Ocean Burning (11 page)

“Careful mate,” Rigger said, “I think you’ve forgotten how to swim.” He issued a great belly laugh, scratched his oily scar, then pulled himself to his feet and headed below.

“Alright?” I asked.

Ben nodded, started coughing again.

Some mastermind,
I thought.

The important thing was to get back to port. I had a feeling that arriving back on land aboard my boat wasn’t part the original plan, but then again I doubted their boat sinking was either. I hoped—prayed—that the plan had adapted to changing circumstances. Perhaps the best they could hope for was a ride back in, without anything attention grabbing.

Like, say, two dead bodies at the marina.

The ladder rails felt slick as I climbed up to the helm. I gripped them tighter, and got up as fast as I could. Plopping down into the captain’s chair, I reached inside my shorts to the tiny length of string sewn in there. The string wrapped the boat keys three or four times before doubling back on itself in a simple square knot.

Not so simple now that I needed to untie it. My fingers fumbled with the overs and unders, and when it finally loosened I just grabbed the keys and tore them free. I pushed the ignition key into its slot and checked the gauges from force of habit.

Everything looked five-by-five. I turned the key.

The engine came to life, missed a few strokes, then caught and began to roar. I nodded, already halfway home in my head

And then the engine died.

It sputtered, caught again, then sputtered again, weakly this time. Finally, it went totally silent.

I stared at the control panel, hoping an answer would reveal itself. I don’t believe in superstition, and it has never factored much into my life, but I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers before grabbing the ignition key again. I twisted it back to it’s neutral position, then rotated it ninety degrees clockwise in one smooth turn.

Nothing happened.

I’m not a big believer in coincidences either.

A bad feeling crept its way out of my gut and up through the center of my chest. I made my way down the ladder and around to the stern. There, right in the middle of the deck, was a big fiberglass bulge with hinges on one side and clasps on the other. I opened the clasps and bent back the whole waist-high dome until it leaned on the superstructure. The engine, housed inside, glinted wetly at me.

“Problem mate?”

I jumped up and backed away. Rigger didn’t move, either towards me or away from me. Nor did he look surprised at my jumpiness.

My hands clenched into fists. Maybe this was it, the moment when Rigger would clean house. I waited.

He stared at me, leaning casually against a bulkhead.

When I couldn’t take the silence any more, I decided I had to play the situation out. “Not sure,” I said, “but maybe you can go below and give me a little space to figure this thing out.”

He put out his good arm, palm open, contrite, and disappeared down the stairs. When I was sure he was gone I popped the flashlight into my mouth and got down on all fours. I stuck my head down into the hollow space below the bubble and took a good look at the engine.

I’d been maintaining this engine myself for years—cheaper that way—and even so I almost missed the tiny change that had been made.

The fuel line was a sieve.

Tiny holes, so small they were almost invisible, perforated its entire length. It looked almost like something had eaten away at the plastic, degraded it to the point that gasoline was leaking from all over. Pressure from the fuel pump when I tried to start the engine had turned the hose into a sprinkler. Gas dripped slowly from every surface.

I let out a long, slow breath, almost a whistle. We were very lucky the gas fumes trapped under the hood hadn’t caught fire when the spark plug fired. I screwed shut the intake for the gas so that no one twisting the key could accidentally burn us all to death, then disconnected and removed the offending fuel line and brought it out into the light. Holding it up, tiny beams of sunlight shot through the pinpricks and speckled my face. That kind of damage can happen on its own, but only with care so poor it approaches negligence.

I sat back and added it up. Someone had sabotaged the engine by replacing the hose with one already damaged. I felt pretty sure that whoever it was, they didn’t want to be stuck out here forever. That meant they had kept the working fuel line. It was hidden somewhere aboard right now.

It was a clever, preplanned move. They had done a fair job of making it look like an accident, as though it could be a mistake on my part. In fact, if I wasn’t so consistent about examining the engine, I might even have held myself responsible. They hadn’t counted on my being so conscientious. But I had been, and I knew it was sabotage.

Clearly these three didn’t want us back on dry land just yet.

But then what did they want? By any rational logic they should either let me take them back to land, or kill both Carmen and I and toss our bodies over the side. Then they could sail wherever they wanted to go. But this? The delay must serve some purpose I didn’t understand. The puzzle was coming into focus, but I must still be missing some vital piece.

The dome flipped closed easily and I latched it in place, then stormed down the stairs. Rigger had stretched out on the couch; Carlos, Ben, and Carmen sat around the table.

“What’s wrong?” Carmen asked.

“Engine trouble,” I said, and hoped my entire meaning was obvious. Her mouth pressed itself razor-thin, so I was sure she’d gotten the message.

“Can anything be done?” Ben asked.

“For now, we need to take advantage of the tide. It’s going out, and it’s going to keep going out. Tonight—” I started.

“Tonight? We’ll still be here tonight?” Ben scratched his head, seeming put out.

“Maybe. But we have to be ready for that eventuality. The tide tonight will be so low that the cove may drain. If the
Purple
is still here, she’ll be grounded.”

“That’s bad?” Carmen’s bitten lips were still white.

“That’s very bad. The keel might crack. There’s a very good chance that the prop would be damaged. I’m hopeful that there’s a chance to fix the engine, but we need everything else in working order.”

“What can we do?” Carlos asked.

“We need to pull up the anchor lines, and we need to do it by hand. The automatic winches will still run—they use juice from the battery—but we need to make sure not to drain it. Rigger?”

“Present,” he called over from the couch.

“I know you’re busted up, but you seem to do pretty good with one arm.”

“Yeah.”

“So take the stern. Carlos, get the one off the bow. Ben, try to lend a hand if anyone needs it. I’ll stay up at the helm and find the moment.”

“The moment,” Carmen said, repeating me.

“There are competing forces here: the waves coming in, the tide going out. For something like a boat, floating on the surface, there’s only a short window where the pull out to sea can overcome the whitecaps pushing us in.”

“What if we miss it?”

“We won’t,” I said.

I climbed back up the stairs and the ladder, tired despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon. From up above I could see Rigger ready at the stern, and Carlos and Ben standing near the bow. A hand dragged itself lightly down my back, the fingernails digging in.

“Carmen, it’s not a good time.”

“So this tide thing, it’s a real problem.”

“Very real. If we miss it and get beached, we’re going to be on this island for a while. That money will get burned as tinder, just like you said, only it’ll be all five of us huddled around the fire.”

She grabbed be around the waist, pulled me closer. “I’ve got a plan,” she whispered, “so find me later.”

I reveled in her heat for a moment, deconstructing it in my mind. It occupied me so completely that it took me a minute to realize the heat was gone. When I turned around, so was she.

I kept watch. Occasionally I closed my eyes and thought I could almost feel the pull of ocean on the boat. Swells rode in from the sea, and over in the direction of the island, more and more of the beach revealed itself. Finally, at the moment I could almost see the water rolling back, I gave the order. The anchors came up off the sea floor. Rigger soloed his chunk of metal up onto the deck faster than Carlos and Hawking could do it together.

We began to drift outward, away from Maria Cleofas. As we reached the opening between the rocks, the
Purple
shuddered and stood in place. This was the tipping point.

I held my breath; my hand reached out instinctively and rested on the dead controls.

The boat held in place as the front of a big wave took her, then sighed and slid down the other side. That tiny piece of luck seemed to decide our fate. We had gained momentum, and now we started to pick up speed.

I let out my breath, still watching the shore carefully. Without the engine, we were still trapped, unable to go anywhere. In case of another storm, we needed to stay relatively close to shore.

The sea here along the coast stretched downward less than a hundred feet—in many places, less than fifty. I let us travel about a quarter-mile until I could see the bottom reflecting the noon sun back at me, then called down to drop anchor. Rigger and Carlos and Ben all lobbed them overboard and I could feel them bite into the sand and rock down there. We dragged them along for a few boat lengths, and then a couple caught on something. We stopped drifting.

Saving the
Purple
from grounding out had required quite a bit more seamanship than I’d let on below decks. We were lucky to have made it, and the project had occupied my mind fully. The roar of decisions begging to made had disappeared and I was alone with my thoughts.

Death occurred to me; for the first time it came to me as an idea fully formed. My imagination ran wild trying to wrap itself around an experience of non-experience, of nothingness. My courage was running on fumes. I felt terrified.

Slumped in the chair, exhausted by a constant sense of impending doom, the sun called to me. Sweat dripped down my brow but my skin was ice. I squirmed around the controls and out onto the forward deck. My shirt slipped easily over my head. My eyes closed and I exposed myself to the big yellow coin hanging above me in the sky. I let it spear me, quietly willing it to run me through. Time seemed to lose its meaning out there in the sun, but when my flesh stung and my vision went white, I crawled back under the canvas canopy.

Nothing had changed. In fact, things had gotten worse.

I surveyed the boat in my mind: the small lounge on the main deck; the forward area; the galley; the helm; the staterooms. So big a space to live in alone, so small place to be trapped with three people who wanted to kill you. And I had given them all the time in the world.

My old friend, that bottle of beautiful amber liquid, found its way into my hand. I started to drink. The island had been big, the ocean had seemed bigger. Walking the African savannah must be dangerous but it was nothing compared to waking up in the lion’s den. I pulled at the bottle, an infant suckling, and started to laugh. It was the laugh of the damned, convincing to no one—not even me. I hooted and howled. Tears ran down my face, and I knew in my heart that we were well and truly fucked. I knew exactly where we had gone.

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

Chapter 11

AT SUNSET, THE sharks found us.

Rigger spotted them. He’d become quite attached to my canvas deck chair and my whiskey bottle. I pulled myself together after my own turn with the bottle and gave everyone orders.

In the back of my mind, I wondered exactly how much Rigger and Carlos and Ben suspected I knew. Some part of me felt sure they knew I knew, and in turn, that I knew they knew I knew. The whole thing was a recursive vortex that made my head hurt just to think about. So I didn’t think about it. Besides, I didn’t know what else to do besides keep playing dumb.

Interestingly, neither did they.

Everyone had taken to their emergency duties—organizing supplies, keeping a watch—all of us playing our parts, watching our backs. I tried to find a way to fix the engine, or at least, that’s what I did in order to look occupied. The truth of the matter was that I couldn’t fix the thing, as whoever had taken the original, working hose damn well knew. Eventually I gave up the act and sat at the helm, drinking.

Rigger, sprawled in the canvas fold-out chair down on deck, used his good arm to pour my liquor into his face. I had one eye on him, so I noticed right away when he shot up to his feet. That got my attention. It was the first movement he had made in an hour and I was shocked at his speed. The huge bulk of him accelerated gracefully to the rail, and I made a mental note of that incredible ability to move.

I stood myself, approached the rail, peered down.

Rigger studied the waves intently, like a fortune teller examining a palm. Without a word, he pointed.

After making sure I was out of arms reach, I stretched up onto my toes and craned my neck, searching the whitecaps for some sign of meaning. Sunlight painted the water an ugly salmon and more than a little of it reflected right into my eyes. I raised one hand and shaded the sun, then looked again.

There.

A single fin, black and oily-looking, chopped a wave in half before disappearing. It came up again, but yards behind where it had been the first time. Sharks can’t swim backwards and for a second I thought it had somehow managed to teleport. Realization dawned—it was a second shark. There were two of them.

At least two of them,
I corrected myself.

Together at the rail, Rigger and I watched the beasts cut ornate figure eights through the foam that surrounded us. One broke the surface, just for a second, and I could see a broad face set with dead eyes.

“Bulls,” Rigger said.

I looked at him, surprised he could identify a bull shark at a glance.

He read my expression without even looking at me. “Oh, come on. What kind of Australian would I be if I didn’t know my sharks.”