The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (31 page)

M
orning
broke, and Hans clutched Jessica as he surveyed the damage. Despite an ugly smearing
of rust and algae following its slide along the ship’s hull, the raft had come through
the ordeal relatively intact. The screw stayed in place, and the pressure
valves did their job, but the tubes would need a good few pumps to get them into
shape. The Larssons still had the equipment bag and the items stowed in the raft’s
mesh pockets, but the ditch kit was missing, along with the fishing gear, bait net
and water can. The solar still was punctured and flattened beyond repair.

As far as survival was concerned, the situation could not
have been much worse, but Hans was just glad they were both still alive. He
retrieved the collapsible basin and began bailing out, reflecting on the irony
that with no prospect of food or water they had retained the item doubling as a
potty. Only one sleeping bag was present. Hans hung it out to dry and began
inflating the tubes, stopping to rest every twenty pumps due to utter
exhaustion.

It must feel like this to climb Mount Everest, inching up
through the Death Zone a step at a time.

In truth, what with the fatigue, heat and deprivation – not
to mention loneliness, fear and paralysis from gangrene – climbing Everest
would have been an easier option.

Hans set about making an improvised still, tearing a thin
strip from one of the halves of T-shirt and taping it around the rim of the
basin. Fortunately, he had stored the filleting knife in a mesh pocket prior to
the collision. He used it to cut a square of black fabric from the equipment
bag, placing it in the bottom of the basin to act as a heat sink and wick. He
filled the contraption with a quarter of an inch of brine and sealed it in a plastic
bag. Placing the still in the sun, he hoped the salt water would evaporate into
fresh, condensing on the plastic bag to drip down and collect in the T-shirt
material.

When darkness fell, Hans lay in the doorway, using the empty
water can and attached sock to scoop up krill wriggling in the raft’s stunning blue
halo. He was beyond exhausted and about to give up when a triggerfish shot from
the deep and butted his wrist. Taken by surprise, Hans took a moment to realize
the luminescent dial on his Rolex had acted as an attractor.

An idea formed . . .

He cut a two-foot length of webbing strap from the interior
of the raft and tied one end to his watch – not an easy task with little feeling
in his right-hand side. Then he taped the filleting knife to the wooden paddle
to use as a spear. Hans jigged the world’s most expensive bait up and down until
the fish struck again, but he was too slow. After several attempts, Hans
managed to impale the triggerfish, gutted to see it wriggle off the blade as he
drew it toward him. Although in desperate need of the juice the fish’s flesh
contained, the American drifted into sleep.

Hans awoke to find the raft caught up in a mesh of sargassum
rolling around in the swell like a sea monster. In amongst the weed was a heap
of trash, testament to a world of ignorance and greed Hans and Jessica had long
since ceased to be a part of.

Something caught his eye . . . He found himself shaking.

It was a plastic bottle – a mineral water bottle – floating
at an angle that suggested it was not empty.

Hans pulled the vegetation toward him, and another bottle popped
up and then another. If there was ever a gift from the gods, then this must be
it. Plucking them from the sea, he could hardly believe they contained varying
amounts of freshwater, almost a pint in all. He unscrewed the top of one of the
bottles and guzzled its contents.

“Jessie.”

“Huh?”

“Drink, honey. Drink.”

“Mojito?” She looked up at him with glassy black eyes.

“No, princess. Better than mojito.”

He held the bottle to her mouth. There was no point
rationing such a small amount, so they finished it off, though Jessica was uninterested
and spilt a good deal.

With a newfound zest, Hans returned to spearfishing, but the
revitalizing effect of the water did not last long, seeing him slump to the
floor. He lay there with the stench of death invading his nostrils, tongue
swollen beyond all proportion in his ulcerated mouth.

In the heat of the afternoon, he summoned up the energy to remove
the T-shirt fabric from the improvised still and sucked out the few drops it held
before collapsing in agony. He considered setting it up again but knew it was
not worth the effort.

The next morning luck shone on them once more, for during
the night two flying fish had landed on board, the moisture in their tissue
enough to see them through another day. Hans reached for the spear and . . .

Hans had no idea how long he had slept for, only that a
swell kicked up under them for the first time in weeks.

Could it be . . . ?

He peeled back the door to see building heads of dense, dark
cloud towering into an overcast sky. The raft slid headlong down ever-higher
breakers as the rumble of distant thunder signaled an approaching storm. His
first thought was to stream the drogue, but he got all confused, taking an age
to find it and misplacing it when he did. When at last he threw the device
overboard, it immediately ripped into shreds.

Hans couldn’t miss this opportunity to collect water. He rummaged
through the equipment bag and stuck all the empty cans to the outside of the
canopy with duct tape. The raft looked like a woman’s hair in rollers. Kicking
himself, Hans realized he had fixed them on upside down.

When the weather hit, Hans was past caring, whooping aloud as
the tired orange pod rode the waves like a roller coaster. Fork lightning electrified
the sky, the downpour rinsing salt from his matted hair and beard.

Hans held out the collapsible basin. It filled in seconds, and
with no other vessel at hand in which to decant it, he tipped it over his
shoulder into the cabin. The torrent was such that Hans was able to pour basin
after basin into the floating tub until the sheer weight of water threatened to
sink them.

“
Drink
, Jessie!
Drink
!”

As he spoke, the sound of rotor blades drowned out the tempest,
and a chopper emerged from the gloom. Hans fought to remain upright in the
doorway as its downwash flattened the canopy and he gagged on aviation fumes.

Hans thought it was a rescue bird at first, expecting a crew
member to descend on a winch and whisk them to safety, but when he looked again
he saw that it was a single-seater, the kind used by forest rangers to report
on wildfires.

He spotted a compartment behind the chopper’s Perspex bubble.

We can squeeze in there!

He caught the pilot’s attention and gesticulated wildly. The
pilot shook his head and, risking life and limb, leant out of the cockpit, opening
the cowling to show Hans it housed avionics. The pilot made a chopping gesture
with his bladed hand, indicating Hans should look to the distance.

Sure enough, a light shone intermittently as the sea peaked
and troughed. Hans saw another, then another and another as a convoy bore down
upon them.

“Yes!”

Utterly ecstatic, Hans dove headlong into the pool of rainwater
. . .
to find himself fixing a puncture on JJ’s bicycle in their garage back
home in Portland . . . The tire was made of chocolate, causing a big problem, for
when he tried to ease it back onto the wheel rim it broke into chunks, which
disintegrated into purple gunpowder. Hans resorted to wrapping it around with bands
of licorice, but no sooner had he done so he realized the confectionery would be
put to better use doubling up as putty to seal the leaks around his neighbors’ windows,
except that seagulls kept flying down to land on the window ledges and pluck
out the sealant with their greedy bills before flying off again . . .

Hans sensed their chance of rescue slipping from his grasp.
He forced his mind back to the chopper
. . . to find the pilot had
transferred to a glider as it was all about fuel economy and far more fun doing
360-degree rolls with his great aunt on board, the lights of the approaching
convoy morphing into attractions at the Bangor State Fair, garishly colored
cotton candy stalls, brightly striped tarpaulins, high-pitched screams coming
from the Wheel of Death, the smell of hot dogs, candy apples and fried dough .
. .

It was too much for Hans. One moment he had been convinced they
had all the water they would ever need and were on the verge of rescue, but he awoke
to find the raft dry and stinking and their situation as desperate as before.
He dragged himself into the doorway, thrust his head into the deceptively refreshing
sea and drank until he could drink no more.

Passing in and out of consciousness, Hans heard the call of
a seabird and the flutter of wings as it settled on the canopy. He stared at
its silhouette, unsure if what he saw was even real. It took all the strength
left in his broken body to raise himself up and thrust a hand out to grab the
surprise visitor, feeling a waft of air as the bird bid for freedom. He
collapsed back down, unable to reach for his daughter despite knowing the end
was near.

Hans drifted between this life and the next, and for the
first time since the collision, images of the sinking yacht flashed through his
failing mind . . .

. . . He remembered sailing
Future
ten miles off Cape
Verde with Jessica, priding himself on the yacht’s progress, her replacement
gear holding fast as she skimmed across the wave tops. He’d felt relaxed,
content with the direction his boat and life were heading, all the time looking
forward to their reunion with Penny, who had stayed ashore, taking care of
last-minute business.

Then there was the sickening crunch as
Future
ripped
apart.

“Jessie, get out! Get out now!”
he’d screamed.

As the life raft’s hydrostatic releases hissed and the
bright-orange capsule deployed, Hans had dived inside the cabin, launching the
ditch kit out of the companionway as a barrage of seawater washed him back into
the cockpit.

Fighting to compose himself, Hans had sucked in a lungful of
air and thrust his body into the downturned hull, frantically trying to reach
his daughter as the boat descended into the depths. His chest felt as though it
was about to implode, but he continued into the blackness, rewarded to see his
little girl swimming up to meet him.

That’s it, Jessie! That’s it!

Their hands had clasped.

Hans had experienced immense relief.

Well done, kid!

Then he’d spotted his daughter’s safety line still clipped
to the bunk, the sinking yacht ripping the drowning girl from his grasp, Jessica’s
desperate eyes fixed on his as the ocean devoured her, leaving him to clamber
into the life raft alone.

D
eath
was close now for Hans, the stench of necrosis eclipsing all others in the
rancid floating tomb. Paralyzed throughout most of his body, he breathed in
shallow gasps, his eye weeping, an arm stretched toward what he thought was his
little girl. He desperately wanted to hold her one last time.

As a lone gull mewed a pitiless soliloquy, memories of
better days saw a light flicker in his fading eyes.

“Hey, Jessie . . . sometimes . . . when I feel the sun on my
face, I close my eyes and imagine we are walking along a soft sandy beach by a
beautiful blue sea. You, me, Mommy and JJ. And it’s sunny and warm . . . and
the seagulls are squawking . . . and the air tastes fresh and salty . . . and
we’re smiling, sweet pea. We’ll always be together . . . and we’re smiling, my
darling. We’re smiling . . .”

The teddy bear gave him a look. It said everything but nothing.