“Da ale, da ale, cut da ale.”
His slurred words propelled me to action. Untying the rigging, I furled the woven sail so that less than a quarter was exposed to the wind–enough pull to keep the boat stable, but not enough to tip it over. After knotting a pair of ropes around the tiller to hold it on a course away from shore, I dove back toward Paul.
Examining his left hand, I found it dotted with purple spots. There is no way to say definitively, but I think he was stung by either a jellyfish or sea worm. The unseen animal’s neurotoxins worked quickly to paralyze the left side of Paul’s body and send his entire system into shock. He continues to suffer from classic stroke conditions. I worry that even if he survives, he may never fully recover.
I don’t know how long I spent trying to wash the wound, treat it with herbs and ointments, all the medicines I have managed to accumulate, but it was useless. When I finally took stock of how far the wind had taken us, the cliffs of Africa were nothing but a low line on the horizon lit by the setting sun.
As bad luck would have it, the moon was late in rising. I was forced to navigate by the stars as I tried to keep the boat on a northeast course toward Spain. In the moments when I dared release the tiller, I did what I could to make Paul comfortable and safe. I wrapped him in our warmest skins, trussed him to the deck to keep him from rolling overboard and kissed his shivering face. All I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and hold him tight, make him better somehow, but all I could do was take quick breaks to try to ladle water into his mouth and hold him tight when seizures racked his wonderful body.
Even out in the ocean at night, the sounds of birds and sea creatures remind you that you are never alone in this bountiful, prehistoric, diabolical world. In my heightened anxiety, every odd splash of a wave or surfacing whale sent my mind leaping to conclusions that monsters were about to strike. I told myself it was all in my imagination, but in the first rays of dawn there was a tall, notched dorsal fin trailing in our wake.
The sight of the shark unnerved me. Trying with all my might to maintain composure–and failing mightily–I tearfully swung the boat directly toward shore. Once close enough to properly gauge the land, I saw the rocky coast offered no safe harbor. Swinging to the north, I fought the urge to glance backwards every 30 seconds as I unfurled the sail and let the freshening winds carry us onward. By the time the rocky coast gave way to sandy beach, the winds were blowing so hard I knew I could never land the boat without destroying it, and probably kill us both. The beaches were too steep. There would be no way for me to haul the heavy catamaran far enough out of the water to keep it from being pounded to bits in the surf.
Paul’s condition had stabilized. Deep down I knew there was not much more I could do for him. I knew the fight was between Paul and whatever awful venom was injected into the skin of his hand. Even so, I felt like a complete selfish failure as we kept sailing northward, passing little coves and protected beaches. They looked so dangerous. I was so afraid to try. This was something Paul always made look easy. Until now, I never appreciated his knack for finding our solitary landing spots, and timing the currents and tides so that we would invariably drag bottom where the receding tide would leave our boat up on the beach, safely high and dry.
I have no idea how far we sailed, but it was mid-afternoon when the wind-blown sand beaches yielded to marshy flatlands. Cast in hues of winter gray, abandoned by migratory animals, the coastal swamps were forebodingly silent. The miles of withered reed beds and low scrub were punctuated by stunted, moss-covered trees, nearly every one topped by an empty stork nest carefully made of sticks.
I was guiding the boat toward a deep inland channel when a pod of spinner dolphins crossed directly in front of us. The marine mammals were up to their usual antics of leaping and twisting in the air when an ICBM missile seemed to be launched directly from below. The tiger shark emerged in a fountain of spray with a dolphin locked in its mouth. At the high point, with a mighty shake of its head, the killer sent the poor dolphin’s head and tail flying in opposite directions. Borne upon the wind, a fleck of blood sailed impossibly far to land upon my cheek. I thought it was sea spray, but when I tried to wipe it off, my hand came away red.
Unnerved almost to tears once again, I only overcame the incredible urge to ditch the boat at the closest landing spot by asking myself, “What would Paul do?” That is how we came to rest on a white, crushed-shell beach in the bay’s back shallows. A freshwater brook runs cool from the trees, and a ring of low dunes offers some protection from the wind and maybe predators as well.
It was not easy getting Paul off the deck and up into a hiding spot in the bushes above the beach, but somehow I managed to coax and drag him up there. He helped as much as he could with most of his body locked solid. The effort seemed to cost him dearly as he settled at once into a deep, soundless sleep. The boat is tied off with five stout ropes and I am fairly confident it will not float away with the outgoing tide.
Though I have seen no signs of Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon, I am still waiting for full dark before building a fire and making a broth which I will try to feed to Paul. So tired. I have all the makings for the fire and was able to spear a grouse to go along with the edible seaweed and watercress-like plants that I have collected. It may not be chicken noodle soup, but it will have to do.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Come on, one more big bite.”
From the Log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Recreation Specialist Paul Kaikane’s heart rate and breathing have returned to normal. He is able to receive nourishment, and his body is functioning normally–regular bowel movements and unrestricted urine flow. These improvements give me hope that he will survive. What kind of life he will experience remains to be seen.
While the neurotoxins should have run their course and been flushed through his system, damage remains. The brain functions which control speech as well as motor skills on the left side of his body have been short-circuited. Both his right leg and left arm are dead weights which already begin to show signs of atrophy. His beautiful mouth droops to a low spot where an unending river of drool flows over his lower lip and onto his leather tunic.
Unable to close his left eye, Paul was suffering mightily–in silence, damn him–as it dried out. When I finally realized what was happening, I fashioned an eye patch from a roll of soft rabbit leather stored in the hold of a kayak. Inside the patch I dab a soothing ointment made from aloe and rendered seal blubber. The stuff smells awful, but it works. He looks like a pirate.
These physical challenges are exacerbated by a severe case of the megrims. My happy sailing partner and ever-positive soul mate has sunk into a canyon-sized depression. I know it cannot be easy to go from being the protector to the one who needs protection…to have your wife clean up your messes three times or more a day. Who in similar circumstances wouldn’t be worried about the future, wouldn’t feel a little sorry for themselves?
For the first few days, I was a pest trying to pump positive thoughts and reassurances into his head. Trying to pump them into my own brain as well. He tuned me out, and then finally flapped me away with an angry wave of his weak right arm.
I give him space to mope as I take care of chores and try my best to maintain camp security. The best place to stand guard is on a low-hanging limb of a gnarled old conifer that has probably been growing out of a dune near our campsite in the bushes for at least 400 years. The wide limb is twice as thick as my waist and offers a hidden place to take in a 360-degree view of our little bay and its approaches. If trouble was coming, I would see it. But it is impossible to sit in a tree all day, every day, so I shinny up at least once every hour of daylight to sit 10 minutes and watch.
We never did spot the lions as they passed through the neighborhood, or, knock on wood, any other large predators. I include both Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon on that list. When Paul was healthy, I worried so little about things like that. Between the two of us, it seemed
we could handle any situation we faced. He was so strong and capable, always looking out for my safety. With him by my side, I never feared. Now it is my job to deal with intruders and wolves and sharks and put food on the table. It is all so goddamned overwhelming, sometimes I feel as if I’ll cry.
But I never do.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Paul, do you recognize this area? I believe we’re near where you and Doreen lived. Isn’t that right? Do you remember? Yes indeed, near where the ancient city of Cadiz will be built. Did you ever visit Cadiz, Paul?”
From the Log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
While looking (prying) through Paul’s computer for fun facts to help cheer him up, I ran a search for “Cadiz,” which led me to a folder of journal entries marked “Personal.” I waged war against the urge to open the folder for nearly 24 hours, but eventually succumbed to my base nature. I have always been a snoop.
Most of the hidden entries were written before Paul and I declared our love for one another, which is comforting. I didn’t think we had any secrets. The entries offer insight into his past. Some are funny and some make me burn with jealousy.
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Like so many families before them, Doreen’s people ditched Ireland in search of opportunity and a better life. That’s how my wife always told the story. At her funeral, one of the drunk Irish relatives confided that her dad had been a gambler and crook who was run out of Bundoran by the local constable.
Whatever their reasons, the O’Malleys took what few things they owned and moved to the coast of Spain where her old man ran a surf camp out of a ruined villa north of New Cadiz. When rich Spaniards built the villa centuries earlier, it overlooked the ocean from a safe distance above an inland channel. When the ice caps and glaciers melted, the channel became a bay, and the villa’s lawn became a beach. Every winter like clockwork, the wind and currents switched in some way so that all the beach’s sand was pulled away and left the stone villa exposed to the waves. It was well-anchored to the rocks, but it still took a beating. Then, a couple months later, the sand would always return to drift against the ruin as high as its tiled, second-floor balconies. For some reason, the beaches around Cadiz stayed more or less free of “gunk,” the algae which fouled most near-shore waters in the Atlantic.
That’s where Doreen grew up and where she learned to surf well enough to become one of the top female pros in the world.
Both of her parents had already passed away from cancer when she brought me home to see the place. My freckle-faced, blue-eyed wife had been feeling low and thought a return to the scene of the crime might help recharge her batteries. A couple of her cousins were squatting in the villa at the time, running a slipshod surf camp for Euro-trash wave hogs. I forget their names, but the red-haired cousins were nice enough to us. They loaned me boards once when friends were in town. And they were kind to Doreen, sat with her some afternoons when she was still well enough to appreciate it.
During our time in Spain, Doreen and I spent most days shacked up in the little hill town of Vejer de la Frontera. We spent the money we had saved on a nice hotel room with a big balcony overlooking the valley below. We arrived with an arm-long list of things to do, sights to see, but never crossed much of anything off.
I think, watching her parents die, she knew what she was up against. Even so, it wasn’t until she got a new, fast-growing mole on her leg that she agreed to make an appointment with a doctor. We saw a couple quacks in Vejar de la Frontera before they sent her to see specialists in Gibraltar. All of ’em wore sad faces and made sad noises as they sucked our money dry. They gave us one month and we ended up with two. Two months of pain.
As I look back, I think the only sightseeing we did was the day we visited the ruins of Old Cadiz and the site of the great train wreck of New Cadiz. Doreen must have been feeling good that day, maybe she was trying one of her pain medicines, because in my memories, I remember her smiling.
The wind was calm that morning, and the ocean was flat. We bummed one of her family friend’s longboats and she sat in the prow while I oared the thing up and down the canals between ruined buildings. She played tour guide as she showed me around Old Cadiz.
The waters were clear enough to make out the submerged streets and parks, the lower floors of buildings below. Unlike cities like San Francisco and Honolulu that moved inland, the people of Cadiz tried to fight rising sea levels with epic ocean retaining walls and reinforced levees. She told me all about it as we rowed past the ruins of the gold-domed cathedral and out over the failed, sunken walls to drift to a stop where the ocean shelved blue and deep. Out in the open, looking back on it all, it was easy to spot which buildings poking up out of the water withstood the elements better than others. Even so, the wind and waves were taking their toll, slowly rounding and smoothing everything back to sand and dust. For some reason, this thought seemed to cheer Doreen up.
After lunch we took a tram up into New Cadiz. Though she was obviously tiring, Doreen insisted on walking from the tram up to the area’s big tourist attraction, the waterfalls of New Cadiz. For her, I think there was some sort of morbid pull to visit the place that most probably caused her cancer as well as the cancers that killed her parents, brothers and sister.
As waterfalls go, these were some of the ugliest on earth. Tumbling right down through the city, the falls were a tribute to war and terror, and the destructive force of nuclear warheads. The nuke that caused this mess was detonated a long time ago, and thousands of miles away.
It took her a while to catch her breath, but the tour guide bit continued as we found a place in the shade overlooking the busy square of the old Trans-Atlantic Terminal Building. In a low voice she explained that the Trans-Atlantic tunnel was one of mankind’s greatest engineering projects. Created in the early 2100s at the “zenith of the modern age,” the railroad tunnel was built from self-growing polymers that stretched in long straight lines and gradual turns across the bottom of the ocean from New Cadiz to the United States’ seaport of Philadelphia. She said something about the way the pair of super-high-speed trains ran on electromagnetic pulses. They were always an equal distance from each other. When one train was in New Cadiz, the other would be in Philadelphia, and vice versa. Somewhere out in the exact middle of the ocean was a spot where the tunnel widened to two tracks, and that’s where the trains passed each other every few hours on their ways back and forth between Europe and North America.
As every school kid around the world knows, things changed with the Religious Wars of 2118. Ten nuclear bombs were detonated around the world that year, including one somewhere in the middle of the Trans-Atlantic Tunnel. Doreen said nobody was able to prove exactly who did it or how, but the bomb was not aboard a train when it exploded. Both trains were making the long climb from the sea floor and nearing their terminals when water and shockwaves from the explosion blew the cars out the ends of the tunnels like shotgun blasts.
Pointing to an octagonal red building high on the hill above us, she said, “That’s where the highest car, the first one landed. I’m too tired to take you up there. It’s a shrine and it’s sad. You’ll have to take my word for it.”
She said the Spanish-bound train was found to have American Muslim fighters aboard, while the one which crashed in Philadelphia was loaded to the gills with Christian weapons and soldiers. Somebody had been profiting from both sides of the conflict, and somebody else decided to do something about it.
She said the Trans-Atlantic link would never be repaired. Not only were hundreds of miles of tunnel destroyed out in the deep, the days of projects on that scale and expense were long over. In the conservative, faith-based governments that followed the wars, many technologies like the self-growing polymers were ruled sacrilegious and forbidden.
Doreen stared at her feet when she described how the train wreck showered New Cadiz with nuclear waste. The place was a ghost town for almost 50
years. Though she was unable to explain why, something about the blast created a siphon which sucked water from the depths of the ocean and delivered it high uphill to the crater of New Cadiz terminal. Spewing at the rate of several thousand gallons a second, the seawater started flowing the day of the blast and never stopped.
At first, the water running downhill through the streets of New Cadiz was all fucked up–radioactive and toxic. Through the years, the blast zone out in the middle of the ocean cleaned itself up. The radioactivity dissipated. Scientists knew things were improving when they began to see signs of life in the spillage. At first they found microorganisms. Finally, they began to find shit like torn bodies of deep-water fish and squids bubbling up in the flow.
The government was hot to turn the edible sea life into a profit. Local officials even sold the rights to build processing plants, but that idea didn’t get far when everything was found to have high concentrations of bad stuff. The water shooting out of the tube may have cleaned up, but the food chain out there was going to be messed up forever.
The government did the next best thing. It decided to repopulate the area. Most of the people coaxed back to resettle were happy to heed the warnings not to fish or gather. Not Maria’s dad. He arrived a generation later when the warnings weren’t delivered so often or so seriously. As he pulled fish from the sea, right at the base of the waterfall, people would joke and say, “O’Malley, you’ll glow in the dark.” For a while, it worked out OK, the family grew fat on the bountiful catch, and also made money serving it to the guests of their surf camp in the ruined villa.
Gibraltar Page 21
