by Joe Nobody
David spoke up. “Yeah, Mom. There’s no doubt.”
Morgan fought the urge to make sure. After all, she was a nurse and was quite acclimated to gory scenes. I’ve seen enough unpleasant images to last a lifetime, she thought. Her face betrayed a thousand questions that were flying through her mind, but she didn’t ask any of them aloud.
David and Wyatt edged closer to Morgan, the three deliberating over what should be done about the dead girl. The final decision was to cut David’s line and tie it off to the pier. That way, the body wouldn’t drift around the marina or frighten any residents. It was the best solution they could construct, given the situation. When the cell signal was available again, they would call the police and report the body. Until then, Wyatt didn’t even have a shovel to dig a grave.
Returning to the boat, Morgan warned Sage to stay away from the end of the pier while the two men kept busy storing the fishing gear. Everyone was quiet, a melancholy stillness having descended on them all.
It was David who broke the silence. “Dad, we need to go and find out what’s going on. I ran the cables for the satellite, but I can't get it to work. Either it won't align, or no one is broadcasting. We need to know what’s happening in Houston and the other cities. You know, this little marine community is pretty isolated. The worst of it is the not knowing.”
Wyatt agreed.
As soon as the fishing equipment was squared away, they let Morgan know the plan. As the two men stepped on the dock, Wyatt noticed David was toting the shotgun. He thought to protest, but quickly changed his mind. What is this world coming to when I’m relieved my son is carrying a gun?
The first thing Wyatt noticed as they left the pier was the lack of cars. On a normal Saturday morning, the marina lot would be full with families, carrying in groceries, fishing poles, and swimwear for weekend fun. Before the depression caused the price of boat fuel to skyrocket, people had to park along the street and walk a considerable distance to get to the water. Despite the grim economic times, the marina was still an exceptionally busy place on the weekends. While most captains kept their vessels tied up to avoid the cost of fuel, the lure of the water was still strong. As Wyatt surveyed the area, he noticed three, maybe four more cars than he had seen the day before. He estimated there were about forty cars total in the lot.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket and negotiated the driver’s seat, legs still hanging outside. Despite the constant dinging signal, warning him that the door was ajar, he fingered the control in an attempt to locate a radio station. David waited nearby, handling the menacing gun like it was a common hammer or saw. He’s scared, and I guess I don’t blame him. It’s not every day you fish a body out of the water and can’t call the police for help.
The radio identified nothing but empty airwaves on both the AM and FM bands. Wyatt scanned the range twice and then switched off the ignition and locked the door. Wyatt shared an exasperated look with David before asking, “What now?”
“I wonder if that’s why I can’t get the satellite dish to work. I wonder if there are any signals there to receive.”
His father shrugged his shoulders. David pointed the shotgun toward the street. “Let’s take a walk up the drive and see what’s happening on the main road.” Wyatt didn’t think that would hurt anything and might provide a little better picture of what was going on. He could use a good walk anyway.
The duo progressed through the parking lot and then onto the marina’s driveway, which was actually a half-mile long private street. Their path was uphill, the land on both sides open, flat and blanketed with knee-high vegetation. Originally, this area had been cleared and leveled to accommodate homes, condos or a small business plaza. The real estate investors of yesteryear held tight to their cash these days, leaving nothing but a field of weeds where the promise of commercialization had existed before. The only business ever constructed was the bank at the corner.
As father and son traveled, it dawned on Wyatt how quiet the world had become. It was almost lunchtime, and he couldn’t recognize the whine of a single engine or the hum of an air conditioner. There were no airplanes in the sky and no boats on Clear Lake behind them. It was if everyone had just disappeared. In a strange way, it was a pleasant sensation. As David and he crested the rise, the land flattened out to the level, featureless terrain of the southeastern coastal prairie. The horizon was littered with the rooflines of two-story homes and utility poles. This particular area had seen a boom in construction at the turn of the millennium, giving rise to entire subdivisions practically overnight.
They were traveling in the direction of Kemah Avenue, a street that had been nothing more than a sleepy country lane less than 30 years ago. Now it was home to strip malls, large outlet stores, and numerous fast food restaurants. The ever-increasing traffic had required two different expansions of the seldom-used lane. A boom area until 2008, development ceased altogether after the depression began.
To the two men scanning Kemah Avenue, time appeared to have moved backwards 30 years. The five-lane high capacity roadway was completely void of life. David couldn’t believe the difference. “Wow! This is eerie. It’s like one of those old black and white ‘Twilight Zone’ shows – all of the people have vanished.”
Even the traffic lights were dark, gently swaying in the light afternoon breeze.
The two men continued until they reached the bank where Wyatt had witnessed the shoving match earlier. A police car, lying on its side, was the only evidence of the confrontation in the otherwise empty parking lot. The patrol car had burned, giving off a rank odor of smoldering plastic and melted rubber. Both men kept their distance. Wyatt noted the bank’s glass doors were shattered, the entranceway’s frames bent and twisted. Neither man wanted a closer look at the car or the inside of the bank.
David moved on while Wyatt paused, pensively considering the once-vibrant business. Despite blaming bankers for the demise of his company, he didn’t wish this sort of violence on anyone. David continued to the avenue’s curb and scanned the street in both directions. The road was vacant for as far as he could see.
They declared any further exploration pointless. Frustrated, the duo headed back to the marina. Halfway there, an unusual sound drifted across the wide, empty field from the east. At first, both men tensed, the wind-distorted noise was like someone crying or in pain. Moving closer, they observed a small, blonde head racing around the corner of a distant privacy fence. The running child was quickly pursued by two others, one of them yelling, “Tag! You’re it!”
The men watched the backyard game without comment, lost in relief and then-distant memories. Exchanging glances, it was unnecessary to speak. Both felt comfort at the previously mundane scene before them. Both realized how important it was to believe some things were normal, especially after witnessing the desolate landscape behind them.
Father and son continued their expedition in silence, soberly reflecting on the events of the day. When they were almost back to Boxer, Wyatt spoke. “I think we should reach out to our fellow boaters around the marina. They are all probably wondering about what is going on as much as we are. Maybe someone has access to news or something. Why don’t you and Sage walk up and down all of the piers, letting everyone know we are calling a meeting this afternoon at six by the pool?”
David nodded, “That’s a good idea. It might also help to know who is down here. Last night with Bill was scary. That whole encounter could’ve gone very badly.”
Returning to the boat, Wyatt told Morgan of his idea. His wife agreed wholeheartedly, suggesting David leave the shotgun behind while his sister and he toured the marina. Before long, David and Sage were off, trekking from pier to pier, seeking neighbors.
Southland housed 14 individual piers, each with numerous slips. Boxer was tied up on pier two, which accommodated craft up to 48 feet. Pier one was built for larger vessels, capable of handling yachts up to 100 feet in length. The smallest vessels at the marina were about 25 feet bow to stern. There wa
s a mixture of power and sailing vessels, subdivided into practically every class, type, and length available.
The kids returned around 4:30 and announced they identified 29 occupied boats. Everyone agreed to meet by the pool at six…everyone except Bill. He elected not to go, using bourbon as a painkiller and sleeping off the effect.
Wyatt had one last duty to perform before the meeting. Taking plastic trash bags from Boxer’s stow, he asked David to accompany him back to the marina’s drive. On their earlier trip, Wyatt had noticed an area filled with golf ball-sized landscaping stones. Filling two doubled-up bags with the rocks, they hefted the heavy load back to the end of the pier.
Using a tarp and two long boat poles salvaged from an unoccupied boat, the duo managed to wrap the dead girl’s body in a makeshift plastic shroud. The task at hand put both men into a grim, melancholy frame of mind. The teenager was close to Sage’s age, and Wyatt couldn’t help but wonder about the agony her parents must be suffering – the “not knowing” where their daughter was during all this mayhem had to be the worst. David’s thoughts tracked in tandem with Wyatt’s, clouded with images of his sister.
At Wyatt’s suggestion, David snapped two pictures of the girl’s face with his cell phone. They pulled a small sample of her hair for the DNA. It was the best they could do for future identification. Bill’s launch, an inflatable 14-footer with a small outboard, was used to tow the deceased out into the lake. Securing the two heavy bags of stones to the tarp, Wyatt mumbled, “Until the sea gives up her own,” as the two men watched the body sink to the bottom.
At first glance, the crowd appeared to be a normal cross-section of any social gathering. A closer inspection would reveal some minor differences. The age of the attendees was slightly older than the population at large, and the quality of clothing, watches, and jewelry indicated a little more disposable income than most people could claim these days. Owning a recreational boat during an economic depression when gas prices were over $9.50 per gallon required income. While Craigslist was littered with owners of jet-skis and sailboats desperate for cash, the monthly upkeep and other associated costs were staggering. Still, the water had an addictive lure, and there were ways to manage expenses. People didn’t leave the marina nearly as often. Owning a boat and using it were now two different things. Most of the marina’s residents had purchased their vessels years ago during better economic times. Some, recently joined by Wyatt and Morgan, used their floating cottages as permanent residences.
Wyatt watched his neighbors drift into the pool area, his mind reminiscing about years past when he commonly called such meetings in times of crisis. At those gatherings, his credentials had been tied to his role as the leader of a business. Now, he had no authority or responsibility to anyone other than his family. The thought helped him relax. I’m just one of many here, he thought. I’m not in charge, and I don’t want to be.
Still, deep inside, there was an urge to assert control. Obscured by layers of perceived failure, the compulsion to organize, lead, and resolve wanted to speak and be heard. That voice was weak, muffled by memories of fiasco and disappointment. The impulse was easily beaten down.
It didn’t take a lot of effort for Wyatt to justify his back-of-the-bus thinking. This is different than when I ran the show. There’s no money on the line, no deadline to talk about, and no deliverables to list. I don’t owe these people anything. This isn’t a business meeting - it’s a social gathering.
David eased close to Wyatt. “Dad, I think everyone is here. I’m the one who invited them all, should I get it started?”
Wyatt scanned the small clusters of people assembled around the pool deck. He was a little surprised at the number of folks he didn’t know. He’d seen most of the faces here or there, but was a little taken aback at how few of his neighbors he’d actually held a conversation with. He nodded at David, “Sure, why not?”
David cleared his throat and spoke loudly, “Hey, everyone! Thanks for coming. I would like to suggest each boat have a representative take a turn speaking what’s on their mind. We can go by pier number, largest to smallest.”
Wyatt couldn’t suppress a smile. David’s diplomacy, the suggestion of starting with the people who owned the smaller boats first, demonstrated remarkable grace. Everyone at the marina knew the smaller your pier number, the larger your boat. His son had just sidestepped any chance those with means could attempt to flaunt their status, while at the same time making sure everyone’s voice was heard. Wyatt read the body language of the group as being frightened, concerned at best. Any hint of “My boat’s bigger, you should listen to me,” would be rejected today.
Evidently, his son’s suggestion was well received as heads nodded all around the pool. An older gentleman strolled to the center of the crowd as people began setting up lounge chairs in a broad semi-circle. After everyone was settled, a tentative voice spoke, “My name is Dale, and I’m on pier 14 aboard Her Diamond. I don’t know about everyone else, but I can’t get in touch with my family, and I’m worried sick about them.” As Dale looked around, several people showed their agreement, and a few smiled. The speaker acknowledged the encouragement as a sign for him to continue. The old fellow’s confidence grew as he continued. “I came down to wash the boat, and now I guess I’m stuck here. I tried to leave, but the police forced me to come back. I’ve got a little food aboard, but my water tank is about empty. I should have filled it up before the water stopped yesterday, but I didn’t. I think fresh water might be a priority for everyone.”
Wyatt hadn’t thought about that. While Boxer had a water maker, smaller boats were only equipped with storage tanks. Water might be a problem for many of the residents.
Time seemed to fly as everyone took a turn speaking. Wyatt listened keenly, taking notes about everyone’s issues and ideas. Always the manager, his mind was occupied by an attempt to solve the problems being voiced by his fellow boaters. Waiting for the next person to stand and speak, Wyatt suddenly realized everyone was looking at him. It was his turn.
Wyatt moved to the center of the group, introducing himself, his family, and his boat. After a short pause, he lifted the legal pad containing his scribbles and quickly examined the summary. “I’ve been noting everyone’s concerns and needs. While there is nothing I can offer to help in regards to communicating with family or loved ones, I do have a few ideas about some of the more basic needs. None of us know how long this situation is going to last, so if I may suggest a few things, it might make these uncertain times easier for all involved.”
He paused, gauging everyone’s reaction. Heads were moving north and south, many of the listeners smiling. He continued, “Clearly, fresh water is a concern. As I see it, we have three sources; rainwater, the pool, and some of the larger boats here in the marina have water makers aboard. I suggest we organize some sort of water distribution until the city water is restored.”
Wyatt looked up from his paper, noting the mostly positive reaction to his proposal. He smiled sheepishly and then continued. “We have a decent supply of fuel at our disposal. Most of these boats are full of either gas or diesel, and there’s the marina’s fuel pier to consider as well. I don’t know how recently the marina’s tanks were topped off, but there are probably thousands and thousands of gallons available.”
He hesitated for a bit before continuing, as his next suggestion was more than a little radical. Taking a deep breath, he decided to throw it out there. “Everyone knows the marina office has a spare set of keys for all of the boats.” He chuckled, “Any of us who has ever driven down here and forgotten our keys has probably utilized those spares.” Several people nodded in agreement, remembering a similar experience. “While I don’t count myself as a burglar, if the situation doesn’t improve soon, I don’t think anyone will have us arrested if we break into the office and borrow some of those keys. Most of these unoccupied vessels have food aboard, and we could even utilize the water makers on some of the bigger vessels as well.”
Aga
in, the consensus was agreement. It was suggested by one gentleman that the refrigerators and freezers on some of the locked boats may already have drained the batteries, and precious food might be going to waste even now.
The meeting carried on for another hour. It was getting dark when they finally finished, having determined that a committee would meet first thing in the morning and organize a salvage effort for the food and other critical supplies residing in the unoccupied boats. The foragers would leave notes for the owners letting them know what had happened and who to contact regarding reimbursement.
As the attendees drifted back to their respective piers, Morgan approached Wyatt and gave him a hug. “You did great, honey. I think everyone feels a little better now. I know I do.”
David joined them, echoing his mother’s sentiments. He’d volunteered to be a scavenger, and Sage had surprised her parents by raising her hand to join the water committee. The family sauntered back to Boxer with higher spirits and a somewhat positive sentiment about the future.
The next day, the citizens of Southland Marina, or “Marinaville” as someone had nicknamed the community, worked together in an effort to make everyone more comfortable. Wyatt and Morgan were pleased to see their children play an active role, contributing their share of the workload.
It became painfully obvious that keeping all of the boats supplied wasn’t going to be easy. The vessels without water makers were going to require the most labor. Since boats are similar to automobiles in that they require a good scrubbing now and then, buckets are a common commodity at any marina.
After a few dozen buckets had been collected, helpers organized to transport the buckets of water from one boat to another along the piers. Everyone started calling them the bucket brigade, and in the hot Texas sun, it was exhausting work.
David and another young man broke into the marina office, trying to inflict as little damage as possible. They wrote a note explaining the cause and retrieved two large sheets of plywood containing hundreds of hooks labeled with slip numbers and, of course, dangling keys.