CHAPTER 3
The wind was crisp and the boat handled well. Running with just the mainsail, Travis was getting about five knots, and that was fast enough for a one-man crew. The day wore on and he began to observe the gruesome evidence of an inundated civilization. Flotsam and jetsam of every describable variety littered the water: trees, roofs of houses, wrecked pleasure boats, and bodies—all the bodies . . . God! It was worse than what he’d seen in ’Nam. Bloated cadavers with milky, sightless eyes, and rigid arms bobbed up and down in a grotesque collage, as if beseeching the help that never came. He continued on.
As he shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the waters ahead. Travis looked once, shook his head, then looked again. There, about 150 yards to port, was the slowly sinking wreck of what must have been quite an expensive yacht designed like an eighteenth-century Japanese sailing vessel. That, in itself, wasn’t so surprising. However, on the badly listing bow, kneeling casually in seza position and staring right at Travis, was a Japanese man. Travis guessed him to be in his early fifties. He was dressed in traditional Old-World garb. The loose hakama pants and a light “Happy Coat” made him look like something out of a James Clavell novel. Travis couldn’t believe it. The guy didn’t wave—didn’t even move. He was sitting on his sinking boat, watching Travis sail right by with no more concern on his face than if he’d been relaxing on a bench feeding pigeons in Central Park. Travis could barely contain himself. There was another human being—a strange one, but a live one.
He stood, waved his arms and yelled, “Hang on, I’ll swing around and come alongside.” The Japanese just looked at him and bowed slightly.
Travis came about and slid up next to the other boat. “Looks like you might be in need of some new transportation,” Travis shouted amiably.
The Japanese stood and brushed down his hakama. ” Hei, yes. Throw me a line,” he said with a strange smile. “I have waited long enough for you.” Travis reached down and threw a docking line across to the man.
“Waited long enough for me?” he muttered.
The older man turned and picked up a long, narrow bundle—something wrapped in heavy silk and tied with a silk cord. Then, with an agile leap that belied his age, he jumped the five-foot gap between the two boats, landing as nimbly as a cat on the deck in front of Travis.
The Japanese drew himself erect. “Higado Sensei, at your service,” he said, bowing solemnly.
Travis wasn’t exactly sure how to follow that act, so somewhat awkwardly, he bowed back. When he looked up, the Japanese was studying him again with that same strange half-smile.
Standing close to the man, Travis realized he could have been wrong about the fellow’s age. The man had one of those inscrutable, almost ageless Asian faces. His small, black eyes gave away nothing. He had a broad, well-shaped nose, and a narrow but friendly mouth that framed his Mona Lisa grin. He might have been fifty, or sixty-five; it was impossible to tell. His long, dark hair was graying, and tied into a small tail high on the back of his head, much like the Samurai warriors of the seventeenth century. He was only five feet five or six-inches tall, but he was trim and hard looking, and he carried a calm sense of assuredness about him as if he were a man accustomed to respect.
Suddenly Ra came bounding out of the cabin, having heard the steps on the cabin deck and the voices. Travis yelled, “Ra! Stop!” as he thought, Jesus! He’s gonna eat the guy.
But, as the animal rounded the corner of the hatch and came at him, the man did the most unusual thing. He knelt on one knee, opened his arms to the dog, and shouted in a clear, commanding tone, “Come, Ra. Come here, now.” The dog stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly uncertain. He cocked his head. The Japanese seemed to have the same confusing effect on him as he’d had on Travis. “Come, Ra,” the man commanded again. The animal moved forward slowly, not sure whether to bite him or lick him. As Ra smelled his outstretched hand, the fellow brought his other hand around in a motion that was so fast it looked like a sleight-of-hand trick, and scratched the dog behind the ears. A moment later, Ra was nuzzling him like a playful puppy.
“I’ll be damned,” Travis exclaimed. “Do you know this dog?”
The older man stood up. “No, but I know animals and know myself. If animal senses no fear—truly no fear, but kindred spirit—he is not so likely to do harm.”
“Well, that’s one of the most remarkable tricks I’ve ever seen,” replied Travis. “I thought for sure you were going to be lunch.”
The Japanese bowed slightly, acknowledging the compliment, then looked up. “Speaking of food . . .”
After they had pushed off from the sinking boat, they anchored up and split a couple of cans of beef stew between the three of them. Ra seemed to have accepted Higado Sensei completely, without suspicion or challenge. Though he couldn’t explain it, Travis was certain that this was an exception, not the rule, with the dog’s personality.
Travis swallowed a chunk of cold beef and looked across at the strange older man. “Nobody’s really from the Florida Keys, least of all I guy dressed like you. So what brought you here in a boat like that.
The Japanese paused. “You want long story or short story?
Travis smiled. “Do I look like I’m in a hurry?
An almost imperceptible smile touched the older man’s lips and he began to speak. Through the course of the conversation, Travis came to realize that he was in rather distinguished company. Higado Sensei was the master in one of Japan’s oldest and most renowned traditional Budo retreats: a place of study for those students truly dedicated to Japanese martial arts. He taught Karate and Aikido as well as Iaido, which is the art of drawing and using the Samurai sword. The Japanese explained that his name was Higado, and that “sensei” meant instructor. He and three of his highest-ranking students had been making an historic sailing trip around the world in his specially built sailboat when disaster struck. His students had been killed when the Black Wind, as he called it, hit them. Only the sensei had survived. He had been without food or water for two days when Travis found him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Travis said after he had heard the story. “But all things considered, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Maybe luck, maybe Karma,” said the Japanese stoically. “And you? You survive wave in this?
“No. I’m a pilot. I was in a plane when the wave hit. I found this sailboat just before I ran out of gas.”
“It is true something terrible has taken place. The land?”
“All gone around here,” Travis said.
“Where will you go?”
“I feel a little like Dorothy without the yellow brick road, but I think the best plan is to set course for the mainland—wherever that is now. And we need to find some supplies.” The Japanese nodded in agreement.
After their meager supper, they were sitting on the deck watching the sun perform its magic against the distant horizon when Travis turned to his new friend and asked, “What did you mean today when you said you had waited long enough for me? You couldn’t have known I was coming.”
“Oh, but I did,” replied the older man. “I was in cabin of my ship when the great wave struck. Others were on deck. I was thrown against bulkhead and knocked unconscious. For a moment, my spirit passed into the void and an ancestor came to me. I was told it was not my destiny to die at sea; that there was yet a distance to travel on this path. I was told you would come and we would walk together for a while.”
If someone else had said that to Travis, he would have laughed out loud. But coming from that quiet, serenely confident man, the words rang with an eerie veracity that he wasn’t willing to challenge.
Later that night the castaways retreated to the cabin, illuminated by the yellow glow of a single oil lamp. The sensei pulled out the silk bundle he had saved from the other vessel. Travis looked over curiously as the man laid it on the bunk and opened it carefully. Inside were two magnificent swords. The Japanese reached for the longer sword, and in one smooth, electric-fa
st motion, he had drawn the sword and laid it before him. Travis, stifling a gasp at the man’s speed, thought: This ol’ boy moves faster than a cheetah on bennies. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.
Higado Sensei looked up. “I must clean my swords tonight. The salt water is not good for them.” He spoke as if they were friends of his. The sensei worked a rag across the gleaming, razor-like blade. “These have been in my family for over four hundred years, handed down from father to son for generations.” He raised the long sword. “This is called katana. The short sword is called wakazashi”
“Quite an heirloom, Higado, just like Benihana’s,” Travis replied.
The sensei stopped rubbing and stared at the man across from him. In an instant, his eyes had changed and Travis saw something in those bright black chips of obsidian that scared the hell out of him. “This,” the sensei said, holding the point of the sword at Travis and speaking in a slow, deliberate fashion, “is not for Benihana’s. This blade has drawn blood and taken lives hundreds of times. It is nexus of all that is truly Japanese. This is, as I am, Samurai!”
He started to bring the blade down but suddenly stopped, still staring at Travis. “You will call me Sensei.”
Then, as quickly as it had come, the expression was gone, he lowered the sword, and smiled that half-smile of his. “Forgive my intensity. There is part of me that has lived so many times with the sword that it is an intrinsic part of my being. Your lack of understanding does not merit rudeness. I am sorry.” He bowed slightly and continued his cleaning ritual.
Travis exhaled. “Yeah, well, no problem. You go ahead and clean your swords. I’ve had another long day. I’m going to get some sleep.”
Travis went up to the forward berth and lay down. Ra followed him and settled down in front of the door, like a fanged guardian angel.
With all the day’s events, sleep wasn’t easy in coming. When he closed his eyes, Travis could still see all the bodies in the ocean. And the discovery of the strange Japanese intrigued him. Were there other survivors? he wondered.
The challenge of survival was, in a sense, exciting, but he was plagued by uncertainty. Would he be lucky enough to find the Keys with only a compass and a guess as to his position? If he reached them, would there be anything above water to mark their position? It would be easy to sail right through a small chain of islands buried under thirty feet of water.
What if there were no Keys left to be found? What about the rest of the world? How far would he have to sail to find a safe harbor?
Travis sighed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the gentle slap of the water against the hull. He drifted from the confusing uncertainty of the future, to the past, and the paths that had taken him to this strangest of circumstance. His thoughts drifted to Linda, his girlfriend, and the times they had shared. He wondered about old friends and lovers throughout the country—who had survived and who hadn’t. Travis thought about his parents.
He had experienced one of those rare relationships with both his mother and father. They had been friends as well as parents. Travis truly enjoyed their company and conversations, and they his. In all his years as a child and as an adult, he had never encountered two more loving and understanding souls, and he missed them sorely. They had passed away a year apart, only two years ago, and there were still nights when he stared at the telephone, finding it so sadly incredulous that he could no longer pick up that instrument and hear their voices.
He remembered the sprawling, ranch-style home where he had grown up, nestled in the low, green hills of Napa Valley. Travis loved those cool spring mornings when soft trellises of sunlight filtered through the windows of the big kitchen and the smells of breakfast blended with his mother’s perfume as she moved about the room. It had been a wonderful home, the perfect place to grow up, but, if the radio announcer had been correct, it was all gone—entombed in the sea with the rest of California. His parents’ deaths had saddened him immeasurably, but he was glad that they had been spared the terror of this calamity.
He had only himself to worry about now—himself, and his curious Japanese companion, and a dog.
CHAPTER 4
Night was falling and Carlos was talking to God again. He’d been talking to God a lot during the last few days. He was speaking in English, ’cause he had used Spanish most of the time and look where he was—still floating on this rat’s-ass, son-a-bitchin’ ocean! He figured that maybe God didn’t speak too good Spanish. Maybe he had a language problem, so he’d try English for a while. Couldn’t do no worse, he thought.
Carlos was a “floater” —a Cuban refugee. He was, however, one of the unhappiest floaters in the history of the Cuban exodus.
Throughout the afternoon, as he drifted under the merciless sun, he had maintained a rambling, one-sided discourse with God. He was telling God, if he had forgotten, how much trouble Carlos had gone to, only to end up like a well-done hamburguesa.
He was reminding God how he built a muy bueno raft with a wood frame from shipping crates he “borrowed” from the banana docks, and heavy-duty truck inner tubes he “borrowed” from the Departamento de Transportacion. He had stocked up on bananas, coconuts, water jugs, and some jerk pork. Finally, one night he loaded up and sneaked the raft into the water right under the noses of the Guardia Nacional. Madre de Dios, Carlos was scared. But he did it, and off he went, paddling to America.
As he drifted out into the gulf stream, he paused and took a last look at the moonlit silhouette of Cuba. He was not sad. He was exhilarated!
Well, the first few days were fine. The currents and the wind carried him along better than he had expected. It was just him, he had plenty of food and water. (He was not like those other oyes. They got to have ten people with them just to keep them company. The food and water runs out, and eight of them end up feeding the sharks.)
Anyway, like he’d been telling God, everything went just like he planned it. Late morning on the fifth day he looked up after a little siesta and there was America. The Keys were no more than a mile away. He could already taste his first hamburguesa. Madre de Dios, he could feel that first cold American Bud-a-wiser cerveza sliding down his throat. He was already rehearsing his “God Bless America” for when he hit the shore. Then, out of nowhere, came this rat’s-ass, son-a-bitchin’ giant wave! Carlos looked at the wave coming at him and crossed himself. He knew he was as dead as last week’s chicken —all those Hail Mary’s and all those candles for nothing. But even a dying man will cling to hope.
Carlos clung to the raft. He held on like a fat tick buried in the back of a skinny Cuban pig. Afterwards, the only thing he could figure was that because the raft was so light, it rode over the wave instead of being crushed by it like everything else. Carlos and the raft struck the peak of the wave and went flying over the top like a UFO. With eyes the size of manhole covers, the little Cuban screamed like a banshee and held on for dear life. When the mist had finally cleared, Carlos discovered that he had crash-landed on the back side of the wave.
The raft was broken in half. Carlos found himself clutching half the deck and one inner tube. He had a broken nose and he was sure that he’d cracked a couple of ribs, but by the most remarkable of circumstances, he was still alive. He rested for a while, hanging on to what was left of his raft, trying to get his nose to quit bleeding.
Given the situation, most people would be thankful just to have survived. Not so with Carlos. The Keys were gone. Cono! One stinkin’ mile to bikini contests, Bud-a-weisers and Macadonal’s hamburguesas, and God played a stinkin’ trick on Carlos. Madre de Dios, was God on vacation? Maybe he went to Palm Beach and forgot about Carlos?
“Hey, God, why you don’t just kill me in Cuba and make it easy for both of us? I go all this way to America. Jesus Christe, what am I supposed to do now? Just drift around and bake like a chicken in the sun? Arroz con Carlos, eh? Very funny joke you play!”
It had been two days since Carlos and the raft met the son-a-bitchin’ wave. He’d had nothing t
o eat or drink since then, having lost his food and water with the other half of the raft. Floating on an ink-black ocean, aware that he was becoming more than just a little delirious, he suddenly spotted something up ahead. That sure looks like a light bobbing in the water—maybe it’s the Coast Guard with a hamburguesa. Sí! Gracias a Dios, it is the Coast Guard. He could even smell the fat, delicioso, Macadonel’s hamburguesa. And there was a beautiful señorita in a Japanese kimono gazing down at him. As he drifted toward the light, he croaked out the only words he could think of.
Travis was just about asleep when he heard the sound. At first he passed it off to a seabird, but the noise took shape as it neared the boat. ” God Bless America?” Somebody was out there singing “God Bless America” ! When Travis reached the deck, he saw the sensei standing by the rail, looking out at the dark waters.
“He’s over there.” The sensei pointed about fifty feet off the bow.
Travis peered into the night. Sure enough, there was someone lying on the wreckage of some sort of raft. He was ranting something about no onions, ketchup solamente.
Carlos had not been alone in that sea of desperation. Less than a mile away, another life hung in the balance.
The New Madrid Run Page 4
