The Weight of a Thousand Oceans

by Jillian Webster

  “Okay, I’ll start on the bins.” Maia grabs a large canister and some netting.

  “Maia, we are only as secure as our nets. They will be the only thing holding this raft together. To be meticulous would be an understatement.”

  “Don’t worry, Lucas. I’ve got this.” Maia wraps her hair in a bun and takes a swig of water. All those years working on jellyfish netting will pull through for her now. She will weave and tie like she’s never tied before.

  Lucas and Maia work tirelessly through the next few days, from sunrise to sundown. Resolved. Resolute. Tying. Wrapping. Weaving. Tying.

  Nothing would stop them.

  Only a few early morning stars remain as light seeps into the corner of the sky.

  “Maia? Are you awake?”

  “Yes.” She sits up, looking anxiously at Lucas.

  He grabs her hand. “You ready?”

  She takes a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

  Last night they slept in their newly-fashioned boat, testing it in the tidal zone. Beneath them, a square row of tightly packed jugs tied together prop their raft of driftwood, sheaths of hard plastic, and buoys above the water. The entire unit has been tied and intricately woven together. Their blue tarp has been fashioned over rods for shelter and a rain collector. A few makeshift crates of goods sit in the back of the tarp next to a foam container of bottled water. Everything is tied down in multifaceted ways, including Maia’s yellow rubber duck, which now sits on the front of the raft like a ship’s figurehead.

  “Lucas?”

  “Yes?”

  “Back on the ship…” She bites her lip, hesitating.

  He waits for her to continue. “Yes?”

  “You mentioned you didn’t go to The Old Arctic Circle, but you also said it wasn’t a myth.”

  “Right.”

  “So … there is something up there? You’ve seen it?”

  “I have not seen it. Like I said, our ship was banned long before I joined, but clearly there is something there with enough power to keep pirates away.”

  She smiles.

  “What are you thinking? You think the place is some sort of haven?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think it’s everything you are making it out to be.”

  “How do you know what I’m making it out to be?”

  “Well, why risk everything for it? People are still people, Maia. I know they are rebuilding, but that doesn’t fundamentally change who we are. Doesn’t mean it’s not without problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “I cannot really say. I guess I’ve heard rumors. But those are from bitter men who weren’t allowed in for some reason or another. So, I don’t think it’s worth getting into.”

  “Look, I had a choice. Die doing something with my life, or die doing nothing. Either way, I’m still going to die … every day that’s a possibility. But staying in New Zealand would have probably killed me in a much more drawn-out and painful way. Sure, I was relatively safe there, but I was alone. I had no one. And what would my life have been? I would have died after a lifetime of just existing. What a waste.”

  “Were there not tribes where you were?”

  She sighs. “Yes. There were. Not any I was willing to join.”

  He looks unconvinced.

  “Anyway,” she says, slapping her hand against the netted wood beneath her. “The raft made it through the night. The tide is almost completely back in. Just a little more time and we can start to paddle through this muck.”

  “Do you think we have everything?” Lucas searches through their containers of supplies.

  “Everything we could salvage and use. Is the paddle back there?”

  “Most definitely.” He hands her a cracked rowing paddle, one of their most cherished finds.

  She places it next to her and pats it for reassurance. It was a beautiful moment when she pulled this from the sludge. She and Lucas just stared at it, mouths gaping. They couldn’t believe their luck.

  They sit on the back of their small netted raft and watch the sunrise while feasting on a handful of barnacles.

  Maia looks out across the clunky expanse. “How long do you think we’ve been stuck here?”

  “I’m not sure. Not long…” Lucas chuckles. “And yet, too long.” He looks at her with an undeniable affection in his eyes. “I just cannot believe that we’re sitting on this thing.”

  Maia runs her hand along the layers of woven nets holding together the refuse of the world. Their only hope, their only salvation, was once their worst nightmare. This certainly isn’t how she imagined getting to The Old Arctic Circle, but there was a point not so long ago when she “knew” it would never be an option. Life isn’t always pretty, but it certainly has a sense of humor.

  “What we could use now is a good rain,” Maia says while sliding back the sheath of another barnacle.

  “Any day now, I’m sure,” Lucas mumbles.

  They bite into the flesh in unison.

  Lucas peers over the edge and sticks the paddle into the water. It disappears, hitting the ground about a foot down. “Okay, let’s do this. We will head in that direction. Not as many stacked mounds to work around.”

  Sitting on opposite sides of the boat, Maia strokes her paddle through the murky soup while Lucas uses a half-broken plastic bowl. The raft moves forward. They smile at each other, an electrifying charge between them.

  “Watch out for that stuff there. Here, I will push us around.” Lucas leans over the edge and Maia hands him her paddle. He shoves it into the pile, pushing their raft around it.

  They continue paddling through the clumps of debris as the morning sun climbs across the hazy sky. Maia glances back. Their island appears smaller now, blending into the expanse the way it had before they discovered it. She looks ahead and smiles.

  The farther out they paddle, the less condensed the mire becomes. The tall mounds of rubbish now blend with the massive sea of waste behind them. Patches of blue ocean begin to open up between the bits and pieces.

  Every stroke they take, they become further strengthened in their resolve, stealing glances and chuckles and smiles. They’ve made a raft from garbage. A good raft. A solid raft. How long it will last is anyone’s guess, but every day they are still alive is a monumental success.

  After four days, Maia and Lucas lie on their backs beneath the shelter of their tarp.

  “Hey.” Lucas grabs her hand.

  Maia turns towards him but he doesn’t speak. Exhausted, they only smile at one another.

  They’ve done it.

  They have paddled their way out of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch and now float serenely atop the calm ocean swells.

  Forty

  Maia awakens from another muddled, blank dream. She peels herself from the layered netting, woven like cobwebs between the lopsided assortment of buoys and bins, crisscrossed driftwood and scraps of plastic. She rubs the indents on her cheek, then clutches her fingers between the top layer of ropes. These ropes … these ropes are life. She runs her fingers across the interwoven, multicolored layers. Nothing else matters if they don’t hold up.

  Seawater sporadically splashes against the large plastic bins beneath, adding what will soon be another dried coating of salt across Maia’s skin. The frayed end of a yellow cord sticks out just above an empty red petrol container. She quickly pulls it tight and secures it around the netting before tucking it back in, then scans the rest of the raft for any other discrepancies, running her hands over the top for reassurance. It’s still holding. They are still floating. Everything is as it was before she fell asleep.

  It’s taken nearly a week for Maia to stop waking all hours of the day and night in an all-out panic that the raft may have come undone in the moments she wasn’t watching. The overwhelming urge to want to somehow wrap herself around it to hold it together has eased, if only just slightly. All she can do now is hope. Leave her life in the hands of fate. The major deciding factor of whether they live throug
h this nightmare or perish at sea now depends on this makeshift raft of garbage held together by a string.

  A few days have passed since Lucas and Maia have officially paddled themselves out of the mire of the garbage patch. Initially, they were elated. The sun was high, the water calm. There was food. Even though it was limited, just knowing it was there was profoundly comforting. And there was water—two full crates secured in the back of the tarp.

  They had defied logic. Escaped death. Created something from nothing. They felt like gods, arrogant in their success. They toasted their waters and shared slimy barnacles and passed the time laughing and telling stories under a relentless and menacing sun.

  Now, Maia’s hollow gut rumbles, almost painfully so. She crawls to the end of the raft and pulls up their empty net like a lifeless sack. It used to be so full. Maybe the large scraps the barnacles attached themselves to were misleading. Maybe they didn’t have so much after all. She thought they had rationed out the barnacles for at least ten days, so how could it be empty? Although it did take them four days of paddling to find their way into blue waters. And then another few days have passed since then … three? Maybe four? It’s amazing how easy it is to lose track.

  Now that their supplies have dwindled, their spirits have quickly followed suit. With neither food nor water, the days pass by in a numbing fog, the two souls sinking in and out of a mindless daze.

  Where will the currents take them? Will they starve to death? Dehydrate? How long will it be before they spot land? Will this raft of rubbish actually hold? And if it doesn’t … they drown in the middle of this endless ocean. Who would go first? This is the most terrifying thought—who would be left behind. Maia can’t bear the thought of it. The questions circle her mind like a cruel and merciless carnival ride. Round and round and round, faster and faster, until she finally seeks refuge through sleep.

  Maia crawls over to the basket of bottles sitting in the sun outside their tarp. Only a minuscule swallow of freshwater has condensed in each. So thirsty … it’s all she can think about. Lucas lies sprawled under the tarp, sleeping. She watches his belly rise and fall. A bead of sweat slowly travels down his reddened temple into his hairline. She’s mesmerized by his face, now half-hidden under a thick beard and full head of curly hair.

  What can she do? She is bordering on desperation—she can’t just sit here. The water glimmers in its reflection and she is reminded of the sparks of light within the trees in New Zealand. The random occurrences of apparent “magic,” the dreams, the bees dying, and the branches moving. She hasn’t thought about any of that since leaving. Too painful. Too confusing. She didn’t cause any of that to happen … did she? No, she was just there. And now that she isn’t there, nothing has happened. No dreams. No mother. No magic. Empty. Void. Again.

  She sits hunched in the harsh rays of the sun. While being grateful for the calm weather, she is equally nervous, knowing the heat will eventually bring storms. Not only that, but repeated storms. Lucas has told her not to worry, that a storm means rainwater. But all she can think about is that a storm may also bring back the waves that almost crushed their massive ship with a large crew of men. What will happen to the two of them on this piece of tied-up garbage?

  Must do something. Must think about something else. She grabs a rod she saved from the island and a ration of netting and works on tying her knife to the end.

  Lucas sits up, rocking the raft. “Hey,” he says, rubbing his temples. “What are you up to?”

  “Spear. I need to do something or I’ll go crazy.”

  “Have you seen anything?”

  “No, but when the sun goes down a little more, I’ll be able to see better. If there’s anything down there, I’ll be ready.”

  “How is our water?” he asks, still rubbing his head.

  “Slow.”

  “Hey,” he says, motioning for her to join him. “It’s too hot out there. You don’t want to sweat too much.”

  She slides next to him and works on tying her knife to the rod. “It’s a long shot, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Can you spear with that?” He looks unsure.

  “Not from the boat, the rod is too buoyant, but I can lower myself in the water and wait for any fish seeking shelter beneath our raft. I’ve seen a few over the last week but was unprepared. I can spear them by hand. It’s tedious, but it can be done.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she dives into the ocean. Gliding through the waters, she plunges deeper, the cooler temperatures a relief from the steamy conditions above. Gripping the spear, she inspects the waters for life, feeling at home for the first time in months. She swims back to the surface and sucks in a big gulp of air, a smile stretching across her face. Lucas watches intently from the raft.

  She dives back under, somersaulting down. The sun pierces the water in scattered beams across the surface and a few rogue jellyfish bounce and drift in opposite directions. In the vast expanse, it’s not hard to steer clear of them.

  The water is beautiful but Maia’s energy is low. After a few dives, she swims back to the raft for a break.

  Lucas reaches down. “Hand me the spear, I will have a go.”

  Holding onto the raft, Maia hands over the spear.

  After a few rounds and the remaining daylight diminishing, they decide to take a break. The temperature has softened, leaving Maia chilled. She wrings the water from her top and they sit in silence at the edge of the raft, exhausted.

  “There’s nothing out there,” Maia says, holding her head in her hands.

  “We’ll keep trying.” Lucas puts his arm around her. “Maybe we should stay out of the water now. We need to start drying before nightfall.”

  She rests her head on his shoulder and he gently kisses her brow.

  Movement below the surface catches Maia’s eye. “There’s something there,” she says. She can almost smell it, the prey just beneath the surface. “I’m going back in.” She grabs the spear but hesitates as a lone fish swims towards them. She can’t jump in and scare it; she has to spear from the raft.

  She slowly lowers herself to her stomach, with her arms and head hovering over the water. Lucas holds down her legs. The fish glides closer. Gripping the spear, she holds her breath. The fish is just beneath the surface, lured by the protective shade of the raft. Maia hovers the tip of the knife along the water’s edge. The blade dips in and out with the waves. The fish drifts beneath it. With every last ounce of strength she has, Maia stabs, splicing directly into the center of the fish.

  She lets out her breath.

  Lucas starts screaming from behind. “Oh my God! You did it!”

  The raft wavers from side to side but Maia doesn’t move. Gripping the spear with eyes wide, she stares in disbelief at the fish writhing beneath the surface.

  They may just live another day.

  Lucas leans over and grabs her spear, then helps lift her up. He holds the silver fish between them, its scales glimmering in the early evening light. It’s even bigger now that its size is no longer warped by the water. They marvel at it in disbelief.

  Maia pulls the fish from the knife and whacks it hard against a timber of driftwood, killing it instantly. As Lucas unties the knife from the rod, Maia holds its lifeless body in her hands. Closing her eyes, she whispers, “Thank you.”

  When she opens them again, Lucas is observing her, a soft tenderness behind his gaze.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “More than.”

  Holding up the knife, he says, “We feast!”

  After taking a swig, Lucas hands Maia a half-crumpled plastic bottle. A few mouthfuls worth of water slosh around the bottom.

  “Is this the last of it?” Maia asks.

  “Afraid so. Most of our condensed water was tainted from us rocking the boat.”

  Maia holds the battered old bottle, hesitating. “I’m sorry—that’s my fault. Here, you should have the last of it.”

  “No. You worked really hard today. You should h
ave it.”

  “We’ll split it.”

  “Maia. Take it.”

  “Okay.” She swallows the last swig whole, knowing this is a battle she’ll never win. She resoaks a black cloth with seawater and places it in the middle of a bottle, then sets it in the crate with the others. “Fingers crossed,” she whispers.

  They sit with their feet dangling over the edge of their raft as the sun sets behind a thick layer of low-lying clouds in the distance. The moon hangs as a faded sliver in the light blue sky. Lucas grabs a piece of fish intestine and works it around a hook he had wrangled out of some tangled vine back on the island.

  “I spent my entire childhood watching the moon come out,” Maia says with a sigh. Closing one eye, she raises her arm to the sky and covers the milky-white crescent with her thumb. “I used to find it so comforting. Like knowing no matter what, the night is coming and we will rest. Tomorrow will be a new day.” She slides her thumb back and forth, covering and uncovering the ghostly snippet. “No matter what uncertainty lay ahead, the moon is constant. Safe.” She lowers her hand and looks away. “I haven’t watched the moon come out in seven years.”

  “Seven. That’s pretty specific. What stopped you?”

  She bites her lip and then gazes back up to the moon. “I stopped trusting the darkness.”

  Lucas stops what he’s doing. “What happened?”

  Maia hasn’t thought about this in years … not until recently when she was faced with the very grave threat of seeing them again. “I was only thirteen,” she says. “A young thirteen. My grandfather and I were traveling the islands searching for options for my future. He was getting older and I was getting bored. We had found one of the only large communities in New Zealand. They called themselves ‘The Northern Tribe.’ There were maybe seventy-five people in it. There was nothing like that anywhere around—there were either small handfuls of people or ghost towns. There seemed to be a lot of young women there, but not a lot of young men. Just old men.” She swallows hard.