The New Madrid Run

by Michael Reisig

  The engine was ruined, the electrical system down, radios broken. Their food and water were running low – the life raft was untied and ready.

  He levered like a machine on the manual bilge pump. She bailed with a bucket, filling it from the cabin, taking it up to the deck, and dumping it overboard. They both knew the water was still rising, regardless of their efforts, but neither would be the first to admit defeat. That was the way they were with each other. It epitomized the time they had spent together for the past few months. There was always an underlying sense of competition: neither showing weakness to the other. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for one another—they did. In fact, the challenge that each represented made it all the more intriguing. The relationship had evolved into a pleasant contest of wills, generously seasoned with great sex, but neither had offered more—there had been no commitment given or received, or really desired at this point. They both recognized that they made an attractive couple, and in the world of business lunches and country clubs, looking the part had its advantages. But at that moment, the only advantage they had was that they were still alive, and that was waning.

  A few hours later, near early morning, the man had just begun to work the bilge pump again after a few minutes rest when, with a sickening wrench, the valve in the pump gave out. The handle slid effortlessly up and down the pipe, and the stream of water ceased. He looked up at her.

  “Well, Christina, the party on this yacht’s over. Time to move on to a less mechanized, more rubberized form of transportation.”

  She gave him a somber smile. “You always did have a way with words.”

  “I make my living with words, dear,” he replied. “Put the correct syllables in the proper sequence. Combine that with timing, which is the essence, from commando raids to orgasms, and you can elicit practically anything from anyone.”

  “So now I guess you want me to get into that little rubber raft of yours—the one that looks like it came from a second-hand concession in Miami Beach, and slip into the water, God knows how far from civilization—if there is a civilization.” She paused, gazing at him as he shrugged and chuckled. “Well, Captain ’Commando Raids’ this sure isn’t the trip you promised me.”

  “If you’re going to choose between the two I prefer to be called Captain Orgasm,” he said with that roguish grin.

  She parried with an acerbic smile. “Right, and I get to be Xena, the Warrior Princess.” She paused and exhaled, resigned. “Okay, let’s grab what we can and ’prepare to shove off to another adventure,” as you so cleverly put it only a few days ago. God, I feel like the Skipper and Marianne!”

  They had been diving off Alligator Reef, just east of Marathon, the day the wave struck. They were preparing to pull the anchor, to move farther down the reef, when Jan saw the thin line forming on the horizon. He had witnessed a small tsunami once before, in the Philippines. He knew immediately what it was. He also recognized that the size and speed of this one dwarfed anything in history. There was no running from it, no getting around it. He glanced back at the slender string of islands to the stern, then forward to the approaching leviathan. He decided to head straight for it at full power. It was a desperate gamble, perhaps suicidal, but the alternatives weren’t any more promising. There was a small chance they might force their way through, or over it—a small chance. He quickly explained the situation to Christina, wondering how she would react to the prospect of imminent disaster.

  She moved quickly to the bow rail and gazed out across the sun-sparkled sea, staring at the oncoming apocalypse, then turned to Jan. “I’ll get the anchor,” she said. “You get the engines going.”

  Strapped to captains’ chairs inside the reinforced bridge, they drove their fragile craft into the heart of the wave. Still, there was really no reason why they should have survived. Neither of them remembered much after striking the wave. When the pummeling finally subsided and they came to, the Keys were gone, and Jan’s beautiful boat was a floating wreck that was taking on water at an alarming rate.

  Both had been cut and bruised badly but neither had received any debilitating injuries. The last three days had been a dazed nightmare of painful, perpetual motion. It hurt just to move, but they had to keep their boat from sinking. They had slept little, eaten scarcely enough food to sustain them, and had suffered the fear of the choices that were left to them. With the breaking of the bilge pump, those choices had become even more limited.

  Exhausted, they sat on the deck, hand in hand, their backs against the cabin, and watched the waning of the full moon—its brightness illuminating the phosphorescent tips of the waves around them. It was a good two hours to sunrise. The boat would last until then. With the sunlight, they would load the raft with the few provisions left and cast themselves adrift.

  The moonlight on the water was mesmerizing, and weariness overtook them. They huddled against each other seeking comfort and warmth, and fell asleep.

  As the sun rose, its warmth roused them. Jan woke with a start as a wave gently crested the gunnel of the boat and caressed his feet. “Jesus Christ! Wake up, Christina. The goddamned boat’s sinking!” he croaked as he shook her and rose painfully to his feet.

  “Get the raft untied!” he yelled as he stumbled toward the hatch. “The water’s nearly filled the cabin. I’m going in for the supplies, then we’ve got to get off. She’s going down!”

  He struggled through the chest-deep water, took a quick breath and submerged himself, grabbing the packages of goods they had prepared. She untied the raft and stood by, frightened but ready. He came out of the cabin with two bundles as the boat made a distinct canter toward the ocean floor. “Push the raft over the side!” he yelled. “No time for more.” Slipping the raft into the water, she tied the slipknot they had practiced onto the rail, jumped in, and took the bundles from Jan. He leaped into the dinghy behind her and pulled the knot loose as the yacht’s bow entered the water.

  They quickly pushed away and watched the death throes and the gurgling, bubbling disappearance of The Caribbean Joy, their last refuge in a ravaged world. They sat for a moment in post-adrenal silence, then Jan took a cigarette from the waterproof case in his shirt pocket and lit it.

  He leaned back against the rubber rail and exhaled, squinting at the rising sun. “Looks like a nice day to catch up on the tan,” he said. “Did you bring the oil?”

  Morning broke, and the sun turned the slate-gray waters back to blue with its usual sleight-of-hand. Once everyone was up, Travis called a meeting before breakfast, which was being prepared by Carlos, the self-appointed resident chef. To hear Carlos tell it, he was once the head chef at one of Cuba’s major hotels, where people came from everywhere to eat his ” Pollo Fidel” and his “Veal Picasso.” But (hands up, palms out) there’d been a little problem—something to do with the disappearance of several forty-pound rounds of beef that were later discovered at a roadside restaurant that was owned by Carlos’ brother-in-law.

  Gathered around the table in the galley, Travis explained to the small group the necessity for conservation of food and water, and the need to assign responsibilities to each person, from maintenance of the ship to fishing for dinner. They had been thrown together by fate, but they were a team now, and they had to work together to survive. It was agreed that Travis and the sensei would handle the sailing and navigation of the vessel—something Carlos, to the surprise of everyone, said he knew nothing about. Navigation was limited to the compass and the stars, as all the direction-finding equipment had been destroyed by the wave. The sensei, however, felt he could keep them headed toward the mainland without much difficulty. Carlos agreed to handle the meals, using the hibachi and driftwood for fuel. He also agreed to handle the maintenance of the cabin. Water, at that point, was generously rationed at a glass with each meal and an occasional sip during the day as needed. With the ship’s water tanks almost full and the extra gallons stored onboard, it was not yet a problem. Travis explained he felt the best plan was to head for the mainl
and and determine the status of the rest of the world. It was agreed upon unanimously.

  As Travis spoke, the boy watched silently from his bunk. The young man was gradually shaking his catatonia, but there was still a sense of distance and pain that emanated from him. Travis paused and looked over at the child. He got up, took a few steps, and knelt by the bunk. “We’re going to need someone who can catch some fish for us —we need to supplement our canned food. My guess is, you’re a fisherman. Do you think you could rig up some tackle and trail a bait for us during the day?”

  At first the boy didn’t move, but there was a light that flickered in his eyes when fishing was mentioned—Travis saw it. “Can you handle that for us? It would be a big help.” The boy gazed at the man next to him for a moment, then nodded. Travis smiled. “Son, do you think you could write your name for us, so we know what to call you?” He turned back toward the galley. “Carlos, there’s a pen in that drawer there. Toss it to me.” The little Cuban found it and lofted it to Travis who snatched it deftly and turned, presenting the pen and putting out the palm of his hand. “Put it right there, amigo.” The boy hesitated for a moment, then took the pen, tentatively holding the man’s hand steady as he wrote. Travis looked down and smiled. “This is Todd, everyone. Glad to have you aboard. Todd didn’t reply, but for the first time, his mouth turned toward the shadow of a smile.

  With the meeting completed, Carlos served a breakfast of canned pears and peaches with a scoop of peanut butter and a glass of warm Pepsi from the defunct refrigerator.

  The sensei and Travis had estimated their position the night before, so they upped anchor and sailed for the mainland.

  The boy proved to be an adept fisherman and in no time had a feathered lure skipping the surface behind the boat. It was he who sighted the boat in the three o’clock position off their bow. Remembering that they had agreed to check any floating objects for survivors and supplies, the boy ran nimbly along the deck, back to Travis in the steering cockpit, and pointed urgently. Travis gazed out across the water and squinted.

  “Yeah, sure enough, looks like a life raft.” A moment later he added, “With a couple of people on board.”

  They could see the people in the raft had their backs to the sailboat. As they moved within hailing distance, the sensei took the wheel and Travis moved forward to the bow. The dinghy was no more than fifty yards away when Travis hailed them.

  “Hello there! Need a lift?”

  The figures in the raft snapped around as one, relief and joy on their faces. Then the big man in the raft put up his hands and yelled back, “No, but thanks anyway. We’re waiting for Carnival Cruise Lines—due by in about an hour.”

  Travis’ jaw dropped.

  The guy in the raft laughed. “Hell yes, we’ll take a lift—damned cruise lines are never on time anyway.”

  Carlos and the sensei dropped the sails as they slid up to the raft. Travis caught the bowline tossed by Jan and tied it off. As the boats came together, Jan rose and held the rail of the sailboat while he helped Christina up to Travis and into the boat.

  As the woman stood, Travis got his first good look at her. Even with the bruises and the cuts, and no makeup, she was still a most attractive woman. Moreover, it was as if her presence chimed some distant bell in his memory. He paused, falling out of step mentally, trying to place this person who seemed so familiar. Only once before in his life had he experienced such a profound feeling of déjà vu, and that had been with his wife, Michelle, many years ago, in Haiti. Her death, several years later, had left a void in his life no one had ever filled.

  His feelings must have shown on his face because, as she reached for his hand, she gave him a quizzical smile and asked, “Are you all right?”

  Quickly regaining his composure he replied, “Damn, I would have figured that to be my line.”

  She gave a throaty little chuckle. “It was just that you looked . . . Oh, never mind.”

  Travis helped her over the rail and onto the deck. Christina moved out of the way, and Jan climbed aboard behind her.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you. That’s certainly some excellent timing. What was left of our boat sank about three hours ago—thanks to that flipping tsunami.”

  “Yeah, the wave from hell,” Travis said. “Cost me a perfectly good airplane and left me treading water in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  After introductions were made all around, the couple were taken below where Carlos insisted on treating their cuts and abrasions, explaining that he once studied to be an assistant doctor—whatever that was—at one of Cuba’s finest medical facilities.

  “Carlos would probably be doctor today,” said the Cuban as he worked, not looking up. “But there was a pequeno problemo with some medical supplies that turned up on black market in Havana. Naturally, (hands up, palms out) Carlos have nothing to do with it, and lucky for Carlos they no prove he had. But it put juju on medical career.”

  As the might-have-been Doctor Carlos treated the couple, they told a story of what was to be a simple ten-day cruise to the Keys, and the chaotic struggle to survive on a wrecked boat with a breached hull.

  As Jan and Christina related their experience, Travis studied the couple—trying to give equal attention to each, but losing that battle to Christina. She seemed so familiar. But the rational side of him said, wishful thinking, buddy. Glancing over at her partner, he had to admit, begrudgingly, that the man had probably never suffered with too much rejection from the opposite sex—tennis pro type, never too far from a slim waist and a tall drink.

  He was dragged from his reverie by a question from Christina. “What are your plans, Travis? Where are you all going?”

  Caught by surprise, he stumbled for a moment. “Well, ah well, we’ve decided to shoot for the mainland and find out what’s happened to the rest of the world.”

  “Sounds good,” Jan said. “We’ll be glad to earn our keep. If you need any help sailing this baby, I’ve got a fair share of time behind the tiller.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn,” Travis said. “But for today, you folks take some time off, let Carlos get you a bite to eat.”

  Jan smiled. “Man, you’ve got food, too! Now I’m really impressed.”

  Travis rose. “Well, we’ve got to get underway again. Get some rest and we’ll talk tonight at supper.” As Travis left the cabin, he stole one more glance at Christina. He was pleasantly surprised to find her studying him with a bemused little smile.

  Ra, who had remained aloof, followed Travis out to the cockpit and lay by his feet. The man scratched him on his head. “What’s up, Ra? Getting too crowded down there for you?”

  After raising the sails and setting course again, the sensei came and sat across from Travis. “Well, my friend, we are gathering quite a cross section of the world, eh?”

  “That we are, Sensei, that we are. I wonder how many more survivors we’ve got out there.”

  “Not many more,” said the Japanese, his tone somber. “There were probably very few, if any, survivors on the islands themselves. Even if they survived the battering of the wave, which I believe is next to impossible, after four days in cold water with no food, they would have died of exposure. I think the only people who survived were on large boats in open water. There is, of course, the exception of Carlos, who was on a vessel so light that it rode over the wave rather than being crushed by it.”

  “Well, we’ll keep our eyes open,” Travis said, “just in case.”

  But they saw no more survivors that day.

  That afternoon, while under sail, the boy hooked a fat, ten-pound grouper, enticed by the feathered jig. He fought it silently, refusing help, as everyone cheered him on. Jan and Christina, refreshed by a few hours sleep, came up on deck to see what the excitement was about. Travis watched as Christina clapped excitedly and encouraged the lad. Seeing her refreshed and animated, he was once again somewhat captivated by her. He mentally shook himself, with a quick remi
nder that this was another man’s woman. The boy wore out the fish and brought it alongside. Carlos, lying stomach down, reached over the side and grabbed it by its gaping mouth. He pulled the grouper up and over the deck while everyone cheered again. Then, for the first time since coming aboard, the youngster smiled.

  Carlos removed the lure from the fish’s mouth. Holding it aloft, he congratulated the boy. “A hot-damned bueno pescado, muchacho! Tonight I make my famous Pescado Cubano. Once I even make Pescado Cubano for that pig, Fidel, himself, when he come to the hotel restaurante, but before I serve it to him, I spit on it.” Carlos laughed. “He come to me afterwards and say, ’Carlos,’—he call me Carlos—he say, ’I never have pescado that good in my life.’ I tell him I put some special seasoning on it, just for him only.” Carlos was still laughing at his own joke as he took the fish forward to clean it.

  Travis raised the sail once more, having dropped it while the boy fought the fish. A brisk wind filled the canvas, and the ship knifed through the water as they sped northward. The sensei moved to the bow, and Jan and Christina settled into the cockpit with Travis.

  “Lord, a little rest in something that isn’t sinking does wonders for a man,” Jan said as he sat down and scrutinized the sails, looking for any luff. Travis took satisfaction in knowing there was none.

  Jan looked at Travis. “Tell me, what’s the story with the navigational equipment and the radios below. Anything working?”

  Travis shook his head. “The ship took quite a beating, and with the exception of the VHF, most of the equipment was literally torn from the brackets. The VHF radio is still in place, but there’s nothing but static on it. Carlos says if it can be made to work, he’ll fix it. Unfortunately, we only have part of an antenna left topside, but he said he might be able to rig that, too. He’s going to look at it tonight.”