Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  Surely, The Team leaders will take a less humorous view of this breach of protocol. Forgive me, sirs, but when the Neanderthal of Western Spain go on to build a navy and conquer the world, I will apologize then. Please forgive my candor. As we have found many times on this crazy journey, there is something about narrowly escaping death that leaves a person feeling giddy and pissed off in equal measure.

  My mood has been lifted by Paul’s progress. While he remains physically weak and his verbal skills are stalled, his mental outlook has turned 180 degrees. I can see that he once again cares about living, and is committed to getting better. For a while there, I feared Paul had given up. We have begun a physical therapy regimen and he tries so hard. We measure his progress in small amounts and he has moved forward.

  Skimming across the ocean on our boat is when his spirits come most alive. You can see it in the creases of his good eye as he squints up at the sail and checks the lines to make sure I’m doing things properly. We have been working on a series of subtle hand and facial signs to help him guide me. He still wears his patch and still looks a bit like a pirate, but he’s my pirate and I love him.

  What goes through Paul’s mind as he rests on deck, imprisoned by an uncooperative body, forced to silence by an uncooperative tongue, I do not know. He watches the waves and clouds and lets me know with nods of his head or shaky waves of his right hand when I should change the attitude of sail or alter course. Thankfully, a fair wind and following sea have been in our favor.

  We sailed for four full days after our close call with the Neanderthal, never anchoring or beaching, just cruising a mile or two off the coast through gusty days and light-wind nights. Even if the Neanderthal and his clan spotted our sail and tried to follow, they could never catch us. I reckon we are now anchored off the coast of Portugal, the home country of my once-proud family. My kin may not have had wealth to rival the Bolzanos of the world, but they did own some land and wield a bit of power back in the days before the Big Drought chased Mother and Father to America. It is my understanding that several ancestors held regional political positions. A village square was named for a Duarte war hero who was my great-grandfather’s cousin. Though I visited Portugal twice in my youth, I recognize nothing of this coastline. As much as I would like to head inland and explore, that is pretty much impossible now.

  Our rocky, guano-covered island is about two miles from the mainland. It does not sport one tree or bush, and there is no freshwater, but it does offer a fine cove with a round-pebble beach where we are tied off out of the wind. The water filtration systems on the kayaks provide us with all the drinking water we need, but I’m tired of eating dried fish and goat with raisin berries. I have dug one of Paul’s hooks and lines from his kayak and am now going to give fishing a try.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Hey babe, check out this black codfish. What a fighter he was.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  I never was comfortable with filmmaker Steve’s friends. The big shots and loud talkers with their jewelry and fancy things may have been footing the bills, but I didn’t much care for their bull. When we were off filming “an adventure,” most of my friends in the traveling road show were behind-the-scenes guys like cameramen, roadies and drivers. They weren’t my friends, really, just people I talked to when we were waiting around for shit to happen. There was always a lot of down time.

  Steve had no shame in capitalizing on Doreen’s death. If I wanted to sulk and be alone, be disrespectful to his pals, then he would find a way to use that to sell views of his movies. I became the grieving widower, the loner with a sick, sad death wish. I didn’t usually watch his crap, so it took me a long time to learn I had a new public image, “The Loner.” I found out when one of my stepsisters gave me a hard time about it in a voice blast. By then, everybody was giving me so much space, I didn’t need to ignore people, they ignored me. I felt like I was bad luck.

  So I was a little surprised when I answered a knock at my hotel room door in Lucerne to find one of the sound-tech guys standing there looking nervous. “Mind if I come in?” he asked. I recognized him as Sato, the tech who made sure my microphones worked.

  “Sure.”

  We danced around the subject for a few minutes, him hoping he’s not bothering me, me telling him don’t worry about it, all that stuff, until he blurts out, “I can’t let them kill you.”

  It took Sato a while, but in the end I believed him when he said Steve was getting ready to film a tragic, bloody end to my short film career. Due to some recent missteps, the series’ ratings were dropping like a stone, and so was Steve’s interest in me. I had stopped telling him what a great guy he was and I wasn’t a very fun pet to show off to his friends. Sato said Steve bet a bundle that the Lucerne Sky Surfing Championships would be where I crashed and burned.

  That people were betting on whether I lived or died came as no surprise. I had seen the looks, and had known for months people were wagering on my survival. Some crewmembers clapped me on the back at the end of adventures, and others gave me the evil eye. Strangers in restaurants, on the sidewalks, on trains…I heard it from a lot of folks.

  But to hear that Steve had placed a wad on me dying really hit home. The guy was not as loaded as I had once thought, not nearly as rich as his friends. And he wasn’t a risk-taker. Steve liked being around risk-takers, sending crews out to put their lives on the line filming heroes in action, but he always covered his own ass, played things safe. If Steven Jacoby thought the end was coming, it probably was.

  “What day?”

  “The finals. Sunday.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Come on, two more. And one, and done. Whoa, look at you. You’re going to keep going, huh? Good job, hon.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  A winter storm blowing down out of the Serra da Gardunha has forced Paul and me to seek shelter on dry land for the first time in 11 days. Sea legs wobble as I drag driftwood through the wet snow to our fire, and my guts slosh gently back and forth when I sit in our cave and watch the flames.

  I knew the sunny bluebird days and crisp, star-filled nights we enjoyed following our escape from Cadiz wouldn’t last. After all, it is winter. So we made hay while we could, wringing every mile of forward progress possible out of the favorable winds from the south.

  Never gusting too hard, nor disappearing altogether, the winds filled our woven fiber sail for 10 days and nights. I reckon we covered roughly 427 miles from Cadiz to these rocky knobs, which may or may not be the Islas Farilhoes. While I am not sure of the pedigree of this cluster of islands–it is hard to be exact in swirling fog and snow–I am more than certain we are off the coast of what will someday become my ancestors’ stomping grounds, the Estremadura Region of Portugal.

  That is not meant to imply that I recognize any part of this dangerous, swampy coastline. If my uncle Manuel was here, he could probably find the trio of hills where the family ranch dried up and blew away. Of course, Manuel would need to survive long enough to hack his way through the forest to reach those hills, which would be no easy task. Though it is winter, this land is rife with all sorts of wildlife, including nasty beasts like lion, bear, woolly hippo, wolf, hyena, cold-water crocodiles and giant, flesh-eating birds.

  Our close brush with the Neanderthal hunter in Cadiz convinced me that unless it is absolutely necessary to go ashore, we won’t. Thankfully, our first 10 days at sea had perfect weather for sailing. With Paul’s help, I learned quite a bit about navigating our makeshift catamaran. I feel much more confident at its helm. Though communicating his thoughts is both physically tiring and overwhelmingly frustrating for Paul, he usually finds a way to make me understand. My husband can say quite a lot with a blink of his good eye, or by changing the inflections of his grunts and gurgles. His leather eye patch still makes him look a bit like a pirate.

  Paul watched every move his novice
captain made during our trip north. Wrapped in a waxed skin for warmth and lashed to the mast to keep him from rolling overboard, he generally kept his opinions to himself. But if I asked how to proceed in a particular circumstance, he would do his best to answer. It helps when I pose questions that require just a yes or no. Otherwise, he let me make my mistakes and learn from them, only intervening when I was in danger of running us aground in the middle of the night, or of capsizing the boat.

  In truth, we could have covered much more distance if we had been content to set a straight course and follow it. Instead, I timidly hugged the coastline, never straying more than two or three miles from shore. At Paul’s insistence, we reversed course several times daily to practice tacking against the wind. We also circled islands or sailed into their lee, not only to scout for places to anchor, but also to help improve my skills in dealing with changing currents and wind conditions.

  Our great innovation, the clay fire hearth, exceeded my expectations while we were under sail. Though it radiated little heat from its spot suspended off the stern, we lived on warm stews and chowders cooked in a clay bowl. The flat-bottomed bowl rests snuggly atop one end of the platter. I bank a ring of coals around it and just keep adding water, herbs and fresh ingredients, whatever goodies I manage to hook, spear or net. That stewpot provided most of our breakfasts, lunches and dinners at sea. There’s nothing like eating a steaming turtle-shell bowl of soup and watching the flames of a fire to take the loneliness out of a dark night on the ocean.

  The only downside is the speed with which our fire pit turns wood to ash. This insatiable hunger causes us to forever be on the lookout for bobbing driftwood. Collecting combustibles provides excellent steering practice. Whenever we spot a likely candidate, or a debris field of sticks and leaves, I change course to inspect and sometimes pick up manageably sized pieces. I have learned to make tight circles to double back, and just when to fold in the sail to coast to the right place. After hauling the driftwood aboard, I arrange it to dry on deck by order of size and combustibility. Hard woods are saved for cook fires, soft woods for kindling.

  Two very tasty types of seaweed are common to these waters, as well as a pinkish kelp that isn’t too bad as long as you cook it long enough. Though the larders of our kayaks hold seasonings, salt, dried mushrooms, moldy fruit, onions and a few bags of goat jerky, most of our concoctions are based around flesh from the ocean. Catching fish by hook and line is always possible, but I have already lost three of Paul’s precious ivory hooks to the jaws of powerful jackfish. I’m reluctant to let them take another.

  Most of my gathering at sea is done with nets. I have become rather proficient in scooping up squid, shrimp and krill. Whenever we have a hankering for fish, I lower the sail and mash up a handful of shrimp or krill to toss into the water alongside the boat. It never takes long for the chum to attract smaller fish, which then attract bigger fish. Pretty soon, there are so many it is almost impossible to miss with our barbed harpoon. On land, I have been trying to mix things up, drawing upon different ingredients and cooking styles. If I can catch one, goose is scheduled to top this evening’s menu.

  All this used to be Paul’s bailiwick. He loved trolling with his homemade lures and hunting with his spears. Paul was my provider, my guard, my pack mule and my intrepid waterman. Now his chores are left to me. His chores, my chores, and the additional duties of cleaning his messes and ladling stew into his quavering mouth.

  Our twice-daily physical therapy regimen appears to have hit a plateau. It would be hard to quantify any measurable improvement in his motor skills, strength or speech in the past week. He continues to put full effort in trying, but I can feel his frustration grow.

  The only flashes of the old Paul I’ve seen came during the storm. He wore a sideways smile as ocean swells splashed across the deck and the boat shuddered as if it might break up in the howling winds. We should have had time to find safe harbor long before it came to that. We both spotted the slate gray clouds building in the hills a good two hours before the winds began to shift.

  We had plenty of islands to choose from, but every one was overrun with large bears. The bruins were light brown with narrow heads similar to polar bears in the pictures I viewed as a child. Fat on seal, salmon, sea lion and probably a thousand other nutrient-rich types of prey, the bears were beyond huge. I have no hard data to back this up, but I would estimate their weight to be as much as 2,000 pounds. They dominated the landscape, hunting and feeding in the water, on the beaches and atop the cliffs. It was impossible to land safely in their territory. It would have been suicide.

  Growing more desperate as the winds picked up velocity, I looked down through spitting snow to see Paul and his lopsided grin. He spun his head in a little circle, rolled his eye, and waited to see if I caught his meaning.

  “Turn around?” I asked.

  At his nod to the affirmative, I leaned hard on the rudder and put the wind to our backs. We shot forward, riding the waves as we covered 15 or 20 downwind miles in less than 45 minutes. I thought we were headed back to Cadiz, or perhaps our deaths, when Paul used his toe to point out the rocky half moon where we now sit by a fire in a shallow cave. The island is too small and devoid of trees to support bears, but there are many, many birds, seals, penguins and sea lions. A pair of rocky points curve outward to protect the flat water bay in a protective hug. The space between the tips of those arms, the mouth of our harbor, is no more than 20 feet wide.

  How I managed to steer through such a narrow opening while dealing with the wind and the waves is beyond my comprehension. If I had been given the task two weeks earlier, I never could have accomplished it. It was a kamikaze mission, but somehow I managed to pick the right line and to catch a perfect wave to shoot between the rocks and continue right up onto the round-stone beach. It was even high tide. Paul was as happy as I have seen him since his hand was stung.

  The boat is not damaged, we’re safe and relatively comfortable. There is at least a year’s worth of wood to burn and plenty to eat. We’ve found that when cooked and salted properly, penguin eggs and sliced abalone combine to make a delicious omelet.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “You’re not even trying today. Come on!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  As two-time defending champion of the Lucerne Sky Surfing Championships, I had to march in the opening ceremonies, show face at welcoming parties, all that crap. Even so, it was all right. Lucerne was one of my favorite places in Switzerland, the world, really. With its wooden bridges, old buildings and cobblestone sidewalks, the pretty little medieval town on the shore of deep Lake Lucerne always made me feel like I had stepped back in time.

  Airspace was restricted over Old Town and the entire lake basin so there was none of the usual visual clutter or noise in the sky. I really liked the rocky Alps, all the pastures with the sounds of cowbells ringing, town bands marching through the streets every night at sunset, and the way there always seemed to be a festival with authentic foods and cultural stuff happening somewhere. Those Swiss knew how to entertain guests–and how to separate them from their money. Everything was really expensive.

  With Steve’s company footing the bills, it was a lot different than the first year I won, back when I slept in the basement of a friend of a friend’s house up in hills about 30 miles out of town. This time, they bunked me in a fancy apartment right in the middle of Lucerne. I could look out my window and see the swans float down the Reuss River. I did a lot of that, sitting in the window seat and watching the tourists as they crossed the diagonal Chapel Bridge or ate their lunches at tables set up on riverside terraces outside the restaurants. I liked how the local women marched arm-in-arm with their daughters and granddaughters every afternoon along the river. Trailed by their security robots, the biddies cut a wake through tourists and frisky boys alike. The covered bridge had these old paintings about death and resurrection in the eaves, spooky kind of, but I spent a
lot of time studying those skeletons whenever I made the crossing.

  In Lucerne, like all old European towns, the church bells ring every hour. Where I was quartered there was a big church with twin onion domes almost directly across the river. Damn bells woke me up every morning at 4 o’clock. I guess I could sleep through three ka-bongs, but not four. By five, I was dressed and out for my morning run. I love to watch a place wake up, especially those old cities. In Lucerne, I’d jog the empty streets and sidewalks then head down to the lakeshore to see where the morning took me. It was always my favorite time of the day.

  My only rule in Lucerne was to make sure to be back in time to graze the breakfast buffet. My hotel put on a nice spread with all the German stuff like smoked meats, hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, fresh fruit and muesli, but my favorites were their made-to-order crepes and omelets. I ate like a king. Memories of those crepes and omelets got me through some really awful training days with The Team–when we lived on toadstools and boiled watercress, maybe roast rat if we were damn lucky.

  I was sitting at the breakfast table on the first day of competition, ready to tuck into my second spinach-and-cheese omelet, when Steve sat down and started picking at my food. He looked like he had been through a rough night of partying, with bloodshot eyes and hands that shook as he sipped his glass of kelp juice.

  “Wine to liquor, never sicker,” he moaned. “Those fucking Belgians. With those guys it’s like a competition, a race or something. I was doing fine, then we started on Courvoisier and schnapps. They insisted we finish with Canadian whisky. Oh, my poor head. How about you, did you sleep all right?”