After the Storm
The tide was on the way out, leaving a strip of hard sand that felt good to jog upon. The sun, just clear of the horizon, was already hot on my face. Last night's storm had finally blown itself out, although the long Atlantic rollers were still crashing onto the beach with its memory. It was going to be hot, but the sand was still cool under my bare toes as I jogged along easily, the last surge of the surf breaking around my ankles. I was very much at peace with the world: this was a good time of day.
There was something that caught my eye ahead, dark against the white foam. Driftwood, very good, it would make a lovely fire in the winter. It was a long plank with something draped over it. As I splashed toward it I felt a chill down my bare back, a sudden fear.
It was a body, a man's body.
I did not want to look too closely at this waterlogged corpse. I hesitated and stopped, with the water surging about my legs, unsure of what I should do. Phone the police? But if I did that it might wash out to sea again while I was away. I had to pull it in — but did not want to go near it. A wave surged up and over the body and strands of seaweed tangled in the long hair. The head lifted and dropped back.
He was still alive.
But cold as death. I felt the chill when I seized his hands and dragged him, a dead weight, through the shallow water to the beach. Dropped him facedown, his forearm under his mouth and nose to keep them out of the sand, then leaned hard on his back. And again— until he coughed and gasped, emptying his stomach of sea water. He groaned when I rolled him onto his back and his eyelids moved and opened. His eyes were a transparent pale blue and they had trouble focusing.
"You are all right," I said. "Ashore and safe."
He frowned at my words, and I wondered if he could understand me. "Do you speak English?"
"I do. ." He coughed, then rubbed his lips. "Could you tell me the name of this place?"
"Manhasset, north shore of Long Island."
"One of the states of the United States, is it?"
"You're Irish?"
"Aye. And a devil of a long way from home."
He struggled to his feet, swaying, and would have fallen again if I hadn't caught him.
"Lean on me.” I said. "The house isn't far. We'll get some dry clothes on you, something warm to drink."
When we reached the patio he dropped onto the bench with a sigh. "I could do with that cup of tea now," he said.
"No tea — what about coffee?"
"Good man. That'll do me fine."
"Cream and sugar?" I asked as I punched in the order on the keyboard on the wall. He nodded and his eyebrows rose as I took the steaming cup from the dispenser. He sipped it gingerly, then drank deep. He drained the cup before he spoke again.
"That's a miraculous yoke you have there. Could you do it again?"
I wondered just where he was from that he had never seen an ordinary dispenser before. I dropped his cup into the recycler and passed him a full one.
"From Ireland," he said, answering my unspoken question. "Five weeks out of Arklow when the storm caught us. Had a load of cured hides for the Canadians. Gone now, with the rest of the crew, God rest their souls. The name is Byrne, Cormac Byrne, sir."
"Bil Cohn-Greavy. Would you like to get out of those wet clothes?"
"Fine now, Mr. Greavy, just sitting in the sun here…"
"Cohn-Greavy. Matronym, patronym. Been the law now for what?… at least a hundred years. I suppose on your side of the ocean you just use your father's name?"
"We do, we do. Things change that slowly in Ireland. But you say, that it's the law of the land that you must use both your mother and your father's family name?"
I nodded and wondered how it was that an ordinary sailor understood a bit of Latin. "The feminist block pushed it through Congress in the 2030s when Mary Wheeler became President. Look, I have to make a phone call. Just stay here and rest. Back in a moment."
It's a responsibility that cannot be avoided. If you own shore property you are sworn in as an auxiliary Coast Guard. Anything that comes ashore has to be reported. I even had a gun to warn off anyone who tried to land. Immigration is very illegal in the United States. I imagined that this included shipwrecked sailors.
"Coast Guard emergency," I said and the screen lit up at once. The gray-haired duty chief looked up from my ID, which would be automatically displayed.
"Report, Cohn-Greavy."
"I have a man here, washed ashore from a wreck, sir. Foreign national."
"Right. Detain him. Patrol's on the way."
It was my duty, of course. There were sound reasons for this country's immigration policy. The glass door opened as I approached, and I could hear a familiar voice. I called out.
"Is that you, Kriket?"
"None other."
She had come along the shore, for her legs were sandy, the seat of her bikini bottom as well. Like most girls she went topless in the summer, and her breasts were as tan as the rest of her. As beautiful as her mother. Then I noticed that Byrne was standing, facing out to sea, the back of his neck burning red. I was puzzled for a moment— then had to smile.
"Kriket, this is Mr. Byrne from Ireland." He nodded quickly, still not facing her, and I waved her inside. "If you have a moment there is something I want to show you."
She looked at me, puzzled, as I waited until the door had closed before I spoke again. "I have a feeling that our guest is not used to naked girls."
"Dads, what on earth do you mean? I'm dressed. ."
"Not on top. Be a jagster and pull on one of my shirts. I'll bet you billions to bytes that girls don't flaunt their bare topsides where he comes from."
"How revoltingly ancient." But she was going toward the bedroom when she said it. As I went back to the patio a big white copter was just setting down on the shore. The Irishman was gaping at it as though he had never seen one before. Perhaps he hadn't. This was indeed his day for surprises. A Coast Guard captain and two Shore Patrolmen dropped down and walked briskly to the house. The captain stopped in front of Byrne while the others stood ready, hands resting on their revolvers. He frowned up at the Irishman — who was a head taller — and spoke brusquely.
"I want your name, place of birth, age, name of your vessel, last port of call, port of registry, the reason you have illegally entered our country…"
"Shipwrecked, Your Honor, shipwrecked," he said in a gentle voice. With an edge to it that might have been laughter. Not really enough for insult, though the captain's scowl deepened as he punched the answers into his hand terminal.
"Remain here," he said when all of the questions had been answered, then turned to me. "I would like to use your phone. Would you show me where it is?"
Everything he had entered into his cellular terminal was already in the base computer, so there was no need for my phone. He was silent until we were inside.
"We have reason to suspect that this is more than a simple case of shipwreck. It has therefore been decided that instead of taking the suspect into custody he will remain here with you where he can be observed…"
"I'm sorry, that is just not possible. I have my work."
Even as I spoke he was stabbing at his hand terminal. Behind me my printer pinged and a sheet dropped into the hopper.
"Yeoman Cohn-Greavy, you have just been recalled to active status in the Coast Guard. You will follow your orders, you will not ask questions, you are now subject to the Official Secrets Act of 2085 and will be court-martialed if you speak of this matter to anyone." He took up the sheet of paper and handed it to me. "Here is a copy of your orders. The suspect will remain here. All of the pickups in this house have been activated and all conversations are to be recorded. You will have no conversations away from the house. If the suspect leaves the vicinity of this house you will instantly inform us. Do you understand these orders?"