by Joe Nobody
It was a retired oil field engineer who dreamed up a potential solution. A shallow, wide hole was excavated on the beach and lined with a plastic tarp. The roughly ten-foot square pit was less than a foot deep in the middle, its bottom sloping gently upwards toward the edges. Someone remarked it looked like a homemade kiddie pool.
A bucket brigade was formed to haul ocean water across the sand and fill the pit. Five gallons at a time, the water was poured in until the depth reached about six inches. The concept was simple: the sun would evaporate the water leaving the sea salt. The work crew had finished two days before.
Wyatt, David and two other men slogged across the hot sand, hoping it had all worked. Digging the pit had been a lot of backbreaking, sweaty work. No one had a shovel. It wasn’t a tool common on boats – something no one had thought of before leaving. Plastic buckets scooped pounds of beach by hand resulting in sore muscles and exhausted men. Filling the pool had been worse.
The first thing Wyatt noticed as they approached the tarp was all of the water had indeed evaporated. A thin coating of yellow grit covered the tarp, not the anticipated sparkling white powder. As the men stood around their makeshift desalination project, it became clear that their end product smelled like rotting fish.
“Wow! That really stinks,” commented David, pinching his nose to diminish the effect of the offensive odor.
Wyatt knelt down on one knee and gingerly stuck a finger into the grime. A quick sniff curled his face, but he licked the powder anyway. Smacking his lips, Wyatt reported the results of his taste test. “Yup. It’s salt all right. To be more accurate, I would say it’s more like one of those salt blends – a mixture of salt, seasoned with fish poop, rotting clam guts, and clay.”
“Not only is there not much here, the girls are going to have a fit over the stench. There’s got to be a better way.”
Wyatt gazed at the sun and shook his head. “We need to be getting back,” he announced. “Let’s scrape this stuff off and take it back. Maybe the smell will motivate someone to come up with a better idea.”
Chapter 11
June 10, 2017
The US military began to move west. The actions weren’t overt, publicized, or even detectable at first. To the casual observer, the pattern wasn’t overly unusual - a new fighter wing landing in Guam, another detachment of Marines on Okinawa, another combat team in South Korea.
At first, only the Chinese high command took notice. It was their profession to keep tabs on the forces arrayed around them, and in addition, they had been warned to expect such movements of men and material. MOSS had briefed the Red Army’s general staff to expect saber rattling out of the United States. The intelligence agency also estimated the chances of actual military action were low.
It was the Japanese press that figured it out first, their sphere of influence seeing the most activity. Headlines in Tokyo declared America was forward deploying for war on the Asian continent. It didn’t take a lot of dot connecting to speculate who the target was.
The Nippon paparazzi may have lit the fuse, but it was the European press that exploded the story. It suddenly dawned on the entire planet that the US blamed China for its recent difficulties and was preparing for military action.
American diplomats and officials didn’t help calm the reaction. The talking points and position statements, distributed several days before the story broke, began with weak denials that eventually turned into cocky assertiveness. The US could move its military assets anywhere it wanted. It was none of anyone’s concern. The concept of a war was unacceptable to a world that was already suffering badly. Every continent besides North America may have had electricity, but civil unrest, spread by economic hardship was widespread and growing.
Once again, the White House misjudged the unintended consequences of its own actions. Not since the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait had a government’s anticipation of world reaction been so off base. The regime of Saddam Hussein had truly been shocked at the global response after invading its neighbor, believing no one would seriously care about the tiny nation. In the end, that lack of judgment had cost the people of Iraq dearly in treasure and lives. Now the US had made a similar miscalculation, the dark clouds of a political storm gathering on the horizon. The unavoidable confrontation was destined to occur at the United Nations.
The United Nations had relocated to Belgium due to a lack of electricity in New York City. While most diplomats were too polite to say so in public, the civil unrest in America’s largest city played as much of a role in the relocation as any lack of light or heat. The necessity to move out of North America had sent shock waves rolling through the guts of the organization. Some nations cheered the move, happy that the world’s only superpower had finally been humbled. Other countries were supportive of the United States, but lacked the resources to help the crippled giant.
America expected outrage as details of the attack on her infrastructure came to light. China parried the initial political thrusts by claiming innocence and then accused the US of having an outdated power grid. When the White House leaked allegations of a deliberate attack, the Chinese spun the headlines into a story of America’s tendency to blame everyone else for her massive debt – a problem that prohibited proper maintenance on her infrastructure – action that could have avoided the collapse.
Normally, the US would hold her own in any match on the chessboard of international public relations. Not so any longer. Half of the White House staff was absent, with the Department of State suffering from a similar number missing in action. Communications were spotty, and the best minds were concentrating on holding the country together, not contests of diplomatic finger pointing.
Even if the administration had played its best game, the world wasn’t going to have any of it. During normal times, the prospect of war between the two bickering countries was bad enough. With a majority of the planet’s economies tilting over the edge already, the concept of WWIII was unacceptable. Add in the potential for the exchange of nuclear weapons, and global reaction to the United States was harsh and direct.
Many experts thought that Europe and other friendly nations would come to the aid of the United States with electrical components, circuit boards, and spare parts. While it would have taken some time to retool EU manufacturing operations over to the US electrical standard of 60 cycles, eventually help would arrive. The public fury over a potential war between China and the US prevented even the friendliest nations from lending a hand. Trade embargos were threatened on the floor of the United Nations. Some governments, barely maintaining control of their own populations, even promised to help the Chinese if the US attacked the Red Nation.
The US reaction to all of this was predictable. An almost neo-classic pattern of isolationism swept through the besieged government. While pride and ego were involved, the inescapable feeling of having been wronged prompted this reaction. America was the victim after all – why was the world ganging up on us? We didn’t start this – we didn’t make the first move.
Caught up in so many struggles, both domestic and foreign, few of the people in Washington realized the worst aspect of the entire affair. Because the US wouldn’t be receiving any outside help, the American people would endure more suffering for a longer period of time.
Matagorda Island, Texas
June 10, 2017
David waited for Todd to maneuver the jet-ski between the breakers, amazed at the young man’s skill and timing with the craft. I’m glad he’s a master with that thing, he thought, if we beach the waverunner, everybody’s going to be really mad. Todd finally maneuvered close enough and David handed him the baited hook and tackle at the end of his fishing line.
Verifying the bale was open, David flashed thumbs-up, and Todd turned his craft, heading directly offshore. Holding the rod and reel high above his head, David waded back to the beach, keeping an eye on his line as Todd carried it further from shore than he could ever cast.
“This better work,” David said to him
self, “We’re going to get in trouble for wasting gas if it doesn’t.”
The two had cooked up this scheme after looking at one of the navigation charts and finding a marked shipwreck just offshore. “The Hazards to Boaters” listed the sunken vessel as resting in 32 feet of water. David knew big fish liked shelter, so Todd and he began contemplating how to fish off the relic.
The first problem had been locating the wreck. The water outside of the first sandbar was reasonably clear, but there was no way to perform a visual search from the waverunner. What they needed was a sonar-type fish finder that could scan the bottom, hopefully locating the outline of the old vessel.
Since they were sneaking around without asking permission, taking out a boat that was equipped for such exploration was out of the question. It had been Todd’s comment that had sparked the brainstorm. The kid had blurted out, “What we need is a big magnet.”
That was it!
David had seen an old, discarded alternator lying in a trash heap by the ranger’s station. That piece of junk would have some pretty strong magnets inside. Before long, they were trolling on the jet-ski offshore, 30 feet of fishing line with two big magnets trailing behind in the water.
On the fifth pass, the line became taut, but it wasn’t the ship. David, riding passenger, pulled up an old Chevy hubcap that looked like it had been underwater for a long time.
Two more passes later, the line tightened again, and David couldn’t pull it up. He donned the snorkeling mask and slid off the edge of the jet-ski. After diving down about 15 feet, he could recognize the outline of something hefty and dark below. There actually didn’t appear to be much of the ship left, but they had found it. He also noted several schools of good-sized fish, lazily swimming around the submerged hulk.
Todd marked the location on their handheld GPS, and the first step of their caper was complete.
Secretly, they studied the GPS location and the charts the next night. The ship was actually about 400 yards off of the beach. That presented a problem because most of the heavy reels didn’t have enough 20-pound test to reach that far from the shore. If they hooked something big, there wasn’t going to be much line left to play the fish.
They decided to chance it, more from boredom than anything else.
Todd’s waving arm brought David back to the task at hand. The sun was beginning to dry his suit and legs, the morning already growing warm. David readied the fishing pole as Todd dropped the line and then motored away from the area.
David waited, knowing it would take the rig a while to sink 30 feet. They had selected a larger than normal piece of bait, not wanting to go to all this trouble for a small catch. He felt that sense of excitement and mystery that comes with deep-water fishing. You never know what you’ll hook into down there, he thought.
There was also a hope of easy food. While the boaters weren’t starving, gathering food was a constant source of time and labor. Todd and he had spent many days fishing, often sporting quite the catch. It took a lot of protein to nourish the people of Crusoe. More than once Todd and he had returned from hours of fishing with their stringers full. After the cleaning and cooking was done, there still wasn’t enough to go around. Other days resulted in nothing – the fish simply weren’t biting. David and his father had both thought they would never see the day when angling would become work. “What happened to that old saying about the worst day fishing was better than the best day working?”
Quite a bit of time passed, and David was beginning to think all their effort was for naught. The bait had been down for several minutes, and he hadn’t even had a nibble, let alone a bite. He was just raising his arm to bring Todd back in when the pole was practically jerked out of his hand.
David snapped back with all of his strength to set the hook. Another strong tug told him he had a fish. Whatever it was on the other end, it was powerful and fast. The reel started screaming as more and more line was taken by the running fish. This isn’t good, thought David. I don’t have much left. He tightened the drag just a bit, hoping to wear the animal out without snapping his line. The fish still pulled hard; David scooped water onto the reel so it kept cool.
Another adjustment slowed the hooked swimmer, and then suddenly the line went slack. David started reeling, hoping the beast had turned back toward him as opposed to breaking his line.
As fast as his hand would spin, David reeled in line. The fight suddenly began again, and the pole was pulled downward hard, the reel whining as its drag worked against the fighting beast. Todd let out a whoop of amazement when the beautiful rainbow-colored Mahi-mahi broke the surface, launching several feet into the air. As the fish fell back to the surface, its head shook angrily from side to side, trying to clear the hook.
The battle lasted 20 minutes. The fish would tire, allowing David to pull it slightly closer to shore. Something would motivate the catch again, and back into the deeper water the animal would race. While this ballet went back and forth several times, David was slowly winning. The beast only had so much energy, and the fight was wearing it down. David felt the effect as well, having to use his shirtsleeve to clear the sweat stinging his eyes, but vowing not to give in first.
The brut finally ran out of gas, the last 100 yards to the beach nothing more than pulling in dead weight. Todd rode close to shore to get a better look at the catch while David reached for the steel leader attached to the heavy nylon strand.
The fish was a trophy. Almost four feet long with a solid girth, there was probably close to 20 pounds of mouth-watering fillet in just this single catch. For a moment, David thought about returning the animal to the sea. It was such a beautiful creature. He shook his head, comfortable with the fact that his kind needed the food.
As David unhooked his rig, another problem entered his mind. It was over a mile back to the boats and the day was getting hot. There was no way to ride the jet-ski carrying the poles, tackle and 40 pounds of scale-covered delicacy. “I’ll meet you back at the boats,” David yelled to his partner.
Hefting the prize over his shoulder, David started the long trek back to Crusoe.
Kemah Bay, Texas
June 11, 2017
Rose stared out the window at Charlie’s grave, absentmindedly noting the weeds fully covered what had been a hump of fresh dirt. Thinking of her husband’s death added little to the already deep despair she suffered.
The children and she hadn’t had anything to eat in over 10 days. The youngest had started coughing two, or was it three days ago? Rose couldn’t remember for sure. A while ago, she had gone to comfort the hacking child and found blood on the dishrag she was using as a handkerchief.
She consoled herself that the worst had passed for the children some days ago. They no longer played, or romped – neither having the energy to even complain - the older one claiming he was Superman and didn’t need food anymore. His younger sister went along with the act, claiming with honest eyes that she just wasn’t hungry.
The rain had provided some water, but now only a little was left, and there were no clouds on the horizon. The realization that their lives depended on something as uncontrollable as the weather added another layer to the crushing avalanche of despair. How had it come to this?
She had to sit down again, her weakened body only able to stand for a few minutes at a time. Just walking from one end of the house to the other fatigued her like a five-mile run. Rose rested in the kitchen chair, and for the thousandth time went through it all again. At least she tried to. Everything seemed like a blur, and she struggled to think clearly – another sign her body was failing.
She had tried everything she could think of. Neighbors were no help – many in worse shape than she was. Several didn’t answer the door - the smell coming from inside of the home making it easy to guess why no one responded.
She had tried to walk down to the water and fish for food, but she didn’t know how. Digging Charlie’s fishing pole out of the garage and finding some plastic bait had given her hope, bu
t she hadn’t come home with any bragging rights. The effort had exhausted her already weakened body even further.
A few days ago, she had gotten in the car, determined to drive until she found someone, anyone, who could help. Charlie had evidently drained the cars for generator gas, and the sedan had sputtered to a stop before a single mile had passed by. Rose started crying again, thinking about the walk back to the house that day. Normally, the kids and she would have traveled that distance without even breaking a sweat. All of them had to stop to recover several times on the trip home, the lack of nutrition hampering even basic function.
The next day she had managed to hike to the marina, intent on breaking into one of the boats and foraging for food. Every single vessel that remained had been looted, and she couldn’t find a single crumb of nourishment. She had waited too long.
The sound of her littlest one coughing pulled her back to the here and now, the deep racking from the child’s lungs telling Rose the girl was suffering. The medicine cupboard was bare – she couldn’t comfort her baby.
While cough syrup wasn’t in the medicine cabinet, there was something else.
Rose closed her eyes, saying another prayer. She had been asking for guidance, begging for inspiration. The thought of the bottle of sleeping pills again entering her head.
She gathered her strength and stood, wandering past the children who were lying on the floor, blankly staring at ignored toys. The kids didn’t even acknowledge her passing, completely innocent of her thoughts.
The bottle was still there – up on a high shelf where curious hands couldn’t reach. Rose paused, thinking there had to be another way, but no solution came to her. She reached for the container and shook the contents. It was almost full – a prescription filled for Charlie after he had lost his job and couldn’t sleep.