High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  Though my brain told me it was not so, I insisted the six-inch critter was nothing less than a Portuguese Man-of-War. I also convinced myself that, upon leaping out of the water, I actually rose straight up and ran on top of the waves all the way to the beach. Aurelia said I waded. Whatever. All I know for sure was that the ball of my shoulder was slashed with three distinct red streaks. Before my eyes they swelled and raged ever hotter. I rushed up to the car, intent on some towels, some fresh water, something, anything, to ease the pain—only to discover the car was gone.

  So was Rick.

  I was furious. I had left Natalie with explicit instructions to not let Rick drive. The hour was getting late and we needed to get going soon. There was no way we could fit eight of us in Nigel's sub-compact rental car. An entire hour passed, but Rick and Natalie did not return.

  Meanwhile, I paced in pain. With each puff of wind upon my shoulder the pain flared ever hotter, ever higher. I'd heard you can urinate on a jellyfish sting to take away the pain. I asked for volunteers, but none were forthcoming. Though I tried to jest about my burning shoulder, the reality was that none of us were laughing about anything. We all felt the vibe. Rick was so emotional at that point, and so drunk and so low, we all looked at the sandy cliff from below and honestly expected to see the vehicle careening over the edge to plunge into the sea. Even a sober driver was in danger of doing so.

  An hour of stewing passed and the sun began pushing into the sea. Nigel, an introspective man ever in search of the elusive melody, approached me and quietly asked, "You don't think Natalie's driving do you?"

  “I recall she said she doesn’t know how to drive,” I muttered back, staring up at the plateau. “And she’s not gonna wing it with a stick-shift.”

  "You know how this could end, right?"

  I knew. Danger was in the air. Like humidity, it was tangible, cloying, unavoidable. I felt like we were living in a thriller and had been listening to the music build up all day. The ladies' faces were lined with tension, and they were not alone. Neil, a small and happy-go-lucky lad, was genuinely intimidated by the whole thing. He just wanted to go back to work, singing Neil Diamond songs. Daniel, while a visual feast for the eyes, was also a yoga instructor who embodied pacifism. The reality was that everybody expected me to handle Rick upon his return. I tried not to think about a physical confrontation with Rick. Though I was not a small man, that didn't matter one whit against Rick. He was a six-year English Army veteran. Regardless, we had to get those keys from him.

  We heard the revving of the engine first. It roared far louder than the tickling surf. Then we saw the headlights. They sawed back and forth through the damp air. Obviously whoever was driving was beyond reckless. The engine revved so high it rattled.

  "Get away from the cliff!" Neil shouted, even as he shooed everybody from the scene. Nigel and I started running up the slope to the plateau. We reached the top just as the car zoomed past us. Shrubs flapped from the front grill and dirt streamed off the car, clumps scattering and tumbling after. We were showered with gravel. The car, a tiny blue sub-compact, looked ludicrous as it swerved and skidded like a sports car in an action movie. The car stopped, facing the cliff. Dust rose. Hearts pounded.

  All was silent for one long, tense second. Then the engine started revving again. It revved louder and louder until it shrieked like a steaming tea kettle. With a start, the car charged full speed towards the cliff's edge. Even over the high-pitched whine of the engine we heard Natalie's scream. Rick was going to intentionally drive right off the plateau and into the sea.

  The car was going too fast to stop. There was nowhere to turn. It was too late. Then, at that very moment, the very threshold of tragedy, Rick locked the breaks and cranked hard on the wheel. The car arched sideways almost instantly and, still sideways, slid damn near the very lip of the cliff. The whole maneuver was unexpectedly silent. The turn was so sharp it was astounding the car didn't roll and tumble right off the plateau anyway.

  The dust began to settle. Nigel and I both ran to the car. The passenger door kicked open, and Natalie came lurching out. Tears streaming down her face and sobbing, she hugged the car close as she scampered along the thin space between the tires and the edge. The passenger door remained ajar, leaving the open door alert impotently calling. The driver's door remained closed.

  Now it was my turn.

  I felt Nigel's eyes on my back while stalking to the driver-side door. I heard the others whispering at the edge of the slope. It only added to my nerves. Finally at the car, I looked through the window. Rick sat motionless, hands on the wheel, glowering ahead at nothing. I knocked on the window. He didn't seem to notice. I gripped the handle and yanked the door open.

  "Get out," I said firmly. There didn't seem any need to shout. In that rarified air, all felt the gravity of what was about to happen.

  Rick turned off the car. Keys in hand, he slowly complied. He pulled himself out of the vehicle and stood tall. He stepped right up into my face. Our eyes met. I didn't recognize the man.

  "Give me the keys, Rick," I said evenly. My gut tensed.

  He did not comply. The moment dragged on. The alarm beeped incessantly, maddeningly.

  Rick opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly was overwhelmed by the flailing fists of Natalie!

  "All I wanted was to listen to music!" Natalie screeched as she beat him. He cringed and protected himself, but she continued hammering away. "You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch!"

  After a solid minute of attack, Rick had dropped the keys and began just accepting the blows. I pulled her back as gently as one can gently pull back an hysterically violent giantess with two-inch claws. She stopped her assault and buried her face into my shoulder—my jellyfish shoulder. I tried not to cry out, but it was impossible. The pain was excruciating. It didn't help that I was angry with her for letting Rick have the keys, though I should have known he’d bully them from her. I was just glad they were safe. Through sobs she explained everything that had happened. They were laying on the hood, listening to music, when Rick offered to teach her how to drive donuts. The moment he got the keys he took off like a bat out of hell. Scared her to death, but she didn't know what to do.

  As for the drunk asshole himself, after the beating from Natalie he walked to the edge of the cliff. Nigel hovered nearby, but all Rick did was stare out at the darkening sea. The car's open door alert beeped annoyingly. Natalie wept. The surf ebbed quietly, and the wind whistled gently. The sun had set. It was over.

  Despite the absurdity of the idea, Rick suddenly insisted upon driving us home. Ah, alcohol, how you can utterly destroy common sense! On the drive back to the other side of the island, I insisted on being in the backseat with Rick. Neil drove, making it just the three of us. Thus all seven of the others—including the extra-sized Natalie—crammed into the car with Nigel. That was how scary Rick was being. Fortunately he was so drunk he didn't even notice the new arrangement. He mumbled and blubbered about his lost CDs over and over and over. Considering how badly Rick had battered the little car, it drove well.

  That is, until one of the tires exploded.

  I've had my fair share of flat tires, but had never seen a blowout like that. Miraculously, Neil had no difficulty pulling the car over safely. We got out and whistled over the sight of it: the sidewalls had completely disintegrated—just vanished, as if abducted by a UFO! Heat radiated off the rim like a grate in a fireplace. Rick must have really driven the hell out of that poor, poor Peugeot. Nigel's car pulled up behind as I fished the spare tire from the trunk. Interestingly, not only Neil, but also Nigel and Daniel fought over changing the tire. None would allow me to do so.

  "You've had to deal with enough issues today," Nigel said. "Plus, if Rick goes off again you're the only one who can handle him. I don't think Natalie's got it in her anymore. You know women, once they vent, it's gone forever."

  So we made it back. Some pilgrimage. The real kicker was that night Aurelia and I had an argument for som
e reason I didn’t understand and parted badly. To say it was a crappy day was a grand understatement. Further, I was informed in the morning that the bright red scars blazing across my shoulder were likely permanent, unless I went to a doctor and got some sort of shot to bleach them out. Lovely. I vowed from then on to keep my Ibiza visits to simple, wholesome things... like Vibratex Rabbit Pearl vibrators and stuff.

  3

  Aurelia and I didn't exactly break up because we were never exactly together. Regardless of labels—friends with benefits, ship squeeze, what have you—we patched things up within a few days. Also in need of a patch was the rift between Rick and I. That was addressed several days later when he invited me to his cabin for an 'apology drink'. That he would choose to pair his apology with alcohol was not surprising. But that's not to say the experience didn't hold surprises. Chock full, it was.

  As spa manager, Rick had his own cabin. It was the same size and design as any of the other ship managers that brought in revenue. Well, I brought in more revenue than the entire spa and lived in a closet with a broken sink and rusted toilet, but nobody cared about that. Rick had procured for his cabin a small refrigerator which he kept stocked with beer. His desk groaned under a mess of bottles of harder stuff, filling the space right up to the edge. Considering how Wind Surf was wont to list, my obsessive-compulsive need to keep things ship shape cried bloody murder.

  He offered me a beer and we sat on the bed. Recognizing a poster on the wall with a flying saucer, I read the tag aloud, "I want to believe. You're an X-Files fan, too? Good boy."

  "What's that?" he asked, sloshing his beer around before downing it. He'd obviously already had quite a few, for his words seemed to slosh, too. "Some porn thing?"

  "Not triple X," I laughed. "The X-Files. That poster is from the show."

  "It is?" he said, frowning at it with bleary eyes. "I just like the message. They tell us there's no such thing as UFOs. They tell us there is such thing as God. They tell us a lot of things. It's important to question authority."

  "I quite agree," I said.

  Having finished his beer, Rick rose and stumbled over to his desk. He shoved a meaty hand into a hotel-style ice bucket and dropped a fistful of cubes into a disposable plastic cup. He then filled it to the brim with cheap vodka. He had already slugged down half before he made it back to the bed. I watched this with concern, but both the topic and his manner seemed harmless—for the moment.

  "You're hitting the sauce pretty hard," I observed.

  "No kidding, mate?" he said, then toasted me before chugging the vodka.

  We discussed UFOs for a while, which is a topic I've always found enjoyable. I'd read many books on the subject and devoured any silly documentary I could find. I guess like Fox Mulder from The X-Files, I, too, wanted to believe. But didn't. Rick and I had a lively, fun debate about it. We both continued to talk—and he continued to drink—until finally he crossed the threshold of absurdity.

  "A hole in the South Pole!" he exclaimed. "There is a hole in the exact South Pole to the center of the Earth. The UFOs fly in and out of there all the time, mate!"

  "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

  "You don't believe because authority told you not to believe."

  "I don't believe because that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I retorted. "You ever heard of the Amundson-Scott station? It's a research station built right on the South Pole."

  "So they tell you," Rick pointed out, tugging on his earring. "You are believing the lies of authority."

  "What authority? Antarctica isn't owned by anyone. There's dozens of scientists from all over the world there."

  "How do you know?" he challenged. "Have you seen them? Have you met any?"

  "I've seen documentaries."

  "Produced by the government?" Rick stressed. "Have you ever been to the South Pole?"

  "No, but I know a lot about it. I have an entire library on the early excursions to the South Pole."

  "Published by your government!" Rick pressed. He downed another full cup of vodka.

  "Published in several countries," I replied. "The first guy to the South Pole was Norwegian. The British sent loads of people, too."

  "Of course the bloody British sent people!" Rick spat. "That's what they bloody do!"

  Rick suddenly rose to his feet and began pacing. His body pulsed with energy, like a predator in a cage, moving back and forth, back and forth. I had wondered why he was pushing the anti-authority point so hard. Suddenly I was nervous to find out. The energy in the room turned chill and quiet. Like the calm of a deep, frosty night, I felt keenly aware that I wasn't safe and secure at home where I belonged. I was exposed and feeling lost—and under the threat of a predator.

  Though hidden behind a layer of fat, Rick's muscles popped back into form. He shivered and raged, veins bulging in his neck, his face turning splotchy. He raged to himself as he paced, raged about how authority was always lying, always lying. He'd been downing drinks hard throughout the conversation. Who knows how many he had before I arrived. I grew concerned, fearing a repeat of Ibiza. We had been dangerously close to violence. It had smoldered and raged just below the surface. Now it looked like it was going to blow.

  "They denied all of it!" he seethed, clenching his fists and curling his lips with ultimate disdain.

  "All of what? Who?" I asked. I resolved at that moment to embrace whatever cockamamie story he came up with, even if it involved a UFO.

  "They denied all of what they knew, all of what I saw! They forced us to remove it all from the reports. No reports, no proof," he snarled. "They think that means no truth! But they're wrong."

  Rick's energy suddenly drained, spilling away to reveal a soggy mess of a man. He grew quiet, so quiet. Then Rick moved into the corner. He sat on the floor, his back to the bed. He stared at the corner. No longer did his muscles snap and tense. They drooped in defeat, then began to shake.

  Rick was crying.

  He began recalling memories—memories he'd pushed down deep. He bared them to the corner, not me.

  "I saw it all," he sobbed. "They say it never happened in East Timor, but I know it did. I saw it. They killed thousands, they raped thousands. They raped bodies before they got cold. I saw it. They raped nuns. They crucified nuns. I saw it. They held people over volcanic steam pits on bamboo racks... their skin just dropping off..."

  He fell into silence. He no longer sobbed, but just stared into the corner.

  After a while, he asked gently to be left alone. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, gave him a squeeze, then did as requested. Trudging back to my cabin, his words haunted me. I remembered the first hint of Rick's buried horror. He had thrown a fit in Pompeii at Janie's cheers about the eruption of Vesuvius. Now it made sense.

  Rick just wanted to forget. He couldn't work anymore in a real job with real authority, not after they officially denied all the horrors he had seen. So he escaped to the sea. Even there, in a semi-autonomous place as head of the spa, he felt the need to self-medicate. All too common, all too useless. Alcohol didn't solve anything. It just pushed problems off until later. This guy was in serious turmoil and it was struggling to surface. Something would set him off beyond the point of no return, and it wouldn't be pretty when it happened. Rick had been able to postpone dealing with his issues plenty, what with seven ports a week. But eventually Wind Surf would stop offering up distraction.

  I was reminded of the words of the great adventure writer, Joseph Conrad, when he wrote: "His agitation was impressive and alarming in the little cabin, like the floundering of a great whale driven into a shallow cover in a coast. The whole ship seemed to feel the shock of his despair."

  To date, the ship had not felt Rick's despair. But it would. For Wind Surf was setting sail for a Transatlantic crossing—fourteen days at sea.

  Chapter 20. Transatlantic

  1

  Endless sea, endless time.

  Fourteen days at sea was a long time. I planned thre
e auctions during the span, though honestly didn't have enough art onboard to justify even two. I'd been selling off the good stuff for months. I'd requested many art reloads from Sundance, but had yet to hear back from them. No doubt they were waiting for the Surf to hit the Caribbean before shipping out several tons of art. Luckily, even with my short supply, on the very first auction I cleared all my goals. Thus I had a week and a half of leisurely cruising with not much to do.

  Life under sail in the trade winds was so blissfully uneventful that sunset became the most dramatic moment of the day. Nothing but blue in all directions. Blue up, blue down. No clouds. No ships. I'd never been at sea for more than a day and not seen another ship. But Wind Surf was sailing the old trade wind route, first used by Columbus himself. The trade winds, first discovered by the Portuguese, began beyond the western edge of the Iberian peninsula. The winds reliably lifted a sailing vessel southward and west. The route was longer than the northward parabola that modern ships used to cross the Atlantic, but still the better choice. For Wind Surf sailed faster under sail than on engine. That's still not saying much, by modern standards of impatience. Wind Surf maxed out her engines at a measly twelve knots. Under sail she could push as high as fourteen. Still beats the hell out of Columbus' month-long journey.

  "But for seamen, change comes with port. It boards suddenly, from the shore. Any sea voyage is an emotional whole, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. At the middle there is a solid center of self-sufficient life at sea into which everyone on the ships I have known settles comfortably; so comfortably, at times, that poses drop and psychological armor slips. It is hard to keep up every affectation on an ocean."