by Chris Thrall
Sure enough, a light shone intermittently as the sea peaked and troughed. Hans saw another, then another and another as a convoy bore down upon them.
“Yes!”
Utterly ecstatic, Hans dove headlong into the pool of rainwater . . . to find himself fixing a puncture on JJ’s bicycle in their garage back home in Portland . . . The tire was made of chocolate, causing a big problem, for when he tried to ease it back onto the wheel rim it broke into chunks, which disintegrated into purple gunpowder. Hans resorted to wrapping it around with bands of licorice, but no sooner had he done so he realized the confectionery would be put to better use doubling up as putty to seal the leaks around his neighbors’ windows, except that seagulls kept flying down to land on the window ledges and pluck out the sealant with their greedy bills before flying off again . . .
Hans sensed their chance of rescue slipping from his grasp. He forced his mind back to the chopper . . . to find the pilot had transferred to a glider as it was all about fuel economy and far more fun doing 360-degree rolls with his great aunt on board, the lights of the approaching convoy morphing into attractions at the Bangor State Fair, garishly colored cotton candy stalls, brightly striped tarpaulins, high-pitched screams coming from the Wheel of Death, the smell of hot dogs, candy apples and fried dough . . .
It was too much for Hans. One moment he had been convinced they had all the water they would ever need and were on the verge of rescue, but he awoke to find the raft dry and stinking and their situation as desperate as before. He dragged himself into the doorway, thrust his head into the deceptively refreshing sea and drank until he could drink no more.
Passing in and out of consciousness, Hans heard the call of a seabird and the flutter of wings as it settled on the canopy. He stared at its silhouette, unsure if what he saw was even real. It took all the strength left in his broken body to raise himself up and thrust a hand out to grab the surprise visitor, feeling a waft of air as the bird bid for freedom. He collapsed back down, unable to reach for his daughter despite knowing the end was near.
Hans drifted between this life and the next, and for the first time since the collision, images of the sinking yacht flashed through his failing mind . . .
. . . He remembered sailing Future ten miles off Cape Verde with Jessica, priding himself on the yacht’s progress, her replacement gear holding fast as she skimmed across the wave tops. He’d felt relaxed, content with the direction his boat and life were heading, all the time looking forward to their reunion with Penny, who had stayed ashore, taking care of last-minute business.
Then there was the sickening crunch as Future ripped apart.
“Jessie, get out! Get out now!” he’d screamed.
As the life raft’s hydrostatic releases hissed and the bright-orange capsule deployed, Hans had dived inside the cabin, launching the ditch kit out of the companionway as a barrage of seawater washed him back into the cockpit.
Fighting to compose himself, Hans had sucked in a lungful of air and thrust his body into the downturned hull, frantically trying to reach his daughter as the boat descended into the depths. His chest felt as though it was about to implode, but he continued into the blackness, rewarded to see his little girl swimming up to meet him.
That’s it, Jessie! That’s it!
Their hands had clasped.
Hans had experienced immense relief.
Well done, kid!
Then he’d spotted his daughter’s safety line still clipped to the bunk, the sinking yacht ripping the drowning girl from his grasp, Jessica’s desperate eyes fixed on his as the ocean devoured her, leaving him to clamber into the life raft alone.
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Death was close now for Hans, the stench of necrosis eclipsing all others in the rancid floating tomb. Paralyzed throughout most of his body, he breathed in shallow gasps, his eye weeping, an arm stretched toward what he thought was his little girl. He desperately wanted to hold her one last time.
As a lone gull mewed a pitiless soliloquy, memories of better days saw a light flicker in his fading eyes.
“Hey, Jessie . . . sometimes . . . when I feel the sun on my face, I close my eyes and imagine we are walking along a soft sandy beach by a beautiful blue sea. You, me, Mommy and JJ. And it’s sunny and warm . . . and the seagulls are squawking . . . and the air tastes fresh and salty . . . and we’re smiling, sweet pea. We’ll always be together . . . and we’re smiling, my darling. We’re smiling . . .”
The teddy bear gave him a look. It said everything but nothing.
Bio
Chris Thrall is a former Royal Marines Commando and author of the bestselling memoir Eating Smoke. A qualified pilot and skydiver, with a degree in youth work, Chris has backpacked throughout all seven continents, worked with street children in Mozambique, driven aid workers from Norway to India and back by coach, and scuba dived with leopard seals in Antarctica. He lives in Plymouth, England, and plans to continue adventuring, charity work and writing.
www.christhrall.com
www.twitter.com/ChrisThrall
www.facebook.com/christhrallauthor
Acknowledgments
To my Jenny for your encouragement and unconditional support. My loyal Eating Smoke readers, many of whom said, “Chris, you write it, we’ll read it.” My awesome delta team of Mike “Rosco” Ross, Carole Poke, Patrick Burke, Nikki Davenport, Sian Forsythe, Marc Grey, Nikki Densham, Fiona Jackson, Kenneth Fossaluzza and Marc Spender for volunteering to read the manuscript and feeding back with invaluable observations and advice. Andy Screen at Golden Rivet your amazing artwork and dedication has brought the Hans Larsson series to life. Marcus Trower, for polishing the final draft and taking the book to the next level, and for being a great editor to work with. To fellow authors J.R. Sheridan, Nije Thorpe and Shannon Young. You are inspirational writers and I value our friendship. A special mention to Steven Callahan, author of Adrift, the ultimate story of real sea survival and the best book I have ever read. Thank you.
Books by Chris Thrall
The Hans Larsson series
1 - The Drift
2 - The Trade
Non fiction
Eating Smoke: One Man’s Descent into Crystal Meth Psychosis in Hong Kong’s Triad Heartland
Table of Contents
THE DRIFT
Map of the North Atlantic
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Bio
Acknowledgments
Books by Chris Thrall
Back cover
