Marsh didn’t really know why Greg Walsh had chosen to sail this far from their base in Freeport in the Bahamas. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them and Walsh’s wife, Helen, to go off sailing for a few days, particularly when business was slack. Walsh had been unusually reticent about his plans, simply telling Marsh that he felt like a longer cruise this time and not simply a quick jaunt around the islands. Marsh was relieved that Helen had chosen to remain at the boatyard and catch up on paperwork and a little shopping in Freeport.
He looked up at the sky, hoping to see a star; some small, bleak light of comfort, a small crumb. His only hope now lay in the ship that had run them down. He knew it would take some distance for the ship to stop and lower a boat. For that was surely what they would do. He knew there was no way the crew on watch could have failed to see them, even though the Ocean Quest was without navigation lights. The noise and sudden impact would not have gone un-noticed anyway. They would certainly turn back and begin a search of the area.
He slipped beneath the surface. The water was suddenly cold on his face. It startled him and he kicked out, bursting through the surface, blowing the water out of his nose and mouth. The salt stung his throat. He dragged a hand over his face, pushing the hair away from his eyes. As the water lapped over his shoulders he began stroking out vigorously. Marsh knew he could only do this for so long; then exhaustion would overtake him and he would succumb and drown.
He searched again but he was trying to search through almost total darkness. And at sea level, he would only be able to see a few yards. It meant that any boat launched to find them would fail because they would also be limited by their field of vision. He decided to swim in the direction the ship was heading, but then realised that he was too disorientated to figure out which way to go. And there was no moonlight either. He did think of searching round for some of the debris from the Ocean Quest. Perhaps he could cling to some flotsam. But come daylight he would probably have become shark meat.
Then, quite suddenly, just for a brief moment he thought he saw the ship. He tried to concentrate and focus his vision in the area the silhouette of the ship appeared to be. He started swimming towards it, hope against hope.
He soon realised that the silhouette was indeed no vision; the ship was there and she was stationary. Strangely though she was much closer than he would have expected, given the distance a ship needs to come to a halt. Then he realised why he could not see the ship clearly in the darkness; she was carrying no lights!
Marsh stopped swimming. Apprehension and curiosity began to tease at his mind. Why would the ship be carrying no lights? And because she was so close and stationary, did that mean she was already stopping when she smashed into the Ocean Quest?
He began swimming again, cautiously this time. But whatever the reasons for this mystery, that ship was Marsh’s only hope of survival and he had to take it. As he swam he called out, shouting as loud as he could; but his voice was like a thin reed in a non-existent breeze, and it barely carried across the water.
For a while he thought his brain was playing tricks on him and the ship was still moving. The distance between him and the freighter was difficult to judge. He was making little progress and the ship didn’t seem to be getting any closer. But he could see no tell-tale phosphorescent wake from the ship, which meant the screws were not turning. It lifted his spirits again and he swam more strongly even though the apprehension hadn’t left him.
Marsh had been in the water for about thirty minutes when he reached the stern of the ship. He had hoped to hear the sound of voices as a boat was being lowered to search for survivors of the collision, but there was nothing, no movement, no lights of any kind; just silence.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out. The sound carried up to the ship but seemed to bounce off the hull. He called again but still the ship seemed lifeless. It was as though there was not a soul on board. He thought of the old mariners’ stories of ghost ships. But that’s all they ever were to Marsh: just stories.
He frowned as he thought back to that moment on the Ocean Quest’s deck, just before the crushing impact of the ship. It was strange that there had been no sound; nothing to warn of the coming disaster. And as he bounced along the punishing hull there had been no force drawing him down into the threshing screws. It was as if the ship had been lifeless. And he thought of how quickly he had reached the ship in the circumstances. It meant only one thing to Marsh: when the ship struck the Ocean Quest, she was not under way. She was already stopping!
Marsh couldn’t accept it; there was no rational explanation. Not yet! He didn’t believe this ship was another Mary Celeste, another one of those ghost ships; there had to be life on board. He called out again.
“Ahoy there; you on board!”
There was no answer. He waited, treading water, his face turned upwards expectantly. He was getting cold too, despite the comparative warmth of the water. And tired too; his limbs were beginning to protest and the stinging pain from the cuts on his body seemed to be multiplying.
He called out again but there was still no response. He felt anger rising inside him now. The apprehension he had felt earlier was leaving him and he thrashed at the water furiously.
“For God’s sake,” he called out desperately. “If you have any compassion, answer me!”
But there was still silence.
A sense of futility and desperation was creeping over him and he began swimming, intending to circle the ship with the hope of finding some way on board, although how he expected to climb the sheer sides, he had no idea.
Then he heard voices.
The relief was crushing and overwhelming. Tears filled his eyes and he brushed then away. He guessed that his voice must have carried up to whoever was on watch at the time. He waited, listening to the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. The voices were stranger now, but in a language Marsh did not understand. Not that he cared.
He raised his arm above the water and called out. He expected to see some lights come on and he hoped that the whiteness of his hand would stand out in the beam of a searchlight. But for some inexplicable reason the decks remained cloaked in darkness.
Marsh began to sense a strange, uneasy doubt; an uncertainty that was marching against the feeling of relief he had experienced moments earlier. He knew there was all manner of illegal traffic in the Caribbean: drugs, arms, people smugglers. People like that would not be interested in somebody like him; his life would be of little worth to them. But on a ship this size he doubted if it was engaged in anything illegal.
Suddenly a light snapped on, its beam directed down towards the surface of the water. It moved rapidly, searching for him. Marsh called out, waving his arms furiously. As the beam moved towards him, Marsh swam into its small, comforting circle of light. It was quite intense and he had to shield his eyes from the glare. He shouted up at the unseen crew member holding the light.
“Ahoy there!”
He almost laughed then, a nervous, falsetto laugh. Here at last was sanctuary.
Then, without warning, there was the sound of a rifle shot. The bullet zipped through the still, night air, popping into the water. Then another shot followed instantly by a ‘pop’ as another bullet slammed into the sea beside him.