The Tourist Trail

by John Yunker

  Aeneas turned and winked. He did not make a move toward her, so she followed his lead and stayed where she was.

  “We’re well into the Drake Passage now,” he said. “You’re holding up pretty well.”

  “It’s not my first time across.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot. You were once the entertainment on a cruise ship.”

  “They use the term ‘naturalist.’”

  “Of course they do.” He arched his eyebrows, and she couldn’t help but smile back. She approached the window so she could stand next to him, her left arm touching his right. They looked out over the madness of water, and as sheets of rain began to pelt the windows, she wanted to hold his hand, to reach out and stroke the soft skin of his neck, but she did not. This was his place of work, his office, and she was only a visitor.

  Aeneas mumbled something, and his mumble was echoed by D. J. Angela realized then that these two were more like a married couple than she and Aeneas were—they were the ones who spoke a secret language, who read each other’s minds.

  Aeneas reached into one of the bulging pockets of his jacket and pulled out a Blow Pop. He offered it to her, and she shook her head. “One of our supporters works at this company,” he said as he unwrapped it. “Sends us a case of them before every trip. Lauren won’t touch them because she doesn’t believe they’re vegan.”

  “Are they?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who’s Lauren?” Angela asked.

  His eyes scanned the horizon, binoculars in one hand, Blow Pop stick in the other. She wasn’t sure whether he hadn’t heard her or whether he’d ignored her. For the first time it occurred to her that he now had the advantage that she’d so comfortably held on land. Now he was back in his element, and she was as lost on his turf as he’d been on hers.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Icebergs. It’s premature, probably, but I prefer that we see them before we hear them.” His eyes remained focused on the outside.

  Angela felt hunger growing within her and asked, “Have you eaten already?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast. But there’s food in the galley.” He glanced down at her, as if just remembering that she was new to the ship. “Want me to show you the way?”

  “I can find it. Better that I get lost than we hit an iceberg.”

  She slid open the door and exited the bridge, where a burst of cold air slapped her fully awake. She stood at the rail for a few moments, watching the waves, catching the eye of a wandering albatross gliding past. It had been years since she last made this passage, and seeing the albatross felt like greeting an old companion.

  She climbed down the stairs, back into the ship. She could hear music playing in the cabins as she passed, young voices talking and laughing. It reminded her of a college dormitory, and she felt stuck on the outside looking in, as she always had back in school. Those awkward years were nothing she wanted to repeat, but the feelings were still so vivid, those situations in which she’d always existed on the periphery.

  In junior high, she’d lost herself in books, in backyards climbing trees. Most afternoons she hiked through a small patch of woods near her house, surrounded by industrial parks and divided by railroad tracks. She was too stubborn to worry about the risks of a young girl alone in the trees. She was invisible there, watching the older kids smoking pot in a clearing, imaging herself climbing aboard the trains that passed. While other kids were memorizing their lines for Arsenic and Old Lace or tossing a basketball around a humid gymnasium, she was watching squirrels bark at one another and hide acorns under leaves, or sometimes just pretending to hide things, to throw the squirrels off. She had watched the birds, learned their names and voices: the cardinals calling to one another with their unmistakably sharp lyrics; the blue jays gathering on the tree limbs to harass a migratory Swainson’s hawk, nipping at its feet in flight. Now, looking back, it was clear that she’d been on a path to becoming a naturalist. Perhaps if she’d had a boyfriend in school, he may have distracted her from her journey. But she was too busy nursing chicks that had fallen from nests back to health.

  She passed by the closed cabin doors and found her way to the galley, a cramped room with four tables of various makes and sizes, each half-occupied. She felt eyes upon her as she navigated between the tables to a stainless steel counter that held what looked like breakfast. A man stood behind it, preparing coffee. “Hello, Angela,” he said.

  She recognized the face and smiled, wishing she could remember the name that went along with it.

  “Garrett,” he reminded her. “The chef.”

  “Yes, right.”

  “We’ve got pumpkin scones, Tofurkey sausages, the usual fruits and cereals. There is always plenty of everything when we’re in the Drake Passage, so many of the crew forgetting to take their meclizine tablets.”

  A tall blond woman brushed up against Angela and reached for an apple. Angela took a step back and offered her hand. “Pardon me. I’m Angela.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman said, without looking up. She grabbed her scone and left. Angela turned to Garrett with a quizzical look.

  “That’s Lauren,” he said. “Not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Keeps the ship fueled, running, on time. We’re off schedule, incidentally, which she’s none too happy about.”

  “And I’m the reason why.”

  “Please. We’ve never been on schedule. Not with Aeneas at the helm. Every day’s an adventure with our dear captain.”

  Garrett guided Angela around the room, stopping at each table and offering up names, too many to memorize. She focused on three at a time, the friendliest faces so far: Maggie, Hedley, Ben. Maggie, young and fresh-faced, wore a wrinkled CDA t-shirt. Hedley looked his role as first engineer his long hair dirty and frayed as if from long hours in the engine room. Ben seemed to have more tattoos than skin to hold them; flames crawled up his neck and circled his ears.

  Angela sat down next to Hedley with a scone and a mug of coffee, listening to the group banter over who clogged the toilet next to the meeting room, over why Maggie hadn’t been in her bunk earlier that morning. And then Angela’s mind returned to Lauren, to that stoic Roman face, devoid of emotional crevices and flaws, and she wondered how Lauren fit into the social structure of this mostly volunteer crew. Angela realized that this ship likely suffered from many of the same dynamics of her research base, and she wondered whether she’d simply traded a soap opera on land for one at sea.

  “Is there a restroom on this level?” Angela asked.

  “Down the hallway, on the left,” Maggie said.

  Angela thanked her and stood. “I think those waves are taking their toll after all.”

  “Or Garrett’s cooking,” Ben said.

  They laughed, and Angela left, her breakfast uneaten. She didn’t feel seasick; she simply needed to get out of there. She walked to the end of the hall, down a flight a stairs and then another, until there was nowhere else to go. The hallway was uncarpeted and dimly lit. She saw a room marked Storage and entered. The room, piled high with boxes, was lit by a tiny porthole. She approached the window and felt at first as if she were looking into a washing machine, eye level with the white tips of waves, dousing the glass, leaving streaks behind only to be erased again by the next wave.

  Alone at last, she leaned her head against the thick glass. This was not how she imagined her voyage would be. Eyes following her every move. Not knowing where to turn for a moment alone. She’d never considered that she was stepping not only into Aeneas’s life but into the lives of so many others—people who may not want her here, or at best, didn’t care. At Punta Verde, escape was always just a hill away. On a boat in the middle of the Drake Passage, she had no refuge.

  She looked at her watch. Though she felt as if she’d been awake for days,
it was still only mid-morning. She imagined her camp, a few hundred miles to the north. It was Tuesday, which meant Shelly would be checking on the chicks in Back Bay. Doug would most likely be assisting. Others would be scattered north and south of the research station. And Shelly would have been the first to have read the hastily scribbled note in the office:

  Leave of absence. Left by boat. Please forgive me.

  —Angela

  Would Shelly have been surprised? Would they now be missing her, as much as she was missing them?

  She heard a noise behind her. Heart jumping, she whirled around to see a large cardboard box fall from the top of its stack, revealing a man in a white t-shirt that read crew. Angela tried to step back and found herself pressed up against the porthole.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  He was soft-spoken and sounded harmless, but she noticed that he didn’t look quite like the other crew members. Maybe it was the absence of tattoos on his arms, or the fact that his hair was short and neatly trimmed, an almost white shade of blond. He was tall, though slumped shoulders belied his height. And he looked away as she stared at him.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said.

  “Oh, no. I’m Ethan.”

  “Angela.”

  He locked on her eyes for a moment, then looked down.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s just that, well, I’m new here.”

  “That’s refreshing. So am I.” She smiled, but she wasn’t sure he noticed; he didn’t hold her gaze for more than a couple of seconds.

  “No. I’m really new.”

  “I boarded last night,” she said. “I’ll bet you can’t beat that.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Last night?”

  “Yes.”

  A weight appeared to lift from his shoulders, and though he didn’t smile, she could see his chest moving again.

  “I boarded in Puerto Madryn,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “To be honest, I’m not supposed to be on board at all.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “No, I mean”—he paused and leaned forward—“I’m a stowaway.”

  Angela laughed and waited for him to join in, but he only looked at her. “You’re serious?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “What about your uniform?”

  He looked down at his crew t-shirt and laughed awkwardly. “This? I just needed a change of clothes. I found a whole box of these in here.”

  Angela studied him, not sure how to respond. What she knew she should do was leave the room and report him to Aeneas—but she didn’t relish the idea of returning to a room full of strangers when she could stay down here with only one. And Ethan certainly didn’t look dangerous; she’d probably handled penguins that could put up a better fight than he could.

  “Please—don’t tell anyone,” he continued, as if sensing her unease. “I don’t mean any harm. I was planning to get off the ship before it left, but the next thing I knew, it was pulling out of the harbor. I planned to turn myself in. I honestly did.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I was about to, but when I went up to the deck to find the captain, I saw him pointing a gun at this fishing boat. I figured it would be wise to lay low for a little while longer.”

  Angela felt a pang of guilt, knowing what drove Aeneas to board that fishing boat: the pursuit of a penguin tag, the one now dangling around her neck. She had never paused to think about those fishermen. But now that she was here, having left her anger behind on the shores of Punta Verde, she realized that she was as complicit as Aeneas. A pirate by proxy. She told herself that the fishermen were okay, that the sunken ship was insured.

  But now she faced Ethan, another victim, albeit indirect. “So why’d you come on board in the first place?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for someone. My girlfriend, Annie Miller. Do you know her?”

  Angela shook her head. “But I don’t know everyone yet. Are you sure she’s here?”

  He nodded. “She invited me to come along, but I was—well, the timing wasn’t right. That is, until I came across this ship in Puerto Madryn. I thought I’d try to find her.”

  “So why are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding from her. I’m hiding from that crazy captain.”

  Angela sighed. “That crazy captain is my boyfriend.” She watched his eyes expand.

  “If I find Annie, she’ll vouch for me,” he said. “I’m just not sure how to do it without getting caught first.”

  He had a sad look about him, the look of someone left behind or lost, a feeling Angela could identify with, now more than ever. It made her feel sympathetic toward him, even though she wasn’t sure what to do with him.

  “Let me find her,” Angela said. “Stay here, okay?”

  Ethan nodded. She could only imagine how Aeneas would react if he knew she were hiding a stowaway. But a part of her enjoyed having a secret of her own, knowing that there was one person on this boat more lost than she.

  She went out to the side deck for some air. The sun was still hidden by clouds ahead, but the horizon was outlined in a brighter, almost silvery shade. The waves were high—sea spray moistened her face, and she had to grip the railing to stay upright. They had to be close to the Antarctic Convergence, she realized—where the oceans of the north met the Southern Ocean, warm waters colliding with icy cold, a wild roil that made her wonder what other conflicts awaited her. Again she felt a twinge of regret for having left, but perhaps it was inevitable, part of the natural cycle of her existence, that she would one day leave her penguins in the same fashion they have, for years, left her: an awkward, hurried dash into an unpredictable sea.

  Ethan

  Ethan watched Angela shut the door behind her, then closed his eyes. He pictured her ascending the ship, floor by floor, entering each room, asking for Annie. Could it be this simple? A human search engine, operating on his behalf? He smiled at the idea that Angela might accomplish in one afternoon what had eluded him for days, months. He imagined Annie’s face as Angela delivered the news, those crystal blue eyes framed by ever-widening eyelids. She would hurry down the stairs and burst through that metal door to find Ethan waiting, arms poised to hold her again.

  Unless, of course, Ethan had misread Angela. Understanding people and their intentions wasn’t exactly his strong suit. Maybe instead of looking for Annie, Angela was looking for the captain.

  Ethan opened his eyes, fixing them on the door. Any moment the captain could barge through, face blistered with rage, screaming like he did at those poor fishermen, set adrift as they helplessly watched their boat sink. Ethan had witnessed it all from behind a stack of Zodiacs on the rear deck, body shaking from the wind and from the realization that he himself could very well end up at the receiving end of that gun. He was not about to end up set adrift in the South Atlantic Ocean, not after having come this far. And he was not going to leave this ship without Annie.

  So he’d returned to the storage room and prepared for an extended stay. He searched the boxes and found a few blankets, bottled water, a crate of organic potato chips. What a change from the Emperor of the Seas. From a hot tub to a cold floor, a king size bed to a cubbyhole hidden behind wooden crates. The constant dampness. The smell of brine. Moisture beading down the innards of the steel hull, patches of steel welded over patches of rust, a reminder of how tenuous these walls were and how near the ocean he lay. Yet it was all worth it. He was living an adventure now, just like Annie, and soon they’d be living it together.

  During the late hours of the night, Ethan had ventured forth from his room to search for her. Careful to stay in the shadows, he avoided the lounge and the galley, the front deck and the bridge. He spent most of his time
on the rear deck, hoping that she, too, was unable to sleep, that she might wander past. Needing fresh air, she would find him there in his crew t-shirt, covered in the dry, salty sweat of sacrifice, and she would forget everything that drove them apart.

  Robert

  Robert woke on the steel floor of his cabin, his forehead throbbing. He looked up to see Lynda standing over him. As she helped him back into bed, he let out a low moan.

  “I brought you some ginger soup,” she said. “They tell me it’s good for the stomach.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You should be.”

  “How long have I been down here?”

  “About twelve hours. We’re nearly across the Drake.”

  “Aeneas?”

  “Not yet. But we’ve got his ship on the radar; we’re getting close. I figured you’d want to join the party.”

  Robert sat up. Either the waves had relented, or he was finally getting used to them. A day ago, after they had entered the Drake, and the boat tossed Lynda across the bridge, Robert had teased her about getting seasick. You boys in Washington think all we do is lie around on beaches, she fired back.

  If the shoe fits.

  I spend half my days out on the water making drug busts, she said. Worry about yourself. I’ll be fine.

  Now, Lynda sat next to him on the bed as he fought through the fog in his head.

  “Maybe Aeneas isn’t so smart after all,” Lynda said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was free of us. Had a clear shot to Antarctica. And then he goes and sinks that fishing boat. It doesn’t add up.”

  “He’ll attack any fishermen, not just the ones who hunt whales.”

  “So why’d he drain its tanks of oil before putting it down?”

  “He didn’t want the oil to pollute the ocean.”