It turned out, I was the only one to shoot a fish. And even though Steve had all the permits, killing such a rare grouper brought a shit-storm of bad press down on our heads. It took me another few months to truly figure out what a jerk Steve was, but the fish thing was the start of the end of our friendship.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Why would my mother say that? She knew how I felt about the subject, yet she continued to hammer away year after year. Why would she do that?”
Kaikane: “Mean.”
Duarte: “Mean? My mother mean? I never thought of it that way.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Forgive me, Team leaders, for it has been 23 days since my last journal entry. I have taken the Lord’s name in vain many times during that period, and am also guilty of other sins, including despair and the attempted murder of my husband. It has been a rough three weeks.
We are currently bobbing in the grip of a doldrum about 17 miles off the northwestern tip of Spain. Galicia’s bare hills appear as purple mounds low on our southern horizon. They have been growing smaller through the day and will soon drop from view. Waves that push us northeastward no longer run in the 19-foot range as they pass under our boat. Today the open-ocean rollers are averaging only six feet in height. I have become so accustomed to constantly dipping into troughs and rising to crests, they scarcely affect my typing.
Paul, the survivor, mans the tiller for the second time today, a very big step forward. Though he lies on his back and navigates by feel, steering with his one good leg, he still does a better job riding the waves than I do. The bruises on his neck have faded from dark purple to greenish-yellow.
Paul’s right leg now has a wide range of movement, as does his left arm. I would mark his improvement at about 25 percent overall. He has also regained control over his bowels and bladder. While slurred, his speech is nearly intelligible.
The left-right thing has me thinking he may not have suffered a stroke after all. The files say stroke victims are usually paralyzed on one side or the other. Neurotoxins? We continue to do physical therapy, but I think his modest gains are due mostly to large doses of salt air, sunny skies and the adrenalin rush of surviving angry seas that dwarfed our catamaran.
The monster waves arrived midmorning 13 days ago. There was no change in the wind or weather to signal their approach, just a gradual build-up in size and frequency until we were holding on for our dear lives. Every drop into the troughs robbed our sail of wind and thus negated my control of the boat. It scared the hell out of me.
“Urf, urf,” Paul screamed, straining to turn against the ropes that held him seated upright against the mast like a prisoner in a cartoon.
“Surf?”
“Urf!”
When I carved a clean line across the face of a wave, riding high to keep our sail in the wind, Paul rewarded my efforts with his sounds for “happy” and “good.” Stalls and near-disasters drew farting noises and orangutan hoots. It was an intense breed of sailing, one that was as exhilarating as it was tiring. At sunset, I rigged the “auto-pilot” ropes which hold the rudder on a steady course and hurriedly put on my full jumpsuit. I offered to move Paul to a resting position, but he declined.
The suit’s electric feeling soon spread through my body to drive away fatigue and replace it with an odd mix of confidence and anxiety. The suits are survival machines and do not like having so few options. If it were possible to run across the waves to shore, that is what my suit would have compelled me to do. For two days and two nights the waves continued to build, right along with my anxiousness.
The jumpsuit does not make you a better sailor, just a more robotic one. There is no soul, no art. But there is also no being tired, cold or wet. The night vision features of my helmet allowed me to see incoming waves at a distance and to plot the courses I needed to survive.
The shark arrived the same afternoon the swell reached maximum size. Swimming with his notched dorsal fin high out of the water, he didn’t make any overtly aggressive moves toward the boat. He just kept pace with us, remaining about 45 feet away, the rest of the day and through the night. We would be lifted high atop a wave looking down on him in the trough, and then it would be his turn to rise up while we studied him from below. It was like we were watching him through the blue-green waters of an aquarium. Night was spookier, with the heat signature of his torpedo-shaped body glowing green in my visor as he paralleled the boat.
The kayak hulls of our catamaran are 20 feet long, and provide perfect references to gauge the size of this shark. He spans roughly 25 feet 4 inches from his nose to the tip of his tail. We have been calling him a tiger shark, but now that I have had a chance to study him closely, his markings are subtly different. His belly features spots instead of solid white. And while I have no empirical data to back this up, he seems smarter than the average shark. For now, I have named the species Assholius maximus.
The kayak anti-predator systems continue to dissuade the shark from charging too close, but he grows bolder. It seems quite likely he will soon break through the inhibitions cast by the ever-spinning gyroscopes inside the supposedly indestructible hulls. I wonder if they can survive the bite of a shark this size.
After a third full day without rest or sleep, even my jumpsuit was having difficulty keeping me awake. Rigging the rudder’s auto-pilot ropes to keep us on a northwesterly direction, diagonal with the incoming waves, I curled up next to Paul for a power nap that turned into a four-hour snooze.
The dreams were some of the worst I’ve ever had. So real, so terrifying, the convoluted nightmares were awash in death and blood. The shark burst in and out of the stories, gobbling family members in bathtubs and chewing our boat in half. In the most realistic dream, I was sitting on the last island’s rocky point working on my computer, pounding out a very important report about a new species of shrub. Deadline was coming and I just had to get the report finished right away. Chop, chop!
As I built toward my report’s epic, groundbreaking conclusion, the shark launched himself out of the water to chomp down on my ankle. Jackknifing his body back and forth, he whipped my body like a rag doll as he tried to drag me down into the water. As the shark worked his way up my legs, I struggled to finish my report, for without its conclusion, all my life’s work would be worthless.
I awoke from this nightmare to see Paul had rolled himself over to the edge of the boat, lowered his drawers and was relieving his bowels over the side. Unseen behind him, the shark had closed to no more than eight feet away. Lips pulled back, teeth glinting in the afternoon sun, his saucer-sized black eyes never blinked as inched through our sonic defenses toward Paul.
My jumpsuit had me up and on my feet in a flash. Grabbing Paul by his torso, I lifted and carried him to center of the boat and dropped him none-too-gently on his sleeping skin.
“Ee cool, ee cool,” he grunted. Be cool, be cool.
The next thing I knew, I had Paul by the throat and was desperate to choke the life out of him. I wanted to KILL him! I was almost there, his eyes had rolled back in his head, when my brain locked on his feeble attempts to fight back, kicking with his right leg and punching with his left arm. That was progress! Something about that thought triggered enough caregiver instinct to allow me to override my jumpsuit-induced insanity.
Ripping off my helmet, I began cardio-pulmonary resuscitation that turned into gentle kisses as his breathing returned to normal.
“S-ok, s-ok.” He cradled me in his left arm as I buried my tears against his chest.
Along with burdening this former Catholic schoolgirl with enough guilt to last a lifetime, the incident sheds additional light on the atrocities of Team member Sergeant Lorenzo Martinelli. If I could so easily be driven to nearly slay my husband, I wonder how many of Martinelli’s abuses should be attributed to the suit and not the man? From this new perspective, I am not as quick to judge as I once was.
I have no doubt these prototype mach
ines are designed primarily for warfare, and can only imagine what sort of mayhem they will cause if deployed on future battlefields.
If these words make it back through time, I strongly recommend that until the machines can be reprogrammed with far more empathy and restraint, they never be used for military purposes. I pity the world if soldiers are sent into the field wearing these suits. They become a crutch strong as any drug. Once they infiltrate your mind, they take you to some very dark places. When stressed or under threat, compassion and ethics take a far backseat to personal survival and victory.
I wadded my jumpsuit into a ball and was ready to toss it into the ocean when Paul stopped me. “Will need it someday,” was the gist of his argument. He has forgiven my outrageous behavior with brave good humor. In fact, I don’t think he ever really blamed me. If he could say, “I told you so,” he surely would. Paul has never trusted these suits, and has never been completely comfortable with the tingling changes they bring to his mind and body.
In the time it has taken to write this journal entry, the wind has begun to freshen from the northwest. That is not the best direction for our daring plan to cut directly across the Bay of Biscay, but beggars cannot be choosers. Even a day full of tacking against headwinds would be better than floating like a cork. When I relieve Paul, I am going to log him onto his computer to give him a chance to put down his thoughts. I hope he is not too hard on me.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Did you ever think you would see so many whales?”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Maria good. Love you Maria. Good sailor, strong woman. Wife.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Him or us.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Paul is determined to kill the shark before it kills us. He better hurry.
I was at the tiller this morning and, I admit, not paying proper attention, when the damn thing bumped the left hull with his tail. I never saw him coming. The impact nearly knocked me overboard. I grabbed a support line on my way in and, thankfully, the braided fibers held as I dangled about a foot above the water. The son-of-a-bitch has bumped us twice since then.
Paul ignores the shark as he sits precariously close to the edge of the deck and dips a net to catch shrimp and fish. Our catamaran has once again formed a little ocean ecosystem in its shadow, and all sorts of creatures spiral below. He smashes whatever he catches between two pieces of driftwood and tosses it overboard to call in bigger fish.
My husband has a plan. I’m doing my best to remain patient as I wait for him to tell me what it is.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “He’s too big.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Shark close. Hate shark. Shark hate. Hate me. Him or me 1 must die.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Kid’s gettin’ kinda chummy with your girlfriend.”
Bolzano: “Leonglauix thinks their secret infatuation is hilarious. You know, he actually called the boy’s dreamy stares ‘moon eyes’ last night. He said, ‘Greemil makes moon eyes one too many times, he will step in a badger hole and break a leg like his grandfather.’ I must not forget to add that one to my list.”
Jones: “Whaddaya gonna do about it?”
Bolzano: “What can I do? If she prefers his company over mine, so be it.”
Jones: “Ain’t she worth a fight?”
Bolzano: “In some ways, maybe. But, no, I suppose not, not really.”
Jones: “No?”
Bolzano: “Outside the boudoir, we are not simpatico. The sex, it is fine, certainly far more stimulating than our conversations. Lanio and I share nothing in common.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Thanks to the storyteller’s rave reviews, our expectations for the hot spring thumb camp grew to mythical proportions. Hot, warm and cool pools to swim in, abundant game and firewood, dry sleeping areas, this was a Shangri-La without equal. The build-up made it all the worse when our fern grotto turned out to be a stinking sewer.
Leonglauix had dangled the comforts and warmth of the secret retreat before us like carrots in front of recalcitrant mules. Many an afternoon during our never-ending descent through the mountains, we would be ready to set up camp and he would cajole us into traveling longer and harder by saying something akin to, “See that hill over yonder? If we were to walk across this frozen swamp and follow the frozen stream, we could be there by sunset. It is a flat walk that puts us one half day closer to the hot springs. Wouldn’t you enjoy sitting in a hot bath right now?”
I should have known better than to get my hopes up.
The old man was first to detect troubling signs as we crept under the limbs of pine and hazel nut trees and over fallen logs to the bottom of a serpentine valley. His secret spot was no longer a secret. Pulling up where a break in the trees allowed us to survey the camp, we counted 11 members of an all-male hunting party sprawled in and around the pools. The tableau reminded me of a holovision documentary I once viewed about grumpy Japanese monkeys who sit in steaming water and pout while falling snow piles atop their heads.
Judging by the stains of human excrement piled everywhere, the clan had been in residence for quite some time. It was impossible to fully assess intentions and attitudes from such a distance, but one thing was obvious, the hunters kept their weapons, mostly spears, clubs and throwing stones, close at hand.
Despite the good, common sense it made to skedaddle, Leonglauix refused. Perhaps his sales job had built the place up in his own mind as well. To hear the stories, he had spent many pleasant days luxuriating in the spring waters when he was younger. I think he was anxious for us create our own memories of the place he held so dear.
Spying a nervous glance shared between new parents Tomon and Gertie, I offered an unsolicited opinion. “Wise father, let us be gone from this odiferous valley where there is no game or even birds in the trees. Those hunters put a bad feeling into my guts.” I nodded to Jones hoping he would echo my sentiments, but he refused to speak. The somber captain stood waiting for his orders, his face as unreadable as a chess master.
Ignoring our concerns, casting his better judgment to the winds, our leader refused to depart the glen without giving his sulky crew the opportunity to dip at least one toe in the hot waters. It proved a shame the pools were not as hot as he remembered, and that they had recently been fouled by urine, feces, animal bones and food waste. But we did not know all that yet. If we did, it may have been possible to convince Leonglauix to pass on by.
“Get weapons ready,” he signed with a slash of his hand. At this point, it is worth noting that in Cro-Magnon society it is most impolite for guests to openly display weaponry as they enter a host’s camp. The meaning is clear, “Be prepared to fight.”
Rather than waltz down the main avenue into camp, the storyteller took us through the back door. We followed him in single file line as he “quiet-walked” a faint trail down through the trees, across the stream and up the valley’s northern wall. About halfway to cresting the ridge, we intersected with another trail. The servant’s entrance was a series of steep switchbacks descending through a jumble of mossy boulders. The muddy path terminated at a commanding mantle of limestone above the top pool.
Odds were not numerically in our favor. Eleven battle-hardened, near-starving hunters versus the four men and three women of the Green Turtle Clan and their squire, a sad, homesick Owl. Sounds masked by the tumbling waters, we assembled in silence above them. The scent of feces and urine was overpowering as we gauged spear ranges and studied their approaches to our position. The hunters had been using Leonglauix’s precious pools as both toilets and bathtubs. What idiots!
Squeals of a dying swine, a pig struck by a fatal spear thrust to the ribs, erupted besid
e me as Leonglauix mimicked the sounds. All eyes turned to the storyteller who shook his three spears from atop a podium of flat rock.
“Are you pigs?” he roared in trade dialect. “Pigs wallow in shit and so do you! You are pigs!”
The shame being cast down fell upon generally deaf ears. They scaled the rocks like lemurs, their pale white bodies festered with sores. “Welcome, welcome! Do you have food? Give us food. Give us a dog to eat. We are hungry!” Their aggressive groveling slowly backed us toward the cliff wall. They were too close, yet none gave us just reason to bash their head.
“Who is the leader of this clan?” Leonglauix growled.
“I am chief hunter,” said an emaciated man with wet, lank hair hanging to his waist. “Who are you, old man?”
“I am Youneff, honey collector for the Bee Clan, and killer of snakes,” Leonglauix lied. “I kill all sorts of snakes, even ones with two legs. Do I need to kill you?”
“Why not give us a dog instead? Give us a dog, bee man, and we will not hurt your women.”
Lanio was holding tightly to the leashes of Izzy and her own canine when one of the men made an attempt for the braided leather cords. “Give us a dog to eat!” A white-hot rage must have flared within me, for before I knew what happened, I strode forth and launched the scoundrel with a two-handed shove that sent him sailing back-first to the shallow pool three meters below. Un-sheathing my oak club from its quiver across my back, I swung it in a lethal arc that halted one millimeter from the spokesman’s teeth.
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