
“Lock the doors!”
Ahmed feared Al Mohzerer’s trusted foreman would put an end to their plan. He wound the window down a couple of inches.
“Going without saying good-bye?” Saleem asked softly, a smile clear in his tired eyes. “I thought you might need this.” He poked a fat roll of dirhams through the gap. “It is all the savings I have, but you need it more than I.”
