Ocean Burning (5 page)

I nodded.

“I heard it was beautiful out there,” Carmen said.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

She tossed her hair, started taking off her wispy cover-up. It fitted her like my dress shirts used to. She would wear them in the mornings when we were together, and I had always loved the way they hung so loose through the body and then stopped just below her hips, so you could see the rest of her. A hint. A tease.

The wrap she had on was filmy, damn near translucent, but it hung just like that. She stripped it off quickly, revealing a green two-piece that matched her eyes.

“What do you think, Frank?” Ben asked. “Can we do it?’

I shook my head, tried not to stare.

“Sure,” I said. “You’re the boss. It’s about sixty miles off the coast. If we leave now we can get there before sunset, then anchor in some cove for the night.”

“Great.” He smoothed a stray hair back into place. He must have seen me ogling his finance—I hadn’t been subtle—but was acting diplomatic about it. For that much, I gave him credit.

It was time to shove off. Ben was enlisted as my first mate, and did a fair job following orders and casting us off as I worked the helm. The
Regal Purple
backed out of her slip, reversed the spin of her screws, and powered out into the ocean, the sun on her stern.

Twenty minutes into the trip I looked back. The Mexican coast shrank away until it was only a razor-thin lip of beige slicing the seascape from ear to ear. The next moment, it disappeared.

I sat casually, one had resting lightly on the wheel, checking our heading on the compass every ten minutes or so. It was quiet up at the helm. Every hour Ben would make the climb and we would drink a drink and talk about all the things people talk about.

After three hours, I stopped us over the current for a bit of fishing.

“Like the gulf stream?” Ben asked when I mentioned it, hooking a line out over the bow.

“Exactly. This is part of the North Pacific Gyre. It pulls water up past Japan, across the north Pacific, and down the west coast of North America. This part’s called the California Current.”

“Marlin out here?”

“Sure. They range all over here. But that’s too big a fish for what you’ve got,” I said. My hands pointed to his rod and reel, and I explained the finer points of landing a big fish.

But my eyes were all over Carmen, laying near us in the sun, soaking it up. Her skin shone like porcelain, whiter than I remembered.

We didn’t catch anything, and after half an hour I reeled in the lines and put away the bait. The engines fired up without trouble, and we chugged west. The day drifted by—easily, lazily. Despite dreading the trip the night before, I found I was actually enjoying myself.

Just before sunset, the Islas Marias came into view, a rocky set of islands that belonged to Mexico but were mostly uninhabited. To me they always looked like gray metal spears piercing the breast of the Pacific, throw from somewhere way down deep.

“Where to?” I called down to Carmen.

She stood up out of a deck chair, shielded her eyes, and studied the horizon. “We can go to any of them?”

“It’s your plan,” I said. “Where to, oh Captain?”

“There.” Carmen pointed at the island on the left, the southern most one.

“Maria Cleofas,” I said. “Good choice. Big enough to shelter us in an emergency, but there’s virtually no one there.”

I tugged lightly at the wheel, sending us in that direction. We were still more than an hour out, and Ben came up for another drink. Our banter ranged from banking to baseball, and eventually we settled into a comfortable silence.

“Hey!” Carmen called. She had been laying on the stern. Now she was shouting at us.

I got up and leaned over the railing.

She pointed, and I looked out towards the island’s northern tip, where the ocean chop was picking up.

The sinking sun plays tricks on the eyes. Light changes its angle, making the shadow of each ocean wave longer and darker, amplifying the contrast between the peaks and the troughs. The crests shining to the west of us were a deep orange, dancing with color, each imbued with rippling, tremulous flame.

I shielded my eyes, squinting into the dying light.

Trouble,
I thought.

Out on the iridescent swell, a boat rolled limply across the island breakers. It canted wildly to one side, permanently stooped. The starboard rail rode dangerously close to the water line.

The minute I laid eyes on it, I knew the boat was in trouble. Even if I hadn’t been sure just looking at the boat, the bare-chested man on the deck—the one waving his shirt at us and shouting something we couldn’t hear—probably would have been a good clue.

“Something’s wrong with that boat,” Carmen called up to us.

“She’s right,” I said to Ben as he came up next to me and peered across the water.

I turned, walked to the ladder, locked my feet to the outside of the rails and slid down to the deck. I could hear Ben following. He tried to get his feet set for a similar slide, but hadn’t had the chance to practice it like I had.

I approached the side of the bow for another look, and Carmen grabbed my arm. “We’re going to help them, right?”

I considered, staring into the distance.

“I don’t know it that’s a good idea,” Ben said, finally arriving.

“We can’t just leave them there,” Carmen said.

“What about the pirates, sweetheart?”

“There’s no such thing as pirates!” she yelled. They each turned and looked at me, like I was the den mother and could settle the score.

“You’re both right,” I said. To Carmen: “There are people out here who use the remoteness and privacy of the sea as a weapon. No one can help us out here, we have to be careful.”

She nodded slowly.

To Ben: “No one calls them damn pirates, so stop saying it, you sound like an idiot.”

His good-natured look froze in place, and I had the pleasure of watching it go sour. “Hey, pal, you’re the one who told us this place is a prison.”

“Yes, there’s a prison on the island. There’s also pretty good fishing out here. Lots of fishermen.”

We stood in silence. I examined the boat through a pair of binoculars I’d snagged on my way down.

It was Carmen who finally spoke up. “You said the dangerous thing was that there would be no one to help us. If things went wrong, I mean.”

I grunted assent.

“So who’s going to help them? If that’s a fishing boat, if those are just regular people…” She trailed off.

“It’s a big ocean,” I said. “Either we help them or they don’t get helped.” I didn’t say it as though it made the decision obvious. Far from it.

“Can’t we radio for help? Report it in?” Ben asked.

“We could try. But we’re almost out of range, and the Mexican authorities are notoriously…” I searched for the right word, “unproductive. Even when it comes to search and rescue.”

“We’re helping them, and that’s that,” Carmen said.

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.” Ben grabbed her by the arm, and she yanked it away.

My knees pressed into the fiberglass for stability, my elbows locked, and I tried to steady the tiny reticle of my binoculars atop the figure on the boat. Even with the glasses, I couldn’t make out much detail. Too far away. I pulled them back from my face, took in the whole scene, looked around, added it all up.

“Either way,” I said, “we better make a decision.”

“Nonsense,” Ben said. “We could just wait to make sure they don’t get hurt. Maybe they’ll fix the boat. May someone else will come along.”

”He’s getting tired waving that thing around,” I said. “And those thunderheads are getting closer.”

I pointed.

A great wall of burnt gray crept towards us out of the north. Every few seconds it glowed from within like a firefly, quick and bright, silent as the grave.

Chapter 5

IN THE END, we flipped a coin.

It teetered briefly on the edge of the chart table, taunting us, then slipped over the edge and skittered across the deck. The light shined off it one last time, just as a wave rolled underneath us, and it went under the gas-powered stove I kept down there in the galley. It was attached to the wall, wouldn’t possibly move without three men and a power drill. I said as much.

Ben grimaced, and dug around in pocket of his pressed J. Crew shorts. His hands came out a few seconds later clutching nothing at all. He looked at me accusingly, as though the timing of the wave had been my fault.

I oblidged him, checking the one pocket in my oil-stained cutoffs that wasn’t full of holes, and came up with a nickel. It wasn’t regulation for this sort of thing, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Ben extended his hand and I pressed the nickel into it.

“Do you really think it best to leave this up to a coin-flip?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s just that I can’t think of anything better to leave it up to either.”

“I can’t believe you we’re even considering leaving those men.” Carmen’s arms were cross over her chest, her eyes green fire. “It’s disgusting. You two aren’t even human.”

Ben and I looked at each other. I shrugged. “Heads we render aid,” I said, “tails we get the hell out of here before that storm hits.”

Ben’s shoulders slumped. He flicked the coin, a five peso number, into the air. Its silver edges orbited the golden center; it hung glittering in the dim cabin light, then started to fall.

I snaked my arm out and snatched it out of the air, refusing to let this one bounce. My fingers opened just as I brought in down on the top of my other hand with a satisfying clap.

I leaned over the center of the table, the coin still covered. Carmen and Ben leaned in with me. I looked at Ben, and he seemed worried. I glanced at Carmen, and she looked distraught.

Slowly, I pulled my top hand away.

Heads.

Carmen let out a breath so long she must have been holding it. “Thank God.”

“Look,” Ben started, “I don’t—”

“Ben Hawking, don’t you dare!”

“The decision’s made,” I said, “and either way, there’s no more time for debate. I’ll man the helm, get the
Purple
right up side by side with her. And you pull that man aboard. Got it?”

He nodded.

Upstairs, the air was too fresh for its own good. Tiny rain drops—almost a mist—serenaded my face. The edge of the storm was upon us.

I climbed up to the helm and fired the engines, then hit the button that would automatically draw up the anchor we had laid down. Grabbing the wheel, I brought the
Purple
about until it faced half towards the damaged vessel and half into the wind, trusting the elements push back against the side of the boat as we traveled, making this the perfect course. The throttle lever clicked smoothly upward and the engined gunned—a high crisp whine—and we were away.

Wave fronts battered the bow, sending us lurching up and down, up and down. I could see Ben staggering across the deck below me. As the
Purple
climbed up near its maximum speed, the dizzying ramps and sickening drops became evenly spaced, took on a kind of rhythm. Ben figured out the method of timing his steps, and cautiously made his way to the starboard rail.

The sun sank farther behind the island, and dark clouds began to filter across it, diffusing the glow. The closer we got to the island, the more violent the breakers became. We were a tossed salad out here.

Acutely aware of the dying light, I pressed the throttle all the way open.

We came in perfectly in the last seconds, pointed right at the other boat. Ben shifted nervously from foot to foot, seemed to bracing himself for an impact. I let him brace, then at the last second cut wheel, cut the throttle, and let our momentum carry us sideways the last five yards. The hulls slammed together.

Too hard.

I had misjudged the thing by some tiny bit, and the boats rebounded from the hit, bounced apart from one another. The wheel came alive in my hands, the engine throbbed, and I brought her about for another try. This time, at the last moment, some great wave rode out of the black water, a harbinger of the looming squall, and swatted us apart. By the time I’d brought her around for my third try, the chop had shifted into fifth gear. The storm was coming fast.

The shirtless man on the other boat punched at the air like a boxer. Waves began to slop over the bow.

I leaned over the controls and cupped my hands around my mouth. “You may have to get over there and help them back. I’ll get her as close as I can.”

“You mean use the raft?” he yelled at me.

“No, you’ll never get it inflated, the wind will take it. You’ll have to swim. It won’t be far.”

He screamed something at me, alarmed, but the whipping of the wind through the canvas roof covered it up.

“What?”

“I can’t swim!” came the replay.

I stared at him in disbelief.
Fantastic,
I thought.

I only hoped he could drive a boat.

I gestured with my arms until he understood and scrambled up the ladder. “Take the wheel. Here’s the throttle. On the first pass, don’t worry about stopping near by. At half speed you’ll have more control, so just drive past right next to it, and at the right moment I’ll jump off the back.”

He nodded. His face was too pale, which made me nervous.

“Then bring it around upwind. Mark the direction of the waves. Try to get close, but not too close, and let the storm push us together. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Have you ever driven a boat before?”

“Sure,” he said. “I used to fish out of my Grandfather’s canoe.”

I waited for him to crack smile. He didn’t, his face stone cold serious.

It was time to start stringing life jackets together. I tied one to the other, making a chain, but didn’t put any of them on. I had floated in a life jacket once before, I knew what is was like—a foam horse collar forcing your arms up and out. Life jackets saved lives, no doubt about that, but in wearing one I would sacrifice mobility for buoyancy.

The wind whipped across my face, searing the side of the boat with ocean spray, the droplets hitting the fiberglass like buckshot.