by Chris Thrall
Days passed, the action intermittent, like a record playing with music randomly inscribed in its grooves. By noon the heat became so oppressive it rendered Hans incapacitated. The breeze, when it arrived, provided welcome relief from the torture, allowing him to escape into visions of better days . . .
Playing in the yard with Kerry and the kids in the summer, swimwear on, pouring homemade lemonade from the big blue pitcher, ducking and jumping over the sprinkler as it sprayed life onto the yellowing grass. Lying in the path of the revolving jet and letting its revitalizing mist descend onto bare skin, providing sanctuary from the sun’s relentless blister, or simply jumping in the pool for a game of Marco Polo.
How he longed for that time again, for happy smiles, for pitcher after pitcher of delicious concoctions and all the cool freshwater he could drink. He began to think about politics and current affairs, and how it was all so irrelevant . . .
The Democrats’ second term, the greenhouse effect, send in the troops, bring the troops home, the Muslims, the Christians, the atheists, celebrity scandals, the rain forest, saturated fat, genetically modified crops, gun law, college fees, corporate fraud, hedge funds. Ha!
The next time a newspaper landed on his front lawn, he would throw it in the trash, the issues no longer important, incinerated along with all the other garbage polluting an idyllic existence.
Hans regretted the times he had argued with people, fallen out with friends just to make a stupid petty point, a point they were not ready to hear in the first place, one that did not matter anyway. What he would give to sit listening to one of those friends now, sharing a beer on the porch, letting them do all the talking while he lay back, reflecting on the wonder of diversity, the colorful characters it produced and the rich tapestry of life he was so lucky to be a part of.
Then there was the honking of car horns, the waving of fists, the shouts of “Hey you, buddy!,” Fox News, live debates, online forums, keyboard morons, telephone polls, groupthink, dogmatism, and so on and on and on . . .
Everyone has an opinion. No need for education, study and research, hard-gained experience, reason, dialogue, understanding. Oh no! Just any fool with an Internet connection putting the whole world to rights with their acidic minds and a few comically misspelled words sans punctuation typed into a comments box, hit “Enter” and – hey presto! – you’re a goddamn superstar!
He would quite happily let it all wash over him, remaining silent with a slight smile on his face and thinking, Spend a month in a life raft, folks. Spend a month in a life raft.
- 72 -
When Ahmed arrived back at the boat, Mohamed had the engine started. “Did the garbage can trick work?” he asked, handing his friend the whiskey.
“Does your mother look like a camel?”
“I don’t remember my mother.” Mohamed grinned.
Ahmed ran forward to untie the bow line from a cleat set into the harbor wall.
“Wait!” Mohamed scurried up the ladder to grab the shotgun and cartridges. Closing the door of the truck, he paused and let slip a mischievous chuckle, then unbuttoned his fly and left Al Mohzerer a good-bye present. With a grin, he flung the ignition key into the sea.
As Mohamed jumped back aboard, Ahmed levered the throttle forward, and the boys had their first taste of freedom.
“Bring in the fenders!” Ahmed ordered, looking down at the control panel to find the switches for the running lights.
In the warm night air, he steered the yacht out into open water, the sea perfectly calm, the sky alive with stars, which grew brighter as the lights of the city faded. Gripping the wheel, Ahmed leant back, laughing into the sparkling umbrella as a lifetime of servitude flowed from his being like the foam in their wake. Reaching for the whiskey bottle, he realized his friend hadn’t returned from pulling in the fenders. “Fool, where are you?” he shouted, a touch panicky because neither of them could swim.
Mohamed reappeared, his face blank. He approached the cockpit like a zombie, clutching a foot-long nylon tube.
“Where did you get that?”
“Inside one of the fenders,” Mohamed whispered, his expression deadpan.
“And?”
“You wanna see?”
“Of course.”
Mohamed unscrewed the lid and poured thirty thousand euros into the cockpit.
“No!”
“And you know what else?”
While Ahmed gawped at the cash, Mohamed pulled a ziplock bag from his pocket and waved a hundred pink Mickey Mouse–faced tablets in the air.
“Ec-sta-seeeee!”
“Wha—?”
“A-hah-hah-haaaaaa!”
They danced around, hugging one another.
“Want one?” Mohamed cocked an eyebrow.
“I . . .” Ahmed always erred on the side of caution. “Are you gonna?”
“Oh, I took two already.” The little fella grinned.
- 73 -
Hans attempted to wipe the splashes of rusty battery acid off the canopy with a damp sponge, to no avail. In the gloomy interior, the garish sprays added a haunting feel to the stinking cramped cave. Instead he set about putting everything in its place and sorting out the equipment bags. However, there was a problem. No sooner had he begun one task than his attention switched to another – checking the fishing kit to make sure the traces of lures were not tangled and the hooks had no rust setting in, finding himself engrossed in the survival manual, reading half a paragraph before checking there was slack in the solar still’s leash. Unknowingly, he was having trouble focusing, and soon the raft was in a greater mess than before.
When the dorados returned, Hans knew he had to concentrate on fishing. Not having caught anything for days, they had no fresh or dry-cured rations, and starvation closed in once more. He netted a minnow and went to work.
Jigging the line up and down, he began to daydream, musing on the events in his life. It was as if everything – his family, the tragedy, his tough upbringing, his military experience, the investigation agency, the Concern, the yacht, Penny, the shipwreck, his love of opera, everything – had happened for a reason . . .
Is it all a test? Is this a challenge life has set for me, one I have to work out and come through? Are Kerry and JJ really dead? Did Future sink? She was named Future! Is that because coming through this ordeal is part of my destiny? The Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Plymouth. Is this a pilgrimage? Of course! That’s what my naval training was all about: surviving on the sea, preparation for this moment in time.
Hans could see it as clear as day. This was a test! It had all been a test. His entire life! His experiences prepared him for the challenge of survival, the testing of his mettle to see if he truly deserved a place on this beautiful earth.
Why did I not see it before?
He kicked himself for being so stupid, so blinkered and dumb, for not realizing this whole damn shebang had been in play since birth, priming him to come good on the open ocean and prove to everyone his worth.
Jeez! I am an investigator for crying out loud!
It all fell into place and made perfect sense. He knew what to expect now . . .
A magnificent boat! Likely a paddleboat because this is all about letting off steam. It’s gonna appear on the horizon and make straight for us. Lining the decks will be Mommy and JJ and Penny, my SEAL team, even old Jake, my next-door neighbor – the one who urged me to go on the trip. Marcel will be at the helm – the dark horse – guffawing in that endearing way of his, a huge doobie between his lips as he hands out tray after tray of mojitos. White rum from the White Knight. Yes!
They would all be on board, every person he had ever known, laughing and smiling and congratulating him on coming through this adventure and bringing Jessica with him. He felt deliriously happy, but as he scanned the far distance hoping to see the approaching vessel, there was a sharp tug, and nylon spilled into the deep.
He watched in confusion, before realizing . . .
The final test!
/> He knew that when he landed this king fish his worries would be over, his worth proved, the game in the bag – Done. Dusted. Finito! – the ship appearing out of nowhere to pluck them to safety. With the time difference, he pictured they would be in Orlando’s for 10:00 p.m., Aldo serving Kerry a crab starter while he entertained old Jack Daniel’s and the Allagash Brewing Company.
Hans concentrated on playing the fish, reckoning it was Shadowboxer, the largest of the dorados, so named after the opera based on the life of the legendary Joe Louis. It put up the biggest fight so far, wrenching line from his grip, thrashing its head from side to side in a bid to break free. Hans realized the giant was actually towing the raft, ironically in the direction of the shipping lanes.
“Ha!”
There would be no need to reach the fabled seaway when he landed this beauty. It would be the answer to all their prayers.
The dorado fought for hours, well into the dark. At one point the powerful fish stripped all but a few inches of line from the spool, and Hans thought he would lose it. He wondered which one of them was more exhausted and in the most pain. Blood dripped from his skinned palms and the deep cuts in his fingers.
Shark fins broke the black surface and began circling the raft. He prayed the apex predators would not steal his glory in the last seconds. The arrival of the steam ship depended on him landing the goliath.
Finally, Hans was able to draw the fish toward him, expecting ferocious jaws to snatch his prize at any moment. He reached for the improvised gaff and attempted to spike Shadowboxer’s powerful torso but only managed to nick his tough skin. The fighter snapped into life and shot under the raft. It was all Hans could do to keep hold of the gaff and prevent the fish ripping it from his grasp.
Hans teased Shadowboxer back to the entrance, but the mighty brute had one last trick up his sleeve. He flipped onto his back and dove with all the strength left in him. Both the gaff and fishing hook tore loose, and as the hunter lost his balance and toppled backwards he felt the gaff’s merciless tip lodge in the raft’s bottom tube.
Hans collapsed, drained of all energy, the pain now too much to bear.
His world folded in on itself.
Overcome with shock and shaking violently, he experienced a thirst like never before. He could not believe what just happened, going from hero to bust in a split second, not only losing the valuable catch but also destroying their chance of rescue and the raft in the process.
- 74 -
Mitch never did get to know what happened to the Hitachi 42-ES-1080, complete with HD, surround sound and VGA connector he had ordered off the Internet. It proved impossible to find a telephone number for Digital Direct’s customer service department. When he finally received a reply to his emails, he learned that due to reasons beyond the company’s control the shipment of television sets had not arrived, and they offered him an upgrade to the Hitachi 44-ES-1080 at no extra cost.
Mitch declined and asked for a refund.
He wasn’t bothered about a new TV anymore. Bud had called from Portland to say sorry that their trip to Vegas on Harleys never came off, but would he be interested a round-the-world yachting adventure? Jeanie had filed for divorce and they had sold the house. He’d invested his share in a secondhand cruiser and was in the process of fixing it up. He sure could do with another pair of hands, and it wouldn’t cost Mitch a dime apart from spending money.
Would I be interested? Mitch thought, taking two seconds to weigh up his options – namely, another year of twelve-hour shifts at the call center, coming home to microwave meals and Gulf War III, or sailing with his oldest pal to all those exotic places he had seen on Discovery.
The decision made, “Permission to come aboard, Captain Budmeister?”
“Permission granted, sir!” the skipper replied.
- 75 -
Hans dreamt water was coming into the raft, and despite his shattered mind yearning for sleep, something told him this was more than a nightmare. He opened his eyes to see the equipment bags afloat on the three-inch-deep pool sloshing around them.
No!
He had a vague recollection of attempting to land a mighty dorado the previous evening, but at the forefront of his mind was the moment the gaff pierced the raft’s bottom tube. He looked out the door but could not see the object in question. It must have come unplugged and floated away during the night, resulting in even more air spilling from the damaged craft.
The raft now sat so low in the water its freeboard was only a couple of inches. Waves lapped over the entrance, sending gallons of seawater into the cabin. Realizing the danger, Hans zipped up the doorway and connected the foot pump to the bottom tube’s inlet valve. He began inflating the chamber like a man possessed, beads of sweat running down his face and dripping into the swamped interior.
“Are we sinking again?”
“No, no, we’re not.”
“Can we go home now?”
“Soon, honey. Soon.”
It took a superhuman effort to get the raft back to its proper shape. Hans began bailing out, his mind in overdrive as he contemplated how to fix the leak. Finally, he was able to hang their bedding out to dry. He dropped back inside to see how quickly the raft deflated, praying for a slow puncture, meaning the tube only needed to be pumped up every few hours.
However, the speed with which the raft had collapsed overnight was worrying, and besides, any amount of time it took to operate the pump would detract from other important tasks, such as fishing and making sure the solar still produced enough water.
Within ten minutes the tube started to sag. Half an hour later the ocean threatened to surge on board once more. Hans began the laborious task of pumping and then donned the diving mask to view the extent of the problem.
What he saw terrified him. Air bubbles the size of peas spewed from the puncture in rapid succession, growing ever bigger as they shot to the surface. Had Hans not been so shocked and exhausted the night before, he would have strapped the gaff’s handle to the raft, preventing it from doing further damage while still plugging the hole. As it was the viscous instrument must have flailed around in the waves, tearing at the rubber membrane until it finally worked free and fell away into the wake.
If there was ever a time to give up on life, it was now. The pain down the right-hand side of Hans’ body was almost too much to bear. His right arm was semiparalyzed, and he had a splitting headache. The smell of necrotic flesh permeated the already rank air in the confined cabin. They had not eaten for two days, the chance of catching dorados thrown into jeopardy by the loss of the gaff. Their water reserves were at an all-time low, and with the raft sinking they had a crisis on their hands.
“Shall I read a page from the book, Papa?”
“Huh?”
“The survival book?”
“Oh, sure.”
Hans took a deep breath and drew the equipment bag toward him. He handed the manual to Jessica and pulled out the repair kit. But before deciding on a course of action, he needed a closer inspection of the ruptured tube to ascertain the shape and size of the hole. He put on the diving mask, and after a check for sharks leant out of the raft as far as he could and plunged his head underwater.
Damn!
As Hans looked down on the damage, the bubbles interrupted his view, and from the side presented too obtuse an angle to get a clear picture. If he wanted to inspect the puncture properly, it meant reducing the pressure on the tube and viewing the hole straight on. There was only one option.
“Jessie, I need to climb in the water.”
She looked at Hans but did not reply.
“Honey, I want you to stand here, and if you see a shark you gotta holler, okay?”
The little girl sat with her arms and legs out in front of her like a children’s toy, the glassy look in her eyes permanent. Hans made sure she had an arm tucked around the webbing strap for support and then pulled the mask down over his face and eased over the side.
“Ouch!”
&n
bsp; A stinging sensation spread across his skin like wildfire. Worried he had landed amongst jellyfish, he was about to hop back on board when it occurred to him it was only salt water invading the sores and boils covering his body.
“Okay, hun. Keep an eye out.”
Hans dropped below the surface, pleased to see that without his weight in the raft the flow of bubbles reduced significantly. Further rewarding, he found the hole was nowhere near as big as he first thought. In fact, it was surprising how much air could pour out of such a tiny aperture. It was not much bigger than a pinprick but likely to expand threefold with pressure on the tube.
Hans was about to clamber back inside but instead decided to inspect the bottom of their home. The transformation amazed him. A mass of barnacles, large and small, covered the underneath, the black and white contrast giving the impression of a patch of whale’s skin. Seaweed tendrils dangled up to five feet in length, in amongst them minnows of varying size and color and an abundance of krill-like creatures.
What part do these shrimpettes play in the Grand Old Opry? Or is it Ben-Hur?
Skirting the underwater jungle were the two pilot fish, the talent scouts, resplendent in their shiny blue-and-turquoise-striped regalia, tails gently swaying, completely at ease as they scoured the performance for up-and-coming stars.
Where are your shark bosses?
Hans reckoned the cutthroat controllers with their sleek gray suits and pointed white handkerchiefs to be the record executives.
The thought of sharks opened a window on reality. Hans felt a pang of fear as he remembered the danger lurking below. Wrapping his less-painful arm around the top tube, he tried to haul himself on board, but it was no good. He simply did not have enough strength, and slipped back underwater.
His anxiety increased. He grabbed hold of the raft with both arms and, despite the immense agony tearing through him, tried again. Still it was useless. Clinging to the deflating pod, he forced himself to take deep breaths, shaking out an arm at a time to relieve the fatigue.
