A 7 foot gash, maybe 16 inches wide, ripped laterally through her hull. Like dolphin flesh. She was minutes away from the end. I could see into the hull and see a blurry view looking up into her now exposed lower cabins. I think I could see a bunk floating next to a small vanity. Issues of ‘Yachting International’, ‘High Times’ and ‘Barely Legal’, were all floating face down on top of the rising water, bouncing like a GIF.
Otis was going to kill us. The DEAD or ALIVE had met its destiny. And its destiny was the bottom of the Gulf. My stomach turned. I was about to head to the surface when my eye caught something. An object was sticking out of the hull. I dared swim closer and saw as 16 inch metal tube jammed into hull. I pulled at it and it loosened and was way too heavy to hold – it swung from my hand and headed straight to the bottom like a rocket.
I got a fast glance; it was an optical device. A thought crossed my mind, but it was too fantastic…it looked like the end of a periscope.
I shot back to the surface, the main deck almost level with the sea. It was the easiest egress out of the water I ever had. How ironic. Thank you. Skip’s arms were already full. He even was trying to carry off the old German radio that Hitler was still spouting off about.
“Skip, we’re sunk.” He actually let out a laugh.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Then we both laughed.
“You got all the emergency shit?”
“What do you think I’ve got here?”
Suddenly Skip slipped on the newly slopped deck and the radio fell out of his arms, bounced off a step, went perfectly into the air, and hit the gunwale, and over the side. Somewhere down there, all the way to 180 feet, Hitler spoke to the fish. Fish are pretty independent. They don’t run around in schools of fascism. Just schools. At least I think.
“Charlie, what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”
“What have you gotten me into?!”
We both looked down as water surrounded our feet, then legs.
“Water, flares, flashlights!”
Skip yelled, “Got it.”
Suddenly water poured the gunwales and into the gangway below, swiftly, almost surreal like that way water moves. It was almost hypnotic, because this event was charting our destiny.
Skip and I stood on the stern. The boat was rapidly sinking. All sorts of flotsam were popping up. The wetsuits kept us buoyant. A couple of hats came up from below; I nabbed both and tossed one to Skip. We were having fun – remember; it’s not our boat. Out of pure reaction, we stood at attention and I saluted him and he saluted me back – both of us smiling like prom-laid school kid as the water rose. The boat finally sank from under us, forever gone into Davy Jones’ Locker.
But forever can be a temporary thing. The boat wouldn’t die. The stern popped up and let out a blast of no longer trapped air like a blowhole on a whale. On the transom Skip and I could plainly read ‘DEAD or ALIVE’. It started going under again, and the water lapped over ‘Alive’…and let ‘Dead’ linger for a moment and then the whole thing went under and maybe really forever this time.
Thanks again Gulf, for flashing our destiny. I didn’t believe it, but in situations like this, symbolism can dig in. We just went thru our own personal TITANIC and luckily no one was injured or drowned.
An eerie silence fell over us, sun shining brightly, glaring off of gently sloped mountains of water. One moment we were working off a half-million dollar boat; and the next moment, just a quiet grey ocean. We were now in the middle of the Gulf, at least 40 miles out. I didn’t own the boat, neither did Skip. And neither did Otis. But I had a sinking feeling, pardon the pun…that there would be hell to pay.
We were stupidly light hearted. Why not? In the Gulf you get picked up right away. There are more helicopters out ferrying personnel and moving cargo for the gas and oil companies then the world’s armies and navies combined. So our odds were very high we’d get rescued sooner than later.
And we had our wetsuits on. No fins, but you didn’t need fins to float.
And the sun was cut by our funky hats.
The Crab Shack had lots of new paint. And a cool neon sign. Even the cars parked out front seemed newer, more modern. And it was wireless. What was funny was that many customers had ‘CrabShackiPads’, that would play videos, the internet, music, movies, whatever. And when done, they left them on the table and walked out. No one owned them, they were just at the table, free to use. Of course each CSipad was also cabled to the table. It was like the future. In fact, is was!
A waitress with skin as thick as an Alligators, walked up to a handsome man. Sitting next to what one would think was his girlfriend. The girlfriend is a very attractive woman. This looker is Karen.
She sits close to the handsome dude. They’re tight.
“Karen,” the waitress asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long has it been? If you don’t mind me asking that is, just saying.”
Karen just looks at the waitress and then looks over to the man, her man. He looks at her. She wants to squeeze his hand, but the waitress will see this, will read it. She did it anyway.
Karen spoke. “Not a day goes by without thinking about him. And what happened way back.” The words had a sense of being rehearsed, but also a truth rang through. One couldn’t help but be moved. But human beings have needs, are social creatures and we basically thrive when in a love relationship.
The waitress happily said, “By the way, hunnie, tonight is on the house.”
“Why thank you. I really love your restaurant.” Karen was inhaling metaphysically fresh air, her mind now healthfully grasping changes and embracing things that would improve her life. A new lover was one. So many years had gone by that she had moved on. A step any wise person would do, or let themselves.
“And the Blue Crab Contest starts in 45 minutes.”
The Crab Shack had this bizarre ritual of letting young, captive blue crabs eat each other. Apparently there was a college study that conclusively proved that blue crabs are about ninety percent eaten by of their own. In captivity. The study claimed ‘population control.’ It was a big hit in Pass Christian. Otis was a fan. And still was.
Oil rigs, or platforms, are big sons of bitches. One hundred and twenty feet in the air, sometimes even 250 feet up, and looking like a bizarre, boxy aircraft carriers. It’s a crude oil drilling complex, crude oil that is very sophisticated and packed with high technology,
pipes running everywhere. And from sea level, just your head above water…it was overwhelming, like a massive castle rising from the grey waters.
We were dwarfed and feeling insignificant. “Charlie. There are no Christmas lights.”
Odd. The rig had no lights. Bizarre. Rigs, like a building, can have blackouts and problems of that nature. But no lights? That was weird.
None.
Maybe the rig was abandoned. Most the time, if not, all of these things were lit up like Christmas trees.
“Something’s off.”
Way off.
“These fuckers usually have tons of power and blasting light.”
“Yeah. I know. Just keep moving.” We dug deep into our mental resources as our arms chopped through the water. It was ass-breaking work but now was the time to give it an all-out go and give this messed up weekend adventure a chance to end. I was done. I knew Skip was.
The closer we got, the more the weather kicked up. The sea heaves increased and at first it was an easy ride but now it was picking a fight. The Gulf knew this was our last battle, so it was getting readied up for the final.
The waves increased and lifted us higher. We saw the landing about 12 feet above our heads. If we could not get to the landing, we would simply die underneath the steel contraption. We both traded looks. That we had finally reached out goal, but we were screwed by 12 feet.
“Pray that it gets rougher, and be taken high enough to the landing.”
Then a big heave hit and lifted us right up to the edge.
“Damn!” And as quickly the wave took us
down.
We started cheering. “We can do this,” I screamed at Skip, and I thought…maybe there is a God…
“Stay cool, Charles. Be coolio, bro.”
He gave me the thumbs up. I grabbed his hand, palm to palm. Our adrenaline ramped up. We hadn’t eaten and had passed 36 hours, going on 48. I know people have lived up to six weeks without eating, but they had water. They had water to drink. We had a liquid. We had whiskey. But a drink-drink was the furthest thing from my mind. That ended about 15 minutes from now.
“This may sound weird, but if we die, and you know that possibility increases every minute, we never talked about one thing.”
“What’s that? Are we are gay?”
“What then?”
The next wave caught us and lifted us so high, but we missed the landing.
“We’ll do it on the next one. What did we never talk about!?”
The wave dropped us dramatically down, scarily down, way underneath the massive support columns, exposing dangerous barnacles. But this was nature’s way of showing us the worse – before the best. The landing.
“Your wife’s pussy!”
We locked eyes…then laughed, laughed and then screamed when the steel landing was headed right for our heads – then just stopped inches away. Down. We dipped in the other direction. We were just butt-lucky. Period.
“We’ve got to get on that landing now!”
As we went down, we grabbed each other and instantly got into a sync. Minds and bodies connected – with best friends, even just friends, when your shit in on the line – you can usually find the common ground. Survivability. Its theme was ‘we’re going to get on that platform no matter.’
And the wave lifted us up and paused at the right moment - in physics it would be called apogee – and we simply stepped over to the landing. And watched in amazement as the sea dropped 25 feet below us in the heave and all the collected seawater drained off with a big, loud whoosh.
I was one of the greatest rushes I ever felt in my life!
“Pussy.”
That was the lone word that came from my lips.
We laughed and howled like we had just hit pay dirt in a gold mine.
We had arrived on the landing. Feeling stable, we hugged. The sea below us had just sank 25 five feet. I could feel it in my stomach.
“Goddamnit, we made it.”
“Skip Dog, from here on out – it’s pure hot chocolate.”
I liked the sound of that. Your cold hand, wrapped around a warm mug of a delicious South American hot chocolate, that’s just cooled down just enough not to burn your throat. Your capillaries close to the skin in your mouth absorbing the chocolate and sugar simultaneously, and the complex carbs instantly energizing your blood cells and creating an immediate oral orgasm. You can imagine the rest, but we had to get up to the main platform, way out of the water.
Then we looked down and saw a monster wave rise up to deluge us with water, the angry sea ready to sweep us off the landing.
“Higher!”
We struggled up the steel ladder.
“No! Just hold on!”
We gripped as the wave hit us, soaked us, tried to pull us back in, temporarily taking out all the air and light, but we hung on with all our might and the wave receded. We won. We had won again. Men against the sea!
The dusk skies were getting darker and light levels were dropping, but we had won.
Skip and I hung on to the steel pipes of the rig for our dear lives, shaking, in shock and disbelief, but the big rescue from the rig workers had not happened yet.
“Skip, where the hell do you think everyone is?”
“Charlie, I don’t know. But wouldn’t you say the bikini represents two – two pieces, two entities?”
“So what you’re saying Skip, is that the one piece symbolizes one’?”
“Yeah, you nailed it. That’s so amazing. Whoa.”
“I don’t know about you, but my whiskey wore off a long time ago.”
We laughed out loud.
“Skip. I think I just got wood in my wetsuit.”
Skip shook his head. “Just make sure no photographers shoots the rescue.”
We both howled and laughed at the top of our lungs. We were home. Home at last. Saved.
I started shivering like a hound dog jumping out of a winter lake with a duck in its mouth. But I smiled, too tired to relax, leaned against the steel, solid, civilized metal mountain out in the middle of a stormy, angry Gulf of Mexico. Our wetsuits were trying to be our best friends, trying to keep us warm, but inside of them we were wrinkled prunes. But our rescuers would be friendly and help us like any sailor on the opens seas would. Even with their enemy, even in the time of war. Help strip our suits away, frail and exhausted, weak, holding us up, wrapping us in warm, white towels. I can see the newsreel footage. Ahhh. And I had lost my wood, so the rescue pictures posted on the immediate internet would not embarrass me, or Karen. Ah, the weird thoughts the crazy brain pumps out. I could care less. Hot chocolate, we had arrived.
From above, a squeaky hinge crept open. A dark shadow of a man pulled himself through, and headed down the ladder. He struggled not to lose his balance. Maybe their water was whiskey, too.
He reached down out of the shadows, the helping hand that would pull us to safety. We both reached for it at the same time – and both pulled away when we saw the hand and wrist were a skeleton with flesh hanging off it – but alive. Then a bolt of lightning flashed and lit a rotted flesh face, barely resembling a human being – one eye socket - empty. The remaining eye darted around, inspecting us, looking monstrous. Skip and I screamed.
Lightning flashed again – and we saw two other decimated humans, or whatever they were – behind him and reaching for us. Without thinking, we were back in the sea in an instant. Pure instinct.
I couldn’t believe it. Skip and my body just flexed and we were back in the drink.
A wave quickly pulled us away from the platform as we held onto one another and yelled over the storm.
“What the hell was that?!”
“I don’t know, but it’s not eating me! Damned zombies.”
“There’s no such thing as zombies.”
“This last time I checked, only zombies eat you.”
“Wrong. Dead wrong. Cannibals eat you. Zombies don’t exist. Cannibals do.”
It hit me. What a couple of wimps. What a couple of pussies we were. So what if some weak willed, floppy, fall-a-party, sub-human tried to grope us. That pulled-beef bag of flesh just screwed us or our hallucinations had totally kicked in and gotten the best of us….?
I think I’m going to throw up.
Regardless, we were in the water again. Why didn’t we come alive and fight!? Why didn’t we push old skin and bones into the water and scuttle up the ladders to safety? Why…
Suddenly major exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped. I was drained, totally. I couldn’t come alive. My heroic thoughts just blanked. Our survival instincts knocked us aside.
“Skip!!” He looked back at me with terror and confusion. I can’t lose Skip. If he starts to mentally slip, and do a brain slide, it will pull me down and both of us will be toast. Toast in the Gulf wouldn’t last long. Toast in water. Gone in an instant.
I gave in. We gave in. The waves just took us away. My mind was swirling. Was it the emergency water, the booze? It seemed as if the Gulf had turned on us. Turned on us, after all these years of giving to the Gulf.
Lost in my thoughts, I let him drift away. My arms wanted to chop the water, but they wouldn’t. The pain and disappointment was a fatal mix. Then a wave pushed me over to him and I grabbed his suit and attached myself to him like glue. To die is one thing, but to die alone is horrible. That was my greatest fear; no one with me at my last moments of existence and knowing that the universe had to teach oneself one final emotionally terrible lesson. I grabbed his suit and held on like a winning lottery ticket. I damn hugged him. He shook his head. Then it leaned on to me. He was
out, but still breathing. Let him sleep. Let him sleep. Let me sleep. Sleep….sleep….
Suddenly I awoke. The waves had settled, but now it was pitch black with stars being our only companion. I must have been out for hours. Our wet suits were still working but I was feeling mighty cold. I stared at the bright lights in the dark sky.
It was amazing how many stars were visible when there was no moon. I had read somewhere that you could see 12,000 stars on a super clear night like tonight.
But in stark contrast to the wondrous vision, we were both beginning to die. Silently, I started processing the events of the last 48 hours, including the unexplainable event at the rig.
“Where’s the damned Coast Guard. Somebody’s had to alert them by now.”
Skip didn’t say that, so I must of.
My statement hung in the air.
Skip was still passed out. I looked closely at him; it was like staring at a dead man’s face. But I could see he was inhaling and then exhaling, so maybe I was a tad premature. And if he had died, would I eat him? Ridiculous thoughts. Get out of my head. Now!
We hadn’t been searched for by the Coast Guard. I didn’t even say rescued. We didn’t hear the distinct sound of a long range search plane or a helicopter whine of the USCG. I paid with my taxes. Where are they?
“I was just wondering what hit us,” Skip said.
Good. He was awake. Being alone out here would torture your mind.
Our throats were coarse from the lack of fluids.
“I’m getting cold again.”
“Your adrenaline is dropping.”
“You think we’ll make it through the night?”
“Of course we are, because they’re going to find us in the morning.” They have to.
“Thank God we have our wetsuits.”
Yeah, I agree Skip. But how the hell did we ever draw these cards in our hands now? I’m not happy right now. I’m damned angry.
“Charlie, this can’t go on much longer.” I knew Skip was going to say that. Maybe I should let him go. Maybe he has given up and is just floating with me to take me down. Skip could be like that. Look, he had trouble with girls and he couldn’t keep a woman around. And can’t one person survive longer than two? One man alone has a greater chance? Or am I just quoting some stupid late night movie parked way in the rear on the broken back seat of Netflix? Funky old films put up on blocks? Even replacing the engines couldn’t get them back in the water if their life depended on it. My mind….my mind…
Masters of Taboo Presents: Cannibalism, Digesting The Human Condition (Limited Edition) Page 6
