Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  She reached out and took my hand. Against all odds, I soon fell asleep, and I think she did, too.

  I was awakened by Bill shaking my shoulder. He stood over me, a naked, dripping figure in the pink light of dawn, grinning.

  “Wakee, wakee, Mitch! I’ve been yelling my head off— time to move! Get Karen up on that ridge, then get moving with the stores.” Satisfied that I was fully awake he turned and waded back into the lagoon, and waved as he plunged in. “Good luck, chum!”

  I sat up, stiff and sore. That water looked goddam cold to me. I glanced at my watch, and naturally enough I’d forgotten to wind it. Already the sky was losing that pink tinge. The sun, unseen beyond the walls of our refuge, was up. This was the day. Before it sank in the west our fate would be settled, one way or the other.

  I prodded Karen into life. Neither of us mentioned the night before. It was supremely unimportant, yet it was reflected in our behavior in that neither of us worried too much about modesty.

  We scrambled over the rocks with the dinghy and a few lightweight items, and halfway up the north slope I found a ledge with a stunted palm sapling. I tied the dinghy’s painter to that, jammed the sleeping bags into a crevice, then guided Karen to the top.

  The contrast between the still, murky silence within the lagoon and the scene outside was startling. Once on the ridge, the ceaseless thunder of the surf, inaudible in the lagoon, was all too evident, a sinister reminder of what was to come. I checked over the instructions Bill had given us, making quite sure Karen knew what to do; then I left her, tense and nervous, clutching the binoculars, weighed down with her responsibility.

  For the next twenty minutes I worked frantically, desperately anxious not to be caught at sea level when the waves were sighted. I got the stores up to three different ledges, to spread the risk; and then, practically exhausted, I thankfully joined Karen on the ridge and we had breakfast: a can of beer and an apple each. Only then did I have time to look down at the yacht.

  Bill had rigged the lifeline, and both of them were wearing harness. They had pulled Mayfly a little further in, to the very limit of the anchor cable. Bette, busy lashing something down, straightened up and looked my way but did not wave. To prevent misunderstanding, Bill had directed the night before that there should be no casual signaling between us. He may not have thought of everything, but if so it was not for want of trying.

  We sat astride the ridge, one or both of us watching that northern horizon. The fast-climbing sun had burnt off the sea mist, and already we were sweating with the heat and rising tension. Mentally I rehearsed our drill. It would be suicide to stay on the ridge when the wave hit, and I had chosen a ledge, some twenty feet below on the inside, as our foxhole. From impact on the reef, I estimated we would have a good thirty seconds to get down there, long enough to make it. I made Karen do the trip twice, and did it myself once. We could do it easily in twenty seconds, and I suspected that in the actual event we would clip something off that time. By Karen’s watch, it was just after eight. We were as ready as we were ever likely to be. There was nothing to do but wait.

  Visibility was good: as accurately as I could judge, about twenty miles. I did not expect to spot the waves at that range; fifteen to ten miles was the distance I aimed at. That would give Bill a good ten minutes warning. I kept the binoculars sweeping, Karen backing up with the Mark I eyeball.

  Time passed, measured only for me by my steadily-emptying cigarette pack. I lowered the heavy glasses for a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes. Karen clutched my arm.

  “Mitch!”

  More was unnecessary. Instantly my throat was dry, my fingers clumsy as a bunch of bananas with the binoculars. I swore childishly, telling myself to keep calm, there was plenty of time.

  At fifteen miles or so, it was difficult to believe that the long dark line was dangerous. Suddenly I was superficially calm, but inside my heart thumped faster. I scanned along the line swiftly. There was no room for doubt; this was it.

  Karen was shaking my arm. “Mitch!”

  “Wait, you stupid bitch! Wait! There should be two— remember?”

  And there was. How far behind the second one was I could not yet tell. I let half a minute drag past, then another fifteen seconds. Karen was silent, white-faced, shaking slightly. I took ‘one final look. Range to the first, just over ten miles, the second one maybe half a mile astern. I grabbed the hand flags and stood up, my legs trembling.

  Bill waved. I goaded my mind into action, recalling our simple code. I held up one flag—Wave One—then lowered it, and again raised it, this time holding it stiffly out in the nine o’clock position—nine miles. Bill waved in acknowledgement. I held up both flags—Wave Two—lowered them, then moved one back to the nine o’clock position, and moved the other slowly around to the “half-past” position—nine and one-half miles. He waved again. Bette, in the cockpit, cupped her hands. Faintly above the roar of the surf I caught her voice. “Good luck, darling!”

  I could do no more than wave; that golden head…. I flopped down again beside Karen, suddenly glad I had not laid her the night before….

  “Okay, Karen, you can go now.”

  She shook her head. “Let me stay a little longer, please.”

  I didn’t blame her. No one is too anxious to be alone at times like that. “Okay, but when I tell you, you move!”

  Even at five miles the waves did not look menacing— until you remembered that they were five miles away.

  Karen was clutching me again.

  “One minute more, and you move!”

  There was no need for binoculars now. The waves were not the sort seen on a beach; those have a steep front, a sloping back, a curling crest; that would be the shape these waves would assume as they entered shallow water, but now they were just the same as the smooth-surfaced ripples on a pond; sixty foot ripples, stretching away to east and west until they were lost to view in the distant haze.

  Two miles to go. I glanced down at the water within the reef before me. It was calm. In ten, twenty minutes it would be calm again, but would we be there to see it?

  “Okay, Karen—move!”

  For a moment I thought she was petrified. I shook her roughly. She looked at me with terror-stricken eyes, but she understood, and slithered down to the ledge and lay flat.

  The first wave was very close to the reef,, and for the first time I had an impression of its speed. A dazzling strip of reflected sunlight flashed at me from the long hump, a strip of light that moved, fast…. The wave was gigantic. I wanted to run, or shut my eyes, and I could do neither.

  Seconds only to the reef now. The narrow ribbon of light wavered and splintered into a myriad glittering stars as the wave approached the rocks; the shoaling bottom was taking effect. Inside the reef the water was sliding away from me, sliding away toward the wave, exposing rocks to sunlight they had not seen for a million years….

  The leading wave hit the northern perimeter of the reef.

  I had a fleeting glimpse of a vast cloud of spray, rising with apparent slowness like an immense curtain, blindingly brilliant in the sun. The very air shook, hammered with one long, thundering crash, the ground trembled….

  I think I cried out; I don’t know. The foreknowledge that I had thirty seconds meant nothing. I may have even jumped….

  In seconds I was down beside Karen, one arm flung around her, not for her protection, but for the comfort of another human being in the face of this gigantic, inhuman power.

  We lay clutching each other, heads down in the gritty volcanic dust, eyes shut. I was beyond thought or prayer. I only existed, a complicated mass of screaming, overstretched nerves and ganglia, waiting….

  The noise grew and filled the world with such intensity and volume that any comparison with normal experience is utterly impossible. It was all the thunder since the earth began, compressed into seconds of time.

  And then the first wave, battered on the reef, must have hit our cone. The ground did not shake, it rocked, sl
owly. Unbelievably, the noise reached a new peak. The ground was vibrating now. The sun had gone, blotted out by flying spray.

  Water cascaded down on us. Not spray, water. How much, or for how long, I have no idea, for at that moment my mind had gone.

  The noise, the spray, the deluge, the rocking, and the vibration went on and on. I was aware of nothing except that noise and the fact that I was breathing water, choking; then, sharply, the noise had gone, the rocking stopped, and I could breathe. I lay perfectly still; slowly my mind restarted, took stock. My mouth was full of salty pumice mud, my face in a pool of water. Very cautiously, I moved my legs. The sun was shining….

  I let go of Karen, still prone beside me. I spat out the mud, cleared the grit from my nose, and looked down into the lagoon. The smooth surface was transformed. The water, still moving as waves bounced around the sides, was streaked with white foam, but Mayfly was still there. I could see Bill and Bette, baling, far too busy to look at us. I shook Karen.

  “We made it! We made it!”

  Her dirt-streaked face struggled not to share my hope and joy, uncertain, unwilling to believe she was still alive, in case she should be wrong…. Very hesitantly the words came: “Is it—over?”

  “The worst is! C’mon—no—you stay there!”

  I scrambled back to the ridge, confidence growing within me. We had survived the worst—surely we had survived!

  The sea below was a mass of foam, but I had difficulty in seeing much at first, for my vision was obscured by steam rising from the sun-heated sides of the cone. Not that I wasted much time on the immediate foreground. Now full of confidence, I watched almost joyously for the next group. I did not have long to wait, or far to look.

  There they were, five to six miles out. I could not judge their size, but there were two of them, closer together, I thought. I studied them almost coolly. In my buoyant, excited mood, I could have hurled defiance at the wide heavens … and then I felt a lot less defiant.

  The steam had cleared. Looking down at the reef, I saw that the northern perimeter, the part which had taken, and must take the first smash of the waves, was different. It had looked like a curve of sharp, stumpy black teeth. Now the front teeth had gone….

  Fear returned immediately. The waves were nearer four miles now, I guessed. I searched around for the hand flags, and couldn’t find them. Panic-stricken, I turned and shouted to Mayfly. Bill waved back, a slow negligent movement that steadied me.

  I signaled three and three and one quarter miles, and he acknowledged with the same easy wave. I took a final look to the north. There were only two waves. Clearly any smaller stuff had been absorbed in the three thousand mile passage. They were closing the reef now. I had no desire to watch; I quickly slithered back to Karen.

  I pushed her further into the ledge, and pressed closely up to her, one arm around her. I was scared, very scared, but not as far gone as the first time, and not so far gone that I didn’t know I was holding one cold, wet breast in my hand. She put an arm around me. Our faces were close, and I wondered if I looked as much of a mess as she did. She forced a grin, her upper lip twitched with strain. “Will it be long?”

  There was no need to answer. Once more that terrifying thunder, and that fearful, slow, rocking motion. Mentally, it was a lot worse, for now I had hope, yet remembered those snapped-off rocks and knew our defences were, in some measure, breached. Again the air was filled with flying water, crashing down amid that stupendous sound. I had meant to watch Mayfly but it was beyond my will or strength to raise my head. I could only lie there, gripping Karen and the ground, cascading water plucking at my arms, legs.

  It seemed to last forever; then, as before, suddenly it was gone, and silence returned to our battered ears. Water still streamed over us, but the fury had gone. We lay, exhausted. Slowly, I dared to raise my head, and to open my mud-clogged stinging eyes, and that wonderful feeling of elation came flooding back. We had survived the worst that SARAH could do! I eased my arm away from Karen, wiped the mud from my eyes, grinning wildly, spitting out pumice, madly happy—until I saw Mayfly.

  She was still in the lagoon, but the line to the palms on the beach had gone, and the yacht was close to the rocky slope on the eastern side. My initial alarm began to subside, only to come back with renewed force. Bette was casting off the stern line; Bill had just jettisoned the anchor cable and was running aft, shouting. I heard the engine rev up.

  Something was very wrong. Mayfly was under way, in a hurry.

  Chapter 18

  I cried out, and Karen sat up and scrambled over to me. We stared, stupefied.

  “What—what are they doing?”

  I shook my head and watched. This was impossible!

  Karen was shaking with fear and fatigue. “They can’t be leaving us!”

  Then shock was shot through with relief, only to be replaced by gripping anxiety. We were not being marooned. Mayfly’s bow had swung past the opening to the sea; they were now pointing at the small beach.

  Karen saw it first. Her voice was hoarse. “Mitch—I—I think they’re sinking!”

  She was right. Mayfly had a slight list to port, and now that she was broadside on to us, it was clear she was a lot lower in the water. Bill’s intention was plain; he was beaching her before she sank—if he could.

  We watched, powerless. Bill had disappeared below, and it flashed across my mind that the situation must be desperate if he would leave even Bette with the task of running his beloved boat ashore.

  Even as we watched, Mayfly sank lower in the water, but the distance to the beach was growing less every second. Karen gripped my arm, her grip tightening as the distance shortened.

  I watched, urging, willing the yacht on. It was a race against time. Then the yacht seemed to hesitate, the bow lifted slightly, and she slid some way up the slope and stopped.

  Karen released my arm and heaved a great sigh of relief. She smiled. “For one moment I thought we were going to be castaways!”

  I was less happy. “Don’t get too excited. Could be we’re all castaways.” All the same, it was better to see the boat on the beach than at the bottom. “Come on, we’d better get down there. Grab some of those stores.” It was then I discovered that a few of our cans, as well as the hand flags, had gone, washed away in the deluge. Still, that was small stuff. We had only lost four or five cans of corned beef, a few oranges and apples, and a can or two of beer. That we could ill afford, but if that was all we had lost—. Bill’s binoculars were safe, and I hung them around Karen’s neck. I was sick and tired of responsibility. We scrambled down and along to the beach.

  Bill, his face tired and lined, greeted us without preamble. “That bloody line parted! In all that mess we couldn’t hope to hold her—bashed against a bloody rock! She’s holed just below the waterline amidships.” It was clear he was not the slightest bit interested in our adventures. We were alive, but Mayfly was damaged, so what else was there to talk about?

  “Is it serious?”

  “Can’t be sure yet. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. Godalmighty! I’ve never seen or heard of anything like that lot!” He rubbed his beaky nose, and I noted that he had found time to shave that morning. He went on, “I hope we’ll be able to get a patch on her. Fortunately, we went on the putty just short of high water, and although the tide range is small—not much more than three feet, I reckon—if we cant her over, as the tide ebbs, we should get at it.” He looked for the first time at Karen, but his mind was so wrapped up with Mayfly, she might as well have been a stranger.

  “Ah, yes, Karen. Bette’s aboard, clearing gear out of the cabin. Give her a hand—no—dig out the small picnic stove and let’s have some tea and something to eat. Bette’ll help you get the stuff ashore.”

  Karen left without a word. It seemed a good moment to me, and I told him about our few lost items. He listened, staring moodily at the yacht. When I mentioned the lost beer he gave me his full attention. “You haven’t lost any water, or got it cont
aminated, have you?”

  “None lost, and the caps are still on, so I guess it’s okay.”

  He grunted. “Water’s getting to be a problem, Mitch. It’s just possible one of our freshwater tanks was damaged. Even if it’s not, if we’re delayed here, we could be in a tricky position.” I had never seen him so depressed. “There’s another thing; if the weather breaks, and we get a blow from the south before we get Mayfly off, she could get pounded to bits.”

  “Aw, come on, Bill! This isn’t like you! We’ll make out! We haven’t come through all this just to finish up in a dump like this!”

  “I hope you’re right, but we’ve had amazing luck so far. Just look at the weather we’ve had! Damn near perfect sailing conditions ever since we left San Diego! It can’t last.” He shook his head.

  It was a great novelty for me to be doing the cheering up. “Don’t worry, Bill! This mood of yours is just reaction after the tension. Snap out of it! C’mon, give me a hand with that goddam dinghy and the rest of the stuff.”

  He did not answer, but apparently listened to me, for his manner improved; and when we had got all the stores back on the beach, we had some tea. That seemed to revive him even more; maybe the stuff has a special effect on the British.

  Then we got down to the task of getting the stores and loose gear out of the yacht. For two hours, under a blazing sun, we toiled like slaves. With Mayfly listing some fifteen degrees to starboard, this was no easy task. Soon the beach was strewn, with wet cushions and clothes, books and charts, and a score of items I never knew we had.

  Bill had located the position of the hole, and of course that had to be somewhere at the back of the drawers under the spare bunk. We got the drawers out, then Bill got busy with a screwdriver to take down the bunk framing. I got stuck with the job of taking out the bilge pump and rigging it further aft, so that we could pump out the water in the stern, once the tide had fallen below the level of the hole. Bill’s momentary depression seemed to have gone completely. Not that he was his old cheery self, if his Steadily worsening flow of language was anything to go by. I did a little cussing on my own account, for the heat in the boat was intense.