Indifferent Sea (1). Rescue.

Fiction. Chapter 1. Rescue. A man rescued at sea finds compassion where none should be

Authors Note: This is the first work of fiction I am publishing on Substack. In fact, this is the first work of fiction I am letting escape the safety of my journals, besides some old writings for critique groups. I will be publishing more. However, I am committing to not recycle any old ideas and publish only fiction that I write during the weeks before the post.

Engine noise, an unmistakable diesel rumble. How? I strain to remember, but each cylinder stroke hammers my skull. I’ll keep my eyes closed for now. My throat is parched. I cannot swallow. I move.

My arms have weight. My legs too. I am no longer in the salt water. I grasp onto a flashing memory of men wielding hooks, reaching for my life vest, then hands grabbing and pulling, lifting my limp body, exhausted and refusing. I remember my head snapping back, the neck lacking the strength to fight the gravity, then snapping forward as the arms pull me over the railing. A thud. Me hitting the deck. I remember the sound but not the pain of the hit. The faces, succession of rushing bulkheads, water to my lips, then sleep.

Sleep. I am drifting away again.

Awake. The engine is running, but there is no hammering in my skull. It is a throb now. I open my eyes.

The room is dim and painted white directly over metal. The telltale paint bubbles cover the subsurface rust. The paint fails in places where the rust runs in streaks from the ceiling a few inches down the wall, the paint losing the war of containment.

I turn my head and see a wall inches away to my right. To the left, the wall is five feet away, and a permanent table is attached to it with a steel thermos bottle in a holder and… bread?

My arms move, legs too. I feel the firm bed against my sore back, blanket over my sore abdomen, a pain like overdoing crunches, not the pain of a punch.

I swing my legs over the edge and slide off the bed. Slowly. The legs are holding me but shake with weakness. I steady, then vertigo disables my balance, and I sink back onto the bed. I try again. I want to get to the bottle three feet away. Five short, unsteady steps and I grab the metal table. It is military grey and welded to the white wall. I rock a little with the movement of the boat. I am on the boat. I feel the pitch but minimal side roll. It’s odd. I am used to both after four weeks at sea on my small boat, then floating in the sea for… one? In the sea.

I drink from the thermos and burn myself with a hot lemon tea. Fuck! My yelp is a croak from a sore throat. I take a slower sip. It soothes and I feel the growing steadiness in my legs.

The hatch door handle turns, but the deadbolt is locked from the outside. Is it a brig? I knock on the heavy hatch, and the pounding reverberates in deep pulses through the metal bulkheads. I was rescued. Was I? I sit on the bed, recline, then hear the stumping of feet.

The door unlocks and swings open. A man with an islander face and complexion squeezes through the hatch. A ragged polo shirt is tight on his shoulders but hangs loose like a sack over the rest of his torso. His face is soft, a bit pudgy, but his forearms are carved with muscular bulk.

“English?” He asks.

“I speak it,” I say. The tea loosened my croak to a hoarse whisper.

“Where in the hell did you come from?”

“Mexico.”

“You are not Mexican.”

“Ah, no. American. But started from Baja.”

“Long way. How long were you in the water?”

“I think a week. A few days? Not sure.”

He studies me. I study him, try to think, try to focus my attention. His accent is American, West Coast. Hawaiian?

“Thank you for pulling me out,” I feel the whelling tears.

“Lucky, man. The reflective strips on your life jacket caught my eye after we had already passed you. The evening sun hit you at just the right angle, a quarter mile away. You are a lucky fucker!”

“To end up in the sea for a week?” I try for levity, but he shakes his head.

“Lucky fucker,” he says again, “or maybe not.”

I wonder what he means. “The door was locked,” I say.

“We were fishing last night. Did not want you to stumble out on deck into the uncoiling lines.”

I feel lightheaded and sink back onto the bed.

“I’ll get you some soup, man. I don’t know if you want to chance the solids yet.”

The soup is good. I must be hungry, but I don’t feel it. I eat it anyway. Its warmth soothes my throat, and the saltiness conjures thirst. I ask for water. He nods, steps out, and quickly returns. I gulp it.

“Thank you for the tea,” I say, “but the body is craving water now.”

“The tea?” He follows my gaze and laughs. “That’s captain’s. Bet he was fucking furious looking for it.” A satisfaction in the man’s smile.

“Should I meet the captain?”

“He is busy sleeping. Off watch. You will have plenty of time.”

“How much is plenty of time?”

“Ask the captain tomorrow. Many days, maybe weeks.”

“Where are we?”

“Micronesia.”

“Close to anything to drop me off?’

“Unlikely. Ask the cap. I fish, cook, fish, sleep,” a tired sigh.

“Hawaiian?”

“Me? Guam. And Los Angeles sometimes,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Is the whole crew American?”

“No Americans. I am from Guam. United Nations here, just me and the Cap speak English.” He looks at me, laughs, and shakes his head. “Unluckiest lucky fucker.”

“You did not ask my name.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Andy Baskero,” I say. He says nothing. “Could you pass a word to my family?”

“Ask the cap. It is night now. He is off watch, as am I.” He grabs the tea thermos and then turns in the hatch. “I’ll leave it unlatched. Feel free to walk around, but no aft deck or engine room — rules. Galley and head just outside to the right. And a shower — one minute max, though. And knock on the bridge hatch — rules.

“What’s your name?”

He hesitates, “Olu.”

---

I wake up and take stock of my body. The abdomen is still sore, the back is better, and the legs and arms move without the exhausted fatigue of my last wakeful episode. I stand up without the disorienting vertigo and move around my cabin. The hatch is unlocked, and I swing it open into the passageway.

It is empty and extends only ten feet in either direction. The engine rumble is coming from the right, so that must be aft. Only a few steps to the toilet, or the head, through the passageway, also painted white with the same pattern of bubbles and rust streaks.

The ship is old but maintained. For any steel vessel to survive the assault of salty ocean requires an unerring commitment of crew and bankers to fund the expensive upkeep. The hatch to the head opens smoothly without the resistance and creaking of my hatch. I piss in the clean, spotless head and give kudos to the discipline of the crew. The water from the blue-marked tap is warm, as I’d expect in the tropics. It is hot from the red tap. Hot water — a luxury on my boat, now deceased.

I am wearing light canvas pants of Capri length, made for someone fatter and shorter than me. The pants stay on with a waistband around my thin hips. They turn me into a painter’s apprentice. I smirk. The mind is so quick to push away the terror of the last few days, I sigh. The polo shirt is stained and condenses the smell of the ship: fish, diesel fumes, the sweat of working men, and a faint note of… cologne?

I think of who undressed me and what they saw. I imagine a body ruined by saltwater sores, a disquieting rot of sloughing skin. I pull away my pants. I am without underwear and my penis looks fine, thighs as they should be, and my abdomen is clear of wounds. Only my face has patches of sunburn and cracked lips.

The shower feels fine.

I hear voices at the end of the passageway where the galley should be. Three men stop the conversation when I enter. They look at me then talk amongst themselves. Asian or islanders? They could be Philipino. English is the official language there so I try my luck and greet them. They shake their heads. I pantomime for food. One man walks to the cupboard and then hands me a packet of instant Quaker oatmeal and a bowl. Quaker oatmeal is the last thing I expected. The man points to the microwave and sits down.

They watch me eat. They pretend not to, so I do the same, scanning them between bites. They are small, wiry, and fit. Faces are lined with early wrinkles, but I cannot guess their ages. The sea can make a young man look old after a decade of cruel caresses.

“America? Swim?” One finally breaks the silence. He smiles at me with a row of teeth too perfect, like the fakes of Florida retirees.

I shake my head, and open one palm with the fingers out, “Seven days.”

He laughs, the others look at him, and he mumbles. They all laugh. He speaks to me in a language I don’t recognize, nods, and raises his eyebrows. It feels like a taunt. He glances up, and his smile vanishes.

Olu is behind me. He sends the men out with a nod. The men throw me a look of disdain and shuffle out.

“Were you able to send the word about finding me?” I ask.

“Who would we send it to?”

“The US Coast Guard. I am sure they know I am missing.”

“You that important?”

“No, but I spoke with my family daily. They would have raised an alert after I went off the grid for a week.”

“They are thousands of miles away, man. Our radios don’t work like that.”

“Yes, but the satellite comm?”

Olu laughs. “The captain wants to see you. Finish your food, and let’s go.”

---

The bridge is clean and spacious, made more so by the sun shining through large windows and bouncing off the white walls. The sun visors are lowered by the captain’s station to take off the sting of its rays. The surface of the sea is calm but for the ever-present smooth swell whipped up by trade winds.

“Hello, Captain,” I say.

He rotates sideways in his chair, then turns his neck to look at me. His neck is thin, feminine in its lines, as is his face with its refined features and thin eyebrows. His beard is short and meticulously edged to require daily attention. The hair is cropped short with a receding hairline above each temple. I struggle to guess his age; his face is barely lined but no longer young, either of Latin European descent or Arabic. There is no smile and no effort to fill the silence.

“Hello, Captain,” I repeat. Does he speak English?

“Yes, Mr. Andy Baskero. Hello.” He finally says.

“Olu told you?” I turn to Olu, but the man is gone.

“Your emergency go-bag did the intro, “ he nods at the corner behind me. “ You managed to hang onto it.”

“Did you see the emergency contact info — phone numbers and emails?” I ask. He nods, and I feel relief. Were you able to send a note?”

“We do not have a way to do so.” He sees anguish on my face and adds, “The satcom is out but we may be in a radio range in a few days.”

He lets me absorb the news. I sense a cold curiosity in his gaze, unburdened by compassion. He points for me to sit.

“Mr. Baskero. Or Andy? All right, Andy. We are a contract fishing boat and will be out here for the next couple of weeks. Not much money in this business so we can’t dash off to land you on an island with people and airports unless that is where the tuna takes us. You may have to make peace with staying with us for a time.”

I sink into the chair. Not much I can say. He never introduced himself, I realize. I ask.

“Captain Ahab,” he watches my eyes narrow and smirks. “What happened to your boat?”

I hesitate with unease.

“We should get to know each other,” he adds. “I am the only one who speaks English, besides,” he hesitates, “Olu. But you will find him a very solitary man.”

“Not sure what happened. I think a propane leak.” I see no reason to hold back. “I was sailing solo, sleeping in the cockpit at night. I woke up to a fire shooting from inside the cabin and through the companionway. The one fire extinguisher outside did not do much, I could not go inside to get to the source — too much fire, and the fiberglass was burning already, so it was over. I had the go-bag out in the cockpit, and almost did not take it up that night. The life raft was on the deck upfront, but I was afraid of the deck caving in, so I waited until it got too hot in the cockpit, then jumped in the ocean.”

“Did you call ‘Mayday’?”

“Yes, but it was screaming into the void.”

“EPIRB?”

“Too much flame to reach it. I am sure it burned before the boat sunk.”

“How did you make it?” The captain said with wonder.

“No idea. I had two litters of water, ten granola bars, and sunscreen in the go-bag. Everything is a bit fuzzy after the third day.”

“Not sure I want to know what went through your head.”

“I want to forget.”

“Why were you sailing alone?” The captain asked.

“I make a living as a writer. The commission was to follow in the footsteps of Joshua Slocum.”

He interrupts as I am about to explain, “Sailing Alone Around the World, agh?”

“That’s the book. Have you read it?” I ask. He says nothing. “Yes, reliving the days of courageous man.” I say.

“With GPS navigation, chart plotters, and Satcom? And an engine to take you through the reefs?” He smiles.

“Mine was an effort to understand the solitude. Then maybe write to inspire.”

“Hayardahl’s Kon Tiki shaped my life, so write on.” He nods in thought, “Or maybe, misshaped.”

His accent is a mixture of British and Aussie or New Zealand. I can’t say for sure. I know Ahab is not his name, and I now wonder about Olu’s. I decided that for now I rather know less.

I look past his shoulder at the expensive chart plotter for a clue on our position. The zoomed-in map shows only water and hand-dropped markers for, I assume, their fishing buoys anchoring the long tuna lines. I know little about the specifics of fishing.

He knows what I am looking for but does not follow my gaze.

“We are in Polynesia,” he volunteers what he knows I already know.

Where else could we be? Polynesia is a thousand miles in every direction. I could not have floated more than a couple of hundred miles since the fire.

“Just trying to see the closest island.”

“We focus on ten miles around us, Andy. That is where the fish is.”

I suspect what they are, what this ship is. He knows that I know. He compresses his lips, tilts his head, and nods to himself.

“I just want to get the word out to my family and make it to some island with an airport,” I say.

“Let’s hope that’s how it resolves,” he says, then adds, “The men in my charge are brutes. I miss talking to a person who reads. How about dinner tomorrow night? Tonight, I am busy.”

“Uh, sure,” I say. What else am I to do? “ Can I be outside? On deck?”

“Indeed. Stay forward of the stabilizer arms.”

As I exit, he calls. “Andy, on the list in your bag, there are three emergency contact names and numbers for the US Coast Guard and Global Rescue. Lance is the first name on the list. “ He watches me tensing. “There is also a rather intimate note to you from Lance. It is not a prudent note to carry around with you in many parts of the world. These parts. I’d keep things like that in your head. Locked in your head.”

---

So there won’t be a call of my rescue, not now at least. The despair is eating my soul and helplessness. Three people are worried sick, and I feel sick for the mental anguish destroying their days. We lost our friend at sea two years ago. I know how it feels.

The aft deck is active. The crew is winching in the line — tuna and swordfish, each the size of a man. The fish is subdued, unhooked, and dropped below for ice packing. Soon, the Philipinos feed another line out with hooks yards apart then the anchoring buoy. It is large and white, with a spire of a plate-sized radar reflector on top. The crew is methodical in their movement. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

The sun dipped below the horizon half an hour ago, and I expect the floodlights to replace the sun’s shine in the growing dusk, but the aft deck stays dark. I see the men secure the winch drum, stow the next set of buoys, and head below deck. But one stays out and scans the horizon to port. At the top of the swell, I see a dark shadow of a distant freighter. Or is it a smaller boat closer to us? I cannot see their nav lights for a size reference, but it could be my faster way home.

I dash to the hatch and the bridge deck. Olu is descending my way on the narrow companionway stairs and stops when he sees me rushing up.

“Olu, I must see the Captain; there is a ship,” I am panting. He takes time to respond.

“I will make you dinner,” he says.

“Fuck, man. I need to talk to the captain. You can transfer me to the other ship, could you not?”

“They won’t take you.”

“Captain asked?”

“Captain is busy, man.”

“Olu!”

“Dinner. Captain’s orders.”

“Olu!” I consider shoving past him, but he is twice my size.

He points behind me to the galley further aft. I am so fucked. I lead him to the galley.

I sit and watch Olu cut the vegetables. Rice is already cooking, and chicken thighs are defrosting in the microwave. I could dash out of the galley through the partially open hatch and make it to the bridge. But the bridge is likely locked. And if not, then what? Dash to the radio and call an emergency, the other ship may relay. I could surprise Olu, grab a knife, use that on the bridge to threaten — I am still weak with a little chance to overpower the Captain. There could be other people on the bridge.

Olu glances at me from time to time, even smiles without malice, almost a compassion at my visible distress. He fries the thighs in the pan, fries the veggies in another, and then sets two plates on the table filled to the brim.

“Eat away and ask away,” he says.

“Ask what?”

“What’s on your mind.”

I don’t know how I should play my cards. I don’t know if I have any cards to play. I bite into the food.

I feel the engine slow and the boat turns into the waves, the side rolling motion dissipating as the boat points into the primary swell. A muffled clanking of boots and yelling, then a heavy thud.

“What is that?”

“Factory ship. We are offloading the fish.” Olu sees me ready to spring and shakes his head. “They will not take you. You are a problem for them. Don’t become a problem for us.”

He cuts into the chicken thigh, stops halfway, and picks it up with his hands. “No need for fucking decorum.”

“Can they relay a message? Just to my family?”

“In due time, we will. We don’t like to call attention to ourselves just now.”

“If you are doing illegal fishing, that’s not my concern,” I say.

“No, but it is ours. We don’t need anyone trying to meet us to pick you up, Mr. American.”

“Will I get off this boat?”

“Sure. In due time. Unless you want to leave earlier, but that would have to be on your own.

I hear the soft thuds of frozen fish. Then, through the half-opened hatch, I see men carrying long wooden crates painted olive green.

“Focus on your food,” Olu says, “it is best without distractions.”

---

The Captain’s cabin has only enough space for a person at each side of a small table. I am on a folding seat, and the Captain’s seat is welded to the floor. The crew is running roll stabilizers again, and the boat moves smoothly through the swell. The wine does not splash in the glass. I am warm, comfortable, and slightly drunk after my only glass. This is the first glass I drank in months. I am relaxed and at ease. How could I be?

We share an appetizer of fried cabbage rolls, courtesy of last night’s delivery from the factory ship, the Captain tells me.

“With the boat afire, how hard was the decision to jump in the water?” He moves on.

I see the flames. I feel the heat. I watch the fiberglass burn and melt in front of me. I sense the uncaring coldness of the warm tropical ocean behind me. Every sailor knows that if you fall out of the boat when alone, that far from land, it is certain death. Certain. Yet, here I am.

“It was a choice between two horrors: slow-burning to death or a slower death in the ocean. I did not hesitate despite the prospect.”

“And once in a water?”

“What I thought?” His question rattles me. He nods. “I was very calm once I hit the water. Then, I watched my ship burn and sink. The last lick of the flame was the last light of the night. Overcast sky. Total darkness, except for the bioluminescent glow of the plankton I touched without touching. But it only showed for an instant where my arms had passed. It made the dark darker.”

“Sounds strangely beautiful.”

“No,” I feel tears welling up. “No. The most terrifying night of my life, and the next day, and the next night. I waited for a peaceful acceptance I’ve read people find in those moments when death is certain but some time away, but the peace never came.”

“What was the fear?” He asks.

I look at him in confusion.

“Of sharks, of death?” He asks again.

Is it a fetish? Emotional sadism? Or a simpler intellectual curiosity?

“Yes, but… FOMO.” I finally say. “Yes, the fear of missing out. The opportunities I squandered by chasing one thing, chasing goals ahead of life, adventures ahead of people.”

“You thought that in the water?”

“No, I mostly felt panic and fear. But I understand now what I felt then.”

He nods. “Yes, we choose wrong in life, but never see it while swimming.”

The silence settles. I don’t know what he is thinking. I look for questions to ask to postpone the inevitable discovery of the truth of my future.

“Your books?” I say.

“My books? Yes. Not much else to do on my shifts.”

Four shelves, two on each side of his cabin, are packed with tomes. They take up all the space, a hundred books, but not a single memento.

“Reading was the only entertainment my family could afford for us children. An ironic gift of near poverty — it assured the most expansive gift.”

I wait for him to say more, but he changes tack.

“American literature is of interest to me,” he points to the books: McCarthy, Roth, Saunders. “I like the punchy, unadorned prose. But the latest shift towards the weighty memoirs is unwelcome. I like discovering a person’s relationships to their world and not being told in a self-indulgent, tiresome soliloquy.”

“There are still good memoirs. Educated. Wild.”

“Don’t have them, but I’ve heard. You like the American cannon?”

“Yes. But reading other things now.”

“Last book before your swim?”

“My swim? Claudio Magris.”

“Danube?”

“A Different Sea.”

“Finished it?”

I shake my head. He steps from his seat and pulls out the thin volume. I recognize the English translation. He hands it to me. “The next two weeks may be slow. When you finish it, stop by for Danube unless you have already read it.”

Who knows Magris? I never heard of him until a literature professor friend gave me the book.

“Captain. You are obviously an educated and erudite man…” I pause, unsure how to finish.

“Why am I on a fishing boat in the middle of the Pacific?”

I nod.

“You are wrong about the ‘educated.’ No formal schooling for me past primary school. Brown poor people in a racist land were afforded fewer opportunities back in the day. What I know came from my uncle’s bookshop and BBC World Service. That was enough to open my mind, but not the doors to corporate offices. So… here I am.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“In this part of the world.” He appraises me, smirks. “You would not suggest that this honest work is beneath me?”

“Agh, no.” I consider the challenge. “No honest work is beneath a man.”

“Honest. Hard work is honest. This is but an assignment.” He leaves the statement hang.

Olu taps on a bulkhead with his foot and carries two full stir-fried bowls into the room. He sets them on the table and leaves without a word. The Captain digs in and points to my plate, motioning for me to eat. I am thankful for the silence. I need to stifle my instinct to probe. I sense a barrier I should not cross, I know. I know myself, the journalistic urge is impossible to control when someone dangles an unfinished thought. But I must.

“I like your writing,” The Captain says.

“I am not well-known.”

“But easy to find.” He waits for me but I am stubbornly silent, my unease growing again. He continues, “Your essays on ocean conservation in NatGeo and Slate are superb. Especially those on illegal fishing. They could be convincing if you told the full story.”

“I told the story I knew. When did you read them?”

“When you washed up.”

“No satcom issues then?”

“No, no problems.”

“Why won’t you send an email to my family?”

“You know why.”

“You are fishing illegally?”

“Your family will start asking questions, then others will start asking questions, then the Japanese, or Australians, or Americans may start looking a little harder. Flying their planes. Pressuring our buyers.”

“I am a nobody, Captain. No one will do a thing.”

“It is not about you… Your family will suffer for another week or two, then they will learn of your fate.”

“What fate?” My chest grows cold.

“That you made it.”

“I will make it?”

“Are you planning to jump overboard again?” The Captain laughs.

“I just know that you are in a ruthless business.”

“You should have written more about that, Andy. The little fishing operations from poor villages that hardly have a choice.”

“I wrote about that.”

“But you did not write about all the dangers they are facing. The law enforcement and the fishing concerns are in collusion. So the small guys are hit it from both sides.”

“How do you make it?”

“By cooperating. The factory ships take our catch and launder the fish, so to speak. They have us fish where they are not allowed. We carry the risks, and they make the profit. Some catch we keep because of the quotas, but then there is the racquet where we can only sell to certain buyers, who then pay kickbacks to the concerns. So we make it by cooperating. And by keeping things quiet. Hence, the delay with your rescue update.”

“What happens if you do your own thing?”

“Accidents and mechanical breakdowns happen. In this part of the world. Don’t know about elsewhere.”

We finish in silence. A conversation cannot retreat to easy topics of books and culture once it touches on the cruel reality of people’s lives. It is a curse, deep conversations should only be had at the end of the night.

---

Each day, Olu makes my food. He insists it is his pleasure and insists that I eat alone without commingling with the crew. ‘There is nothing they can add to your life,’ he says. That is all he says, keeps quiet, and smiles at my questions. When I persist, he only jokes.

“Olu, do you have a family?”

“Just the human family, man. That’s too much to love already to add to it,” he cackles.

“Olu, how did you end up on this particular ship?”

“The spirits lead me, and I follow blindly,” he laughs.

“Olu, where are we going?”

“A home that is not home.”

No laughter this time.

He looks at me with sadness, almost ready to say something warm.

I read books and wander the ship. My cabin to the galley, a cup of coffee or tea, back to my cabin, read, then up on deck to watch the men fishing. I guess the deckhands are Philipino. They should speak English, but I only hear a dialect I do not recognize.

They are used to me now, even wave when I am on deck, but avoid any chance of questions by hurrying past me and brushing against my sleeves. I try to ask questions as they pass, but they all say ‘good day, good day’ as if following instructions.

I finish Magris, both A Different Sea and the Danube. Borrow Camus and read The Fall, then finish McEwan’s Amsterdam. Try Melville’s Billy Budd, Sailor, but can’t get past the antique style of his prose. I force myself to keep going but conclude there is no need. It is fine to abandon a book that brings little joy.

In a day, I receive an invite to dinner, then others every other night. Two weeks like this. Conversations about everything but the now.

I pace between the three points of the ship, with reading intervals growing shorter. I can’t keep my mind on the page. I can’t keep it on one thought.

“You are reading Marquez, right?” The Captain asks. We are having more stir fry.

“Trying to. Can’t stay focused.”

“Not your kind of book?”

“Captain, a chance I could fish with your men?”

“Why?”

“I am restless. My mind can’t let go of the panic I imagine my family feels. I need to find a way to stay sane. Unless we are close to getting back to port?”

“We are close. But the fishing is good. We must stay out.” He shakes his head. He starts to speak, then stops. Shakes his head again. “Tell me about Lance.”

“What?”

“How long together?”

I look behind me; the hatch is closed.

“Don’t let it escape, you said,” I am alarmed.

“I have a more open mind than my society. Or my crew. But, yes, don’t let that escape. How long?”

“Three years. We were friends for a decade but connected after my wife left me.”

The Captain raises an eyebrow.

“She needed a true romantic, she said and ran off with her colleague who organized music festivals. Writers live only in their made-up worlds, especially the non-fiction ones, she said.”

“Not because she knew, you were…”

“Gay? I am not sure I am. Maybe more about a person for me. I don’t know.”

“But sex?”

“I prefer with men. But that’s only a part of it, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know how things work in a world where a person can make a choice about who they are.”

“I don’t think it is a choice.”

“I mean a choice to be who you are meant to be.”

“Does not everyone have this choice?”

“In your world. Not in mine. You are not naive, Andy. Much of the world lives with centuries-old sensibilities, and a code of conduct enforced by a religion or custom - unbreakable, and punishable. You are illegal where we are going, Andy. There, you are not worthy of a life.”

“Who would you be in my world, Captain?’

“I hope I would be a free man.” It is a confession. He stands up. “Tomorrow, Andy, you will have your answers.”

---

Tomorrow is a day like all others. I wander between the galley, my cabin, and the outside. I try the engine room, but the door is locked. It has been since I washed up on the ship. There is no hope of a distraction in books, my mind is racing. Things are not right. The calm sea and the stunning sunset only add to the unease.

Soon, it is night. I lie in bed, empty in body and spirit. When Lexi, my ex-wife, left, I crumbled into depression. It was hard then, but now I understand the true hopelessness. Just don’t know why.

A knock on the door. Olu pokes his head inside.

“Hey, man. Come to the bridge.”

The Captain is in his chair. Olu sits in the first mate’s seat and takes the mic off the radio. He speaks in the dialect of the Philipino fishermen but slowly, as if searching for words.

A ship a hundred yards away inches closer to our port. It is larger than us, and I realize it is us who is inching towards it. There are bumps, a grinding of steel, and yelling of men outside, but the bridge is quiet. The Captain is focused on hands on the wheel. The lines fly from the tall deck of the other ship, and soon we are hitched to its side.

The Captain lets go of the wheel and nods at Olu. The big man hangs the mic and walks out. As he passes me, he gently slaps my shoulder with his large hand but his eyes never flinch from the door.

“A bit late, I know,” the Captain says. He is facing me now.

“Factory ship? Are you letting me go with them?”

“You would not want to. I invited you to see for yourself.”

The bridge is almost dark. The reddish glow is enough to see without destroying the night vision. The lights outside are minimal, and neither ship is running its navigation lights. I see men in two teams working with cranes. The aft team loads tuna into bins to hoist to the factory ship.

The bow team is lowering crates from the factory ship onto the foredeck. The crates are six foot long, military looking, and I imagine them to be olive drab. I have seen those in documentaries about Vietnam and newsreels about war zones.

“Do you know what those are, Mr. Baskaro?” his formality jolts me.

I nod. “Why are you showing me this? I don’t want to know.”

“You already knew. Olu was not good at closing the galley doors the last time — he mentioned. But it would not make a difference.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“You said I was in a ruthless business. I wanted you to understand how ruthless the business is. I want you to make a hard decision, and I want to make it easier for you.”

I shiver.

“Andy,” he motions me with his hand and turns towards the chart plotter.

The map is zoomed out this time. I recognize Fiji a couple of hundred miles away in the corner of the map, but I don’t know the atolls nearby.

The Captain zooms in a little and places a finger on the screen.

“We will be here in about two hours. There is a current that runs East to West but bends south towards these islands and runs between them. It is about thirty miles from my finger to the island. If I were to toss a bottle in the water where my finger is, it would be between the island in about 30 hours. The sun will climb above the horizon about then.”

I refuse to understand him. I shake my head.

“I am a chess piece in an ugly game, Andy. Not a pawn, but neither a rook nor a queen. I am a minor piece, a badly placed knight, useful to a point but easy to sacrifice. I have little say in what happens with you. You can choose to stay. You may see your home again as a trade-in some back-room prisoner swap. I don’t know. But that is of little hope, your government is stubborn.”

He sees my white face and shakes his head. He pulls up my go-bag and sets it on the chart table.

“Three bottles of water and twenty granola bars in here,” he says, then reaches behind him and lifts a book in a double ziplock bag. “I feel you will make it, so Ulysses, to pass the time on the island. Slow read.” He drops it in the bag.

“Why did you pull me out of the sea?”

“We are not savages. Mariner’s duty.”

“But now you are tossing me back into the sea?”

“If you jump back in the sea, it is your choice.” He looks into my eyes. “I command the crew and the ship, but the crew cannot be trusted. If I were to drop you off, the crew would talk. You disappearing overboard is the only way for you to save yourself. We won’t look for you because we would not find you.”

He folds the top of the waterproof bag over and hands it to me.

“In thirty minutes, we will leave the factory ship. In two hours we will be where I showed you. The crew will be either sleeping or stowing the shipment. Go to the starboard side, aft. Don’t let anyone see you. Stay awake. Goodbye.”

I shuffle through the empty passageway. The rust is eating away at the ship, more of the paint seems stained by the streaks, and more of it bubbled away from the steel bulkheads. Yet the boat will take the punishment for a few more years. It will outlive me.

On my bed is a life jacket, and on my table is a warm plate of food. ‘Thank you, Olu’. I can’t eat, but I must, one forkful then another. Should I take my chances on land? I could talk to the Captain again tomorrow. No. What he is doing is not out of cruelty.

I bury my face in my hands. Don’t sleep through your window, the Captain warned me. I suppose he meant tonight and in a day as the current floats me past the islands. Tonight, there is no chance of falling asleep. My body shakes, and the shakes reverberate through my mind as panic, fear and disbelief.

An hour goes by, or eight, I can’t tell. I glance around. There is a simple wristwatch on my life jacket! My parting gift is to know when to commit myself to the death plunge, and if lucky, to my self-rescue between the reefs somewhere ahead. I pick it up. Oh, God — almost two hours have passed.

There is a quiet knock on my door and the hatch opens a crack. I jump up and dash to look in the passageway. It is empty. I pick up the go-bag and place the wristwatch on my wrist. I look at the half-finished plate of food. Then head aft. Is it what it feels like to walk to the gallows?

The aft deck is empty. It is washed clean, the light is dimmed to keep with the ship’s stealthy ways. My mind splits from my body, and I watch myself from the upper deck, walk, climb up on the rail, and leap away from the ship, as far away from propellers as my shaky legs let me.

The water snaps my split mind back into my head and into the reality of my conundrum. I feel the bob of the swell and taste the salt of the sea.

The night swallows the ship, and I am alone, abandoned by even the new moon. The sea caresses me and tries its best to soothe my terror. The tears run down my face. They are made of sea spray and despair, anger, and pity. I thrash and hit the water with my palms, all of my anger in each slap, and it lets me without returning punches. The sea plays a long game. It will get me in the twelfth round when I have nothing else to give, but it is still at full strength. I thrash and exhaust myself, then whimper. I revolt from what I know will come when my mind disassembles itself into madness.

Then I beg for resolve, will myself to grasp for a straw of hope. He said, ‘In a line between two islands is a break in a reef.’ I will hold on to this fact to hold on to my sanity. And my terror recedes into fear, which leaves room for other thoughts. I am suddenly feeling compassion for my tormentor, the Captain, who can never be who he is. And I thank the gods of the sea for keeping the sliver of humanity in someone evil.

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