Talking to Jonas helps my mood. The example of his life gives me hope that I will not always feel so wretched. Love grows and fades. Sometimes a marriage starts with great promise only to end in divorce. It is not a death sentence. Life goes on.
We finish our drinks, bid our goodnights, and I return to my empty bungalow.
Chapter Seven
The sand is cool on my bare feet. I stand shirtless on the beach, facing the bright morning sun. Except for some sea birds scampering along the surf, and the ever-present stream of white butterflies fluttering past, I have the beach to myself.
Hands on my bony hips, I survey the scene. I inhale the sweet air. Perhaps, today we will get news from the outside world. Taking into account our dwindling food supplies, today would be a good day to keep my word to my father and try to land a big fish for dinner. Unfortunately, if successful in catching a whopper, I will not be able to provide my father the photographic proof he required because no camera will work. He will just have to take my word for it after all.
Something on the horizon snaps me out of this reverie. A sailboat. Gleaming white, sails full with wind, it lists to the side.
“Hey! Hey!” I leap into the air, waving my arms. I cannot see anyone on deck. I am so far away it is impossible to tell if someone is there or not. Likewise, if anyone is on deck, I doubt they can see me either.
I look to the bungalows behind me, hoping my yells roused some of the other guests, but no one stirs. I must get the attention of whoever captains that sailboat. Maybe someone is at the restaurant. I dash along the beach, keeping one eye on the sailboat, which is closer now but not headed for us. No, it seems that it will sail right past the resort.
As I sprint up the deck stairs to the restaurant I spot Conner and Robby, shirtless and sunburned, sitting at the bar getting a head start on the days inebriation.
“Relax, Phil,” Robby holds forth a pitcher of booze. “There’s still plenty of liquor to go around.”
Winded, I point to the sailboat.
“Holy shit!” Conner hops off his stool. “It’s gonna crash.”
He is right. The boat lists even more than it did when I first saw it, and it sails directly towards the jagged coast of Goat Island.
“I know how to use the hobie cats,” Robby declares. “We could sail out to the boat.”
The three of us run to where the hobie cats are stored.
“Fuck,” Conner curses, jerking on the chain used to lock the hobie cat overnight.
“I’ll find Jonas. He must have the key,” Robby says and runs to Jonas’s bungalow.
Conner and I watch the sailboat. It rams into Goat Island at full speed, the crunching sound of the impact hitting our ears a moment later.
“Where’s the crew?” Mouth agape, Conner asks.
“I didn’t see anybody on deck.”
I hear the rattle of chains behind us. It is Jonas, bleary eyed in rumpled pajamas, hurriedly unlocking the hobie cats.
“The boat is still afloat,” Conner notes as we haul one of the hobie cats to the water. “If we hurry we can get there before it goes under.”
Robby, Conner, and I push the craft into deeper water. Jonas remains behind. Robby unfurls the small sail and steers us towards the damaged boat. I sit out front, ocean spray coating my face. Each minute the sailboat sinks further beneath the waves. As we approach, I see why: the reef tore a gaping hole in the bow.
Robby pulls alongside the sailboat. “We don’t have an anchor. I have to stay with the hobie cat.”
Maintaining our position is nearly impossible. Looking down into the turquoise depths, I estimate the water is thirty feet deep. Conner scrambles onto the tilted deck of the sinking boat and reaches back to haul me after him.
“Anybody here?” He calls out.
We grip the sail rigging to steady ourselves. The starboard deck is partially submerged. Behind the captain’s wheel, a small flight of steps descend to the cabins. Over a foot of water covers the floor of the interior. Cups, clothing, papers, and other debris float in the water. I head down the stairs. Expensive teak wood panels the walls and floor. Brass lamps suspended from chains hang at crazy angles. A long table bolted to the floor lies submerged. Opposite the table, cabinets hang open, their contents dumped into the water.
“Hello?” I call. No response. With each successive ocean wave, the boat sways and takes on more water. Suddenly, an electric crackle fills the air.
“What’s that?” Conner whirls in surprise.
Securely bolted to the wooden counter, a ham radio emits a static hiss.
“It’s working!” I seize the mic. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone getting this signal?”
Our only reply is a low buzz.
“How is it that this radio still works?” Conner asks.
I examine the radio. There’s no protective case Faraday cage to shield the radio from the E.M.P. blast. So how is it still working?
“The ship must have been outside of the blast zone. It’s the only possible explanation,” I say.
Conner snatches a photo of a man taped to the cabinet door. “Hey, I know this guy. It’s Dawson Hartford,” Because of my blank stare, Conner elaborates, “Dawson Hartford—the British hedge fund CEO. He’s huge—big time—one of the wealthiest men in England. In the financial biz, guys like me are pygmies next to him. I spent half my days trying to guess what his next move would be and profit from it.”
In the photo, Dawson Hartford stands at the wheel of the sailboat with a black captain’s hat perched on his head. He grips an open bottle of Dom Perignon, a frothy rivulet bubbling over his hand. Tall and imposing, with a thick mane of salt and pepper hair, he sports the proud, toothy grin of a man used to bringing the world to heel.
“You never heard of him?” Conner asks incredulous. I shake my head.
Conner regards the photo with the reverence a medieval pilgrim would give to the bones of a saint. “Floating across the Atlantic in a balloon, sailing around the world, rocketing into space—Dawson’s done it all. This has to be his boat. My whole life I wanted to meet him, and now I’m on his boat.”
“As it sinks to the bottom of the bay,” I pull Conner back to reality. “C’mon. Let’s see if anyone is onboard.”
Sloshing through the water, I open a door at the back of the cabin. It leads to a narrow, water-filled corridor. As we proceed down the corridor, we hear the unmistakable groan of fiberglass sliding against stone. The boat lists further to the side. Any moment, the boat could slip to the sea bottom with us trapped inside.
Conner points to a cabin at the end of the corridor. “That must be the sleeping cabin.”
Because the sleeping cabin is closer to the hole in the hull, the water level is higher—waist deep. Half the windows in the cabin are underwater. The room is dim. Clothes and paperwork float by. The body of a man slumps in a plush chair bolted to the floor.
“Is that Dawson?” Conner whispers.
Treading water, I move closer, but even from a distance, I can see something is terribly wrong with the man in the chair. The skin on the man is blistered and missing in long, oozing strips. Dawson’s thick hair—if it is Dawson—is gone. Only scraggly patches remain.
“What’s wrong with him?” Conner gasps.
I crouch before the body, bending to examine the mangled face. “I don’t know. He’s dead.”
“Holy fuck. That’s him… that’s Dawson Hartford. I recognize his face, even after… after whatever happened to him. It’s like somebody threw acid on him,” Conner grimaces, cautiously reaching out, nearly touching the man’s face.
Suddenly, the eyes on the body open, causing us to recoil in shock. Dawson Hartford sucks in a painful, rattling gulp of air and looks at us with an agonized stare.