The Sail

by Landon Beach

  Wilson pulled on a pair of gloves and woke Morris.

  “Heater’s gone, Jimmy boy,” said Wilson, “better put on your jacket.”

  Morris squinted and then rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

  The snow was gone and the plane seemed to be descending.

  “See that?” Wilson pointed out the window.

  On the horizon was land.

  Morris sat up. “Yee haw, bubba! We’re gonna make it out of this mess after all.”

  “Just in time,” Wilson said. “If the heater’s gone, I don’t wanna find out what’s next.”

  “I’m gonna get me a paper tomorrow and see about that ship we saw go down. We’ll be celebrities being the only ones who know how she sank.”

  Wilson pulled on Morris’s collar and brought the co-pilot’s face to within six inches of his own. He stared into Morris’s eyes. “We’re not talking to anyone,” he ordered. “Have you forgotten what we’re carrying back there?”

  Morris broke eye contact and looked toward the back bench. Then, at Wilson.

  “Uh huh,” Wilson said. “We’ve gotta figure a way to get that delivered before we say a word about the ship.” He released Morris’s collar. “Understood?”

  Morris sat back. “Yeah.”

  Wilson began to focus on flying again. Suddenly, the plane dropped. “What the—”

  “Look!” Morris said.

  The right propeller began to slow down...then, it stopped. For a moment, both men just stared at the motionless blades. They both shot their eyes to the left propeller and watched it slow down, sputter, and then stop...

  Scrambling in the cockpit: Morris in the backseat reaching for the bags, Captain J. W. Wilson fighting with the controls.

  The plane diving toward the water.

  Screaming...

  ...Impact.

  Explosion in the fuselage—one man burning. More screaming. One man trying to exit the plane, but pinned.

  Water flooding the cockpit and fuselage.

  Fire on the water.

  The wreckage sank below the surface, putting out the fire, leaving only the moon’s reflection on the black water.

  PART I

  Preparations

  1

  LAKE HURON

  OFFSHORE HAMPSTEAD, MICHIGAN, JUNE 1995

  The bow flattened the waves and the wake gurgled as the thirty-six-foot sailboat came about.

  “Trist, get ready to tighten her up,” Robin Norris shouted over the wind to his son as the boom swung overhead and snapped to a halt.

  Tristian Norris pulled on the mainsheet, and the sail became pregnant with air. Levity heeled to starboard, and the smooth wooden hull began to slice through Lake Huron.

  Robin looked up at the tattletales on the mainsail; both were streaming taut, parallel to the boom. “Cleat her,” he said and sat down behind the wheel. Trist did and sat back down on the starboard cockpit bench.

  “She looks seaworthy to me,” Trist said.

  It was the final trial run—an overnighter—before they left for their summer sail, the summer sail that Robin had promised Trist since they had purchased the boat three years ago. The previous day had been filled with practicing procedures they would carry out in emergency situations: man overboard, collision, fire, abandon ship, loss of equipment, foul weather, and any medical situations that arose. When they had bought the rotting, abused, and broken boat from marina owner Ralph Shelby for practically nothing—Shelby said it would never float again and just wanted to get it off his hands—Robin had set the bar at not only getting the yacht to sail again but to circumnavigate Lake Superior the summer before Tristian’s senior year in high school.

  Last night, they had anchored, tested the new grill Robin had mounted on the aft rail, and slept under the stars. There were always problems with a boat, but it appeared that there was nothing to stop them now from attempting the voyage.

  “A few days to load supplies, get this beast on a trailer, and take her up,” Robin said. “Tomorrow’s your last day at the hardware store, right?”

  “What’s mom going to do with us gone all summer?”

  Robin watched as Trist’s black hair blew across his forehead. His hair was smooth and longer like his mother’s and behind Trist’s Ray-Ban sunglasses were the same brown eyes as hers too. Trist’s skin was a blend of Robin’s Caucasian and Levana’s Chippewa heritage—closer to Levana’s in the summer, Robin’s in the winter. Why was he noticing these things at this moment? He knew. Since the diagnosis, he had been in a hyper-sensitive state of observation. Familiar things: the amount of air in the tires on the car, exactly how much toilet paper was left on the roll in each bathroom, how many beers were on the top shelf of the refrigerator, the bottom shelf. Weird things: a detailed inspection of how much dirt was on his socks before putting them in the hamper, how much dust was on top of the fridge, how many napkins were in the holder on the kitchen counter. Even sentimental items: what earrings Levana had on (he’d never taken time to notice before), the family photographs in the hallway, and now his son’s skin color, which he’d known from the moment Trist had come out of the womb and Robin had picked the doctor up, thrown him over his shoulder, and—he still didn’t know why—spanked the doctor’s bottom in celebration.

  “Dad?” Trist said.

  Robin’s head jerked. “Yeah, bud?”

  “You’re zoning out again. I just asked what you thought mom would do while we’re gone.”

  Was he being too selfish? Should they not go? Christ, after the past year, did Trist even want to go anymore? Should Levana come with them? No, she had made that clear. This was his time to make things right with his son.

  “Probably relax without us bothering her,” Robin said. A safe and weak answer. “What time does Uncle Tyee want you in tomorrow?”

  “Same as always, seven.” Trist looked at the shoreline in the distance. “Yeah, mom deserves some alone time.”

  He might have had most of his mother’s looks, but his frame was a carbon copy of Robin’s, only—and Robin hated to concede the point, though couldn’t tell you why he struggled to—Trist was actually two inches taller than his 6’1”. Enjoy the 170 pounds at 17, kid. The question is: could you keep it under the 200-pound line for 20 more years like your old man had? Robin paused, letting the question ruminate. Another small battle lost in the fight to not ask himself questions that he would not be around to answer. Well, Levana will see if he can do it. Maybe next month’s test results will bring the unreliable and unrealistic word of ‘hope’ out of the graveyard. He was glad that Tristian didn’t know about that yet.

  How many times had he wanted to bring it up as an eye-opener, a bargaining chip? But he had resisted. Pity was not the way to curtail adolescent behavior. And that was not the way to let a child know that his father was on borrowed time. Parents are the bones that children sharpen their teeth on. And as much as Trist’s teenage years had gnawed away at Robin’s skeleton, and as many nights as he had wanted them to be over, now, he wished they would go on.

  “Dad?” Trist said.

  Sweat beaded on Robin’s forehead, and he ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. His stomach felt queasy. Water was building behind his eyes, and his sunglasses were on the verge of becoming blurry. He gripped the steering wheel harder. He would not lose it here.

  “Dad.” Trist said louder.

  Robin turned his head toward Trist. “What’s up?” He mumbled.

  Trist pointed up at the main sail. “We’re luffing.”

  Thank God. Something else to concentrate on. “Good call. We fell off a bit.”

  “You fell off a bit.”

  Robin ignored the critique. Don’t fire back at him when he challenges you, Levana had said. Robin turned the wheel, and as the boat changed course, the sails became full again. “Ready to head in and start our preps?”

  “I guess so,” Trist said. “Need me up here right now?”

  It had been like this since they had left yesterday mor
ning. When he wasn’t needed, Trist wanted to be as far away from Robin as possible—down in the cabin getting lost in a movie or book, or napping. At least they didn’t have enough money for one of those ridiculous sat phones, or cell phones, or whatever the hell they were. What a waste of time and money that would be. However, he could see the day coming, and Robin Norris detested it.

  “Trist—” Now was not the moment to fight him about time spent together. “I—”

  Trist exhaled.

  Maybe it was. “Well, you know we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next 3 months.”

  “Yeah, I know. What’s your point?”

  “What I mean is that we can’t spend the whole time just sailing and when the work is done go off into our respective caves.”

  “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  Yes! He wanted to spend every waking minute he had left with him. “No, but I want you to think about it.”

  Trist rose and headed for the hatch leading down into the boat’s cabin.

  “Trist?”

  Trist paused at the top step. “Call me when we get close to the marina,” he said and then disappeared below.

  2

  Robin secured the last of Levity’s lines to the dock, and the boat rested in her berth at Shelby’s Marina. A cooler and two duffle bags sat on the dock next to his right foot.

  “She’s on her way,” Trist said as he walked across the dirt parking lot, returning to the boat.

  “Help me with this stuff,” Robin said.

  They began to lift the cooler when a black pick-up truck with oversized wheels and gold-plated wheel covers sped through the marina gate. The parking lot became a haze of dust. Loud music blared out of the windows as the truck did a donut and then pulled up to the marina office. The driver shut the engine off and climbed out.

  With greasy black hair and a gut already forming from weekends of beer that weren’t supposed to happen until college, Kevin Shelby hopped out of his truck and spotted Robin and Trist.

  “Yo, Trist!” Kevin shouted.

  They set the cooler down.

  Trist waved back.

  “Hey, Mr. N,” Kevin said to Robin.

  Robin stared at him for a moment and then gave a short wave.

  “Trist, man. You comin’ out to Johnny’s tonight? It’s gonna be legend.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Trist saw Robin glaring at him. “Not sure. Might be busy. Let you know later.”

  Kevin gave a nod then raised his right hand to his ear gesturing Trist to call him.

  Robin wondered if Trist was seeing Rachel again.

  The door to the marina office opened, and marina owner Ralph Shelby walked out.

  “Get the fuck in here, useless,” he said to Kevin.

  The Norrises turned away. Ralph Shelby latched on to Kevin’s arm, opened the door to the office, and pulled Kevin inside. Muffled shouting could be heard for a few moments, then a door slamming, then silence.

  “I don’t want you hanging out with that kid,” Robin said.

  “His old man’s a jerk,” Trist said, “and a drunk. The inside of that office smelled like a brewery when I was making the call to mom.”

  “That may be true, but I still feel the same.”

  Trist picked up a stone and then watched it sink into the water after he let it go next to the dock. “Kevin never really had a chance.”

  Robin thought for a moment. “Not much of one. Maybe he’ll figure it out one day.”

  Trist puffed.

  “What?” Robin asked.

  “You know that’s not going to happen, Dad. He’s already gotten a DUI. His old man thinks that he just drinks.” Trist paused. “But he’s already moved on to harder stuff.”

  “Like what? Pot?” Robin said.

  “Mostly. He sells it by the tennis courts in the park.”

  “So that’s why I see his Camaro parked there.”

  “Yep.”

  “You seeing Rachel again?”

  “Wha—What? Where did that come from?”

  Robin looked down at the cooler and duffel bags still on the dock. “Let’s get these up to the parking lot. Mom should be here any minute.”

  After they moved the gear, Robin locked the boat and joined Trist in the parking lot.

  “Trist,” he looked at Kevin’s truck and then back at Trist, “you don’t do any of that stuff do you?”

  A forest green suburban drove through the gate.

  “There’s mom,” Trist said, and he grabbed a bag and started walking toward the SUV.

  ✽✽✽

  Darwinger's Gas Station was the Norris’s routine stop traveling north on US-23 out of Hampstead en route to their house. Two pumps and you paid inside the general store. Propane gas refills were half-off. The general store had four booths where locals congregated every morning for coffee and gossip under the auspices of Lloyd Darwinger Jr. and his wife, Jessie. ‘Little Lloyd’ had inherited the business when Lloyd Sr. had packed it in twenty years ago. Little Lloyd was fifty-two now and Lloyd Darwinger III—‘Baby Lloyd’—was slated to take over in ten years.

  The Suburban followed the road around a bend, and the woods opened up on the right to show the water. The wind had died, leaving the water a calm flat sheet of blue. On the left-hand side of the road the familiar ugly rectangular sign painted in bright orange with green letters spelling Darwinger’s—which the locals complained about but would be even more upset if the coloring ever changed—came into sight. Twenty yards up the highway from the sign were two thirty-foot Native American Totem Poles side-by-side. Various faces and shapes were carved into them, and the poles were freshly painted in red, blue, purple, gold, and white. A North American Indian artifacts store had once stood next to Darwinger’s but had been leveled by a tornado five years ago. When the owner decided not to rebuild, he left the Totem Poles and told Little Lloyd that he could do with them as he wished. The poles remained, and select members from the battalion of Darwinger nephews painted them each May before the summer season.

  Across the road from the gas station was a boat launch and a rickety dock also owned by the Darwingers. Little Lloyd had offered Robin the opportunity to keep his boat there, but Robin had declined, as he couldn’t be sure from day to day if the dock would still be there.

  Levana slowed the Suburban and turned in. Despite being almost 40, Robin thought—half proud and half jealous—she refused to age. When asked to describe her looks, Robin answered, “Just imagine someone reaching into the movie screen and pulling the gorgeous woman ‘George’ out of the arms of Clint Eastwood in The Eiger Sanction and placing her into mine.”

  The Darwingers had never paved, and gravel popped under the tires as she swung the vehicle next to a pump.

  Trist stretched in the back. “Mom, can you get me a Vernors when you go in to pay?”

  “Dad’s going in, Tristian,” Levana said.

  “Oh,” Trist said.

  “You want a Vernors or not, Trist?” Robin said opening his door.

  “Yeah.”

  Robin turned to Levana. “You want anything, baby?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Be right back,” Robin said.

  As he walked around the side of the Suburban, he could hear a fan blowing through the open door of the gas station and the murmur of voices. He inserted the nozzle and began filling up. There was no one else outside the station. US-23 was dead. A pick-up parked by the Totem Poles was empty but still running. Quiet day, quiet town. He never regretted living in Hampstead. No worries about people stealing your truck while you dashed in to get a six-pack.

  Robin removed his Detroit Tigers baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. A cold glass of lemonade would hit the spot. He put his cap back on and watched an old man and a boy make their way out to the end of the Darwinger’s dock. The man was carrying a fishing rod and a five-gallon bucket; the boy was wearing a yellow life jacket and had a Fisher-Pr
ice rod in one hand and a bright red lunch box in the other. A memory of going fishing with Trist began to emerge, but he grabbed it and shoved it far enough back to where he could not see it.

  The pump clicked off. After glancing at the damage on the screen, he put the nozzle back and screwed on the gas cap. The sound of abruptly raised voices pulled his attention to the open doorway. The townies that were piled into the booths drinking coffee were all putting their heads down on the table. Robin saw a man, whose head was almost level with the doorway, holding a burlap sack and pointing a gun at Little Lloyd Darwinger—backing him toward the cash register. Robin sprinted toward the building.

  3

  He stopped and hugged the wall next to the open door. From this position, he could see Jessie behind the counter pushing buttons on the cash register. The gun was now aimed at her. Little Lloyd was out of view.

  “Shit!” She said, slapping the side of the register.

  “What?” The man holding the gun said in a hoarse voice.

  “I hit the wrong button,” Jessie said.

  “Well, hurry up and fix it, bitch.”

  Little Lloyd came into view from behind Jessie and took a step toward the man. “Listen, asshole. She’s doing her best.”

  “Stay right there, pops,” the man said, swiveling his gun at Little Lloyd. The robber wore cowboy boots, denim overalls with a red cut-off T-shirt underneath exposing tan muscular arms, and an oily John Deere hat. He towered over the wiry gas station owner. Little Lloyd stepped back. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  Jessie hit a series of buttons, and the register drawer slid open. The man tossed the burlap sack to Little Lloyd and watched as Jessie began emptying cash into it.

  Would he come out this way? Robin eyed the truck that was running. Must be his. He scanned over to the Suburban. Levana motioned as if to say, “What are you doing?” Trist lowered his window and looked at him. Robin gestured for them to stay put. He peeked back inside the store.