Lift on a Wave

Moments later the wind fell to almost zero, the seas -- rather than building as she'd feared -- had apparently been blown flat by the squall; now fat raindrops fell on an almost mirror-smooth sea. Lightning cracked again -- but it seemed to have moved away. She looked down at the compass, saw her course was almost due west and she cursed, turned the wheel to correct, looked at the chartplotter and compared her present track to their earlier one...

"Good," she said, "still tracking a little east."

She wiped rain -- or was it sweat? -- from her eyes and brought the binoculars up to her eyes and swept the now-flat sea. Nothing.

"Don't worry, honey, I'm coming... I'm coming... I promise... Don't give up!"

She didn't even know she was crying.

+++++

He'd worried about the little cut on his hand for a while, worried the blood -- even as little as it was -- might draw in sharks, and he'd tried to keep the hand out of the water as much as possible; now he knew that hadn't been enough. He'd seen the silver-tipped fin slice through the water and his heart had lurched in his chest; now all would be reduced to a contest of wills. Of course it had to be a silver-tip, he said to himself, and not some pussy nurse shark. Why not a man-eater? Why the fuck not?!

"Bring it on, mother-fucker!"

He'd watched it turn his way and ducked his head under water, made eye contact with the bastard and watched as it moved in slowly, cautiously. When it got close enough he brought the Mag-Lite down on the shark's broad snout; it was, all things considered, a thunderous blow -- a real grand-slam homer. The shark thrashed and moved off for a moment, then began circling slowly, waiting, he knew, biding its time.

+++++

She heard the turbo-props singing long before she made out the plane; it roared overhead just yards, she thought, from the top of the mast.

"Sirius, this is Rescue One on station; we're heading up your previous track."

"Sirius received."

She didn't know quite what to say to these men, but she wanted to thank them.

"Hang on, David. We're coming!"

+++++

The shark came in again, faster this time, but it ignored the flashlight; the man pushed himself away from the side of its head and kicked off from the shark's side. He backstroked through the water, kept his eyes on the shark, watched as it's back arched, then as it rolled sharply back and sprinted in for the kill. He had his Swiss Army knife in his hand now, thought he'd try for the eyes. He assumed a crouched street-fighter posture and held the knife out, ready; the shark veered away and circled warily, not sure what to make of this adversary.

Then the man heard the sweet roar of turboprops and he lifted his head from the sea...

+++++

"Rescue One, we have a man in the water, repeat man in the water! Dropping canister -- now!"

"Ocean rescue to all searching vessels, stand by to copy coordinates..."

"Rescue One, Rescue One, there's a shark! The man is fighting a ... Holy Mother of God!... Rescue One -- stand by one..."

+++++

With one eye he watched the life-raft canister fall from the loading platform in the rear of the C-130; he watched to silver-tip circle, then sprint in again, with his other. Again he slashed at the shark's face, this time with the little knife; again he pushed off and kicked away. The shark, the man said to himself, seemed to be getting a little pissed off. He shook as exhaustion and cold rippled through his body.

"Where's the fucking canister?" He looked up, saw the Hercules in a steep banking turn, then got his head underwater in time to see the shark... it had him now, and he knew it. He was too tired, running out of steam, and he could see the shark was waiting for just the right moment.

And it had decided now was that moment...

The shark turns, its black eye never leaving the man; it sprints forward with impossible speed, its mouth opening... its protective lower lids shutting to protect the eyes...

The man readies as best he can, he holds the flashlight and the knife out ready for one more go at it. The shark closes the gap rapidly, remorselessly, no pity, no feeling in its black eyes.

"Fuck you!" the man screams underwater.

Then all is shadow, dark and fast, an explosion of spray and bubbles; the man lifts his head from the water, the shark's body is hurtling upward through the air, somersaulting, its fractured guts spilling from a huge gaping wound that has opened its belly. He turns in time to see the huge male Orca crashing back into the water; he is too stunned to understand what has just happened. He feels something move past his legs, feels hot skin on his and slides his head back into the sea. The calf is there, swimming easily now, and so is its mother. When he lifts his head the Orca is by his side, the creature's deep black eye looking steadily into his own.

The whale drifts closer, rolls as if offering its dorsal fin; the man grabs the leading edge and the whale swims slowly toward a drifting cloud of bright, lime-green smoke. The life-raft floats under the smoke, its bright orange canopy visible for miles. The whale descends momentarily as it closes on the raft and while the man it tempted to let go and float up to the raft -- he doesn't... he can't... he wants to stay here forever...

The whale makes a long looping turn then rises vertically, surfaces next to the raft; the man reaches out, grabs shiny orange webbing that hangs from the side of the raft down into the sea. The whale watches as the man climbs in the raft, then slips beneath the surface of the sea and is as suddenly gone.

+++++

Papeete, Tahiti

Two weeks later

The man and the woman are sitting under an umbrella outside a sidewalk café beside a crowded street. Another couple sits with them, and a younger woman, perhaps in her twenties. They are eating lunch in shade, oblivious to the sun above.

"So, what's the verdict, man?" says Jack Hawkins, the skipper of Achilles. His little ship had been the first to reach the man in the raft; over the past two weeks the two men have bonded. But so has Susan Hawkins, his wife. Call it a strong maternal instinct. Call them friends, if you must call them anything.

"Not a cure, that's what the doc said, but it'll buy me some time. Maybe five years, maybe more."

"I still can't believe how tiny the incisions are, Dad," the younger woman says.

"I say old man, let's have a look."

The man looks at the woman; she shakes her head and grins. "You're such a show-off!"

He stands and pulls his pants down, revealing just his lower abdomen and the crack of his ass; there are three incisions on the smooth, white skin, each a half inch long. Everyone in the restaurant is looking at the man; most know who he is by now. For a week or so he was a minor news celebrity, a sailing sensation... the man rescued by Killer Whales! And they know his story, too. Everyone does. He is theirs, they reason.

"So, what did they do? They implanted radioactive pellets in the tumor itself?"

"Yep. And that's tumors, mate. Plural. Supposed to keep 'em in check. And some new drug, Dendreon; that may knock 'em back some as well."

"So what are you going to do now?" Susan Hawkins said, looking maybe a little longingly at the man.

"I don't know," David says, "I'm just the First Mate. You'd better ask the skipper."

Everyone laughs a little, the man takes a long pull from his beer.

"Well? Mom? Dad? Are you going to sell the boat?"

"Heavens no, Lucy!" June says. "Your father's not dead, and neither am I!"

"Here, here," Hawkins proclaims to one and all while he pounds the table. "Too bloody right!"

"We set out to see New Zeeland. And we'll do just that, too. And there's a lot to see and do between here and tomorrow. The day after tomorrow? I don't know; we'll see which way the wind blows."

"Sometimes I worry, Mom, that's all."

The sailors look away, look out to sea.

They know. They understand.

Even if the young woman never will.

+++++

A week later and two boats sail out of the Papeete's main harbor and turn to port, to the west; both are making the short hop across the narrow strait to Cook's Bay on the north side of Moorea. Achilles in the lead, the other boat follows, the woman steering, the man on the bow pulpit enjoying the feel of the wind and the spray as it flies through his silver hair. If you were to examine this second boat more closely you'd find the boat's name has recently been changed, from Sirius to Orca. Odd choice, you might say to yourself.

The man walks back to the woman, his wife, his life, and sits beside her while she watches the sails and adjusts her course a little. He turns and looks back at Papeete as it falls away, then down, at the smooth wake the Orca makes as she slips through cobalt waters.

The shark still circles, he knows; it is still out there, waiting. But that's life, this foolish mortal coil that holds us for but a brief time.

He takes a deep breath, the cool sea air bathes his soul. He looks at the woman by his side, watches as she alters her course a little -- again -- adjusting to the ever changing wind. There is a smile in her eyes, too.

*

Lift on a Wave/April 2009/©AL