After the seas calm, Zack takes charge with a sense of purpose that Don has only seen in glimpses between long periods of depression and quiet. He sets his foot on Don’s ribs and pulls hard on his father’s arm. Don’s scream ends with a loud pop and then silence.
Don has spent so much energy keeping Zack positive that his own oppressive depression, seeping into his consciousness little by little, surprises and overwhelms him as they face yet another storm.
The timing of the growing storm couldn’t be worse. He and Zack are weak from lack of food. They’ve drifted South again searching for fish, but the ocean water is thick with the ever-present dirt and ash that falls from the sky, an obscene black snow that poisons everything.
Don is thinking that the fish have finally learned that there is nothing of value near the surface. Maybe the time is right to try a landing. Certainly the government of Brazil or Guyana would not turn them away so long after the impact? But first he has to survive the storm.
It’s the worst yet, a gale or maybe even a full-blown hurricane. Don tries to steer the ship by hand, but quickly gives up as the thrashing waves and raging winds are coming from every direction. Zack stumbles into him, and Don is surprised not to see terror in his son’s eyes. They are grim, but it is a grimness borne of resolve, not powerlessness.
They hold on to whatever they can, their only goal not to break any bones as they are tossed around the cabin. The ship rolls nearly on its side as a steep wave lifts it into the air.
Don holds his breath, hoping the boat doesn’t split in two. As the ship rolls in the opposite direction, he falls back against one of the benches. He breathes out, and the ship slams into another wave, tossing both Zack and Don against the other side of the cabin.
There is a loud crack, and Don looks over to Zack, expecting to see a broken bone or his twisted body. But Zack looks fine. Taking a deep breath to shout, Don yells, “Did you hear that?” thinking that perhaps the mast had finally snapped.
But not before he can get two words out, a searing pain in his chest staggers him. The pain is so great that he can barely see as he clutches at whatever will keep him anchored to the cabin. He feels a hand grasp his arm. It is strong, steady, a grip that won’t let go.
The boat rolls, and Don falls against something hard. He screams. And everything goes dark.
Don is celebrating his fortieth birthday alone, but he is not lonely. The Milky Way fades, and as the sun rises in the distance, he watches dolphins jump from the ocean, welcoming the day with a primal enthusiasm. The bay is as beautiful as ever, but this time there are other boats, and the sandy beach has people lounging on it. He is holding an ice-cold glass of lemonade as the sun’s rays bathe him. The harmonies of Latin Jazz weave among the sounds of vibrant voices, flapping flags, and ice tinkling in his drink. Don presses the cold glass against the side of his face, the condensation flowing in rivulets down his cheek.
It’s not the pain that wakes Don but the cold. He shivers and opens his eyes. Zack is there, his face in shadow, a glowing Coleman lantern sitting on a crate to his left and filling the tight space with light. “Dad, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is a whisper. Don looks around. He is in the bilge. It is cramped, but he is comfortable He is covered in a blanket and surrounded by pillows. The sails and crucial spares have been moved, creating a space for him. He puts his elbow down to lift himself from the berth, but his chest screams in agony. He lets out a groan through clenched teeth.
“You broke some ribs. I moved you here in case another storm comes.” Zack talks while he gently pushes Don back down onto the blankets. “The storm ended shortly after you blacked out.”
Even with his face in shadow, Don can tell his son is proud of himself. He reaches out and squeezes his arm, ignoring the pain. “That’s good, Zack. You did good.”
“I’m sorry it’s cold.” Zack pauses and then continues, “I used all our heating packs. I was worried about you.” He sounds like a father breaking bad news, not a son wondering if he’s made a mistake.
With the sun blocked by dust and ash, the temperatures have plummeted, even in the Caribbean. Snow is not uncommon, and freezing temperatures at night are the norm. There is a difference between dangerous cold and uncomfortable cold. Don realizes the blankets are warm enough and that Zack wasted the heating packs.
“Thank you, Zack.” Though Zack’s face is still in shadow, it can’t conceal his smile.
Don has been stuck below deck for a few days. It’s dark and feels colder. An oppressive hopelessness takes hold of him as he listens to Zack walk along the deck above him. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine the bay, the sunrise, and his yacht. There are glimpses of the scene, but he can’t grasp them, like reaching for a pen under a couch that slips further away each time his fingers brush against it. He strains to raise himself but is overwhelmed by pain and despair. He thinks of his son. Their lack of food. His injury. The cold. The storm.
“Zack!” he yells, ignoring the pain in his chest.
His son scrambles down through the hatch. “What is it, Dad?”
“What time is it?”
“Six.”
“When’s dawn?”
“Seven something.”
“Help me up.”
His son objects, but Don knows with a clarity that doesn’t exist anywhere else in his mind that he needs to see the sunrise. If he can just see the sun cresting the waves, he will be able to look ahead, to know that all is not lost.
“We tried this, Dad. We need to wait for the rib to heal more. You’re in too much pain.”
“Help me up!”
“Dad, we tried this yesterday.”
“ — and the day before. I know.” Don’s voice is strained. “Now help me up.”
His son pauses, shakes his head, and puts his arm behind his father’s back. He lifts him gently, and Don grunts, tears forming in his eyes. Zack gently lowers him to the blankets.
“No! I need to get out of here.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. You will.” Zack squeezes Don’s shoulder. “The fish are back, Dad. The storm got them active. We’ll be okay. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. You just rest here.” Zack turns and heads back up the ladder.
The muted light through the square hatch does little to change the oppressive darkness. This isn’t just his present. It is his future.
“Zack!” Don cries out, desperation in his voice.
His son rushes down again. “Are you okay?”
Don doesn’t answer at first. He knows the answer. His dream is dead. There are no more sunrises. The yacht is black with ash and dirt. The ocean will never be blue again.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He tries to hide the bitterness in his voice. He adds in a whisper, “We’ll make it.”
“I know, Dad.”
Don doesn’t know how to respond. He is the one who doesn’t think they will make it. Before he can say anything, Zack adds, “We’ll be hitting shore soon.”
Of all the things his son could say, this is the one that Don least expects. “Wait —” Don gathers his thoughts, preparing to object or, at least, understand. Where did this thought come from? But before Don can speak, Zack interrupts him.
“The storm, Dad. It nearly sank us. I was on the manual bilge for six hours. Had to plug a seacock. We nearly lost her. But —” Zack pauses. His words are spoken not with fear, but with a calm confidence. “ — the winds, they cleared the clouds — it’s no longer raining ash. And the sea . . . the fish are back.”