by Chris Thrall
Remember your training!
Kicking himself, Hans recalled the hundreds of times he had clambered into Zodiac speedboats following scuba dives in the SEALs. The easiest way was to bob up and down three times and then pull with all your might on the handline whilst finning hard. Steadying himself for the maneuver, Hans felt a bump against his leg and the rasp of sandpaper-like skin against his own.
Fear turned into panic.
He looked up but could not see his daughter.
Wasting no more time – “One . . . two . . . three . . . huht!” – he wrenched the raft downwards, kicking like a demon, amazed with the ease with which he reentered the flimsy craft.
Jessica lay star-shaped on the floor, completely uninterested. Hans let her be and sipped water from the gas can while gathering his thoughts.
Inside the repair kit were patches of varying sizes and a tube of adhesive. Fixing the puncture would be no different to mending a bicycle inner tube, only this tube was a foot underwater and surrounded by killer fish. A further challenge would be emptying all the air from the tube and drying it sufficiently to apply the rubber glue and patch. Hans doubted it was possible but had no choice but to try, because the alternative did not bear thinking about.
He briefly considered the screw-in aluminum plugs but then dismissed the idea. As with repairing the floor, it would mean widening the hole, and if the plug blew out it would spell certain death. The same went for using another cut-down Biro lid.
Once again Hans found himself systematically searching through their equipment, racking his exhausted brain for an answer.
The dividing compass!
Similar to the instrument kids draw circles with at school, the dividing compass had a second sharp point instead of a pencil holder. Hans had used it to work out their predicted arrival at the shipping lanes. However, it was by no means an essential piece of kit. Hans reckoned that if he removed one of the inch-long stainless-steel points from its wheeled clamp, he might be able to insert it into the hole and seal a good part, if not all, of the leak.
Leaning over the side, wearing the diving mask, Hans was acutely aware he only had two chances at this. With his body seizing up and cramps setting in, it was vital he did not drop the slippery little spike – all the more difficult as his wet and painful hands trembled. Holding the point between his thumb and forefinger, Hans drew it around the spot the bubbles spewed from, until finally he located the tiny indentation and eased the stopper home. The flow of air decreased immediately, reducing to a barely visible trickle.
Yes!
He made sure to leave a quarter of an inch standing proud in case he had to remove it for any reason.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Hans giggled like a lunatic and thrust his fists in the air. Fingers crossed, he hoped the rubber tube would clamp the compass point in place, but as a precaution he smothered it with duct tape. With great care he began pumping, experiencing an immense sense of relief when the tube fattened to normal size.
Yes!
Now life could return to normal – whatever “normal” was atop this crazy fish tank.
- 76 -
“We are a lively society that happens to be on this island!”
Zerbinetta’s line from Strauss’ Ariadne auf Naxos scrolled in Japanese characters across the screens set into the backs of the blue velvet chairs in front of them. In the stunning setting of the Opera City Tower in Tokyo’s ultramodern Shinjuku District, Kuro could not believe his luck, turning to see Aiko looking as radiant as ever by his side.
Aiko had her screen turned off. She did not need a translation to interpret the moving performance unfolding in front of her eyes.
They smiled.
Their hands met.
Kuro savored the moment he had waited a long time for.
In his new role as a test inspector in Hitachi’s Oyama factory, Kuro was “product focused,” “target driven” and saving every yen toward the day he would move out of his parents’ poky apartment into an even smaller one of his own. Who knew? This time next year he and Aiko could be swimming with dolphins in Cancún.
Kuro had never been to an opera before but figured this might be the way to Aiko’s heart, mulling over the idea for weeks before finally plucking up the courage to invite her. He was delighted when she had said yes.
- 77 -
Hans stared at the sagging tube, praying it was his mind playing tricks, but a cursory inspection confirmed that air bubbles signaled the raft’s demise once more. The duct tape must have come unstuck and the tube had spat out the compass point. Now he would have to put all the tasks he had resumed on hold while attempting to save them from disaster again.
What about the other compass point?
If he attached a wire lanyard to the second compass point, he could reinsert it each time the pressure blew it out and maybe buy them enough time to reach the shipping lanes. They must be close now. He opened Penny’s jewelry case and went to work with the pliers, not just twisting one loop of wire around the stainless-steel shaft but two to be on the safe side.
His endeavor was in vain. The raft deflated within the hour, ejecting the makeshift stopper as if it were a thorn in its side. Subsequent attempts also proved unsuccessful, Hans unable to pump the tube to half capacity before the dreaded flow of bubbles leeched life from the failing craft once more.
Hans’ mind and body screamed at him to lie down, to close his eyes and take time out from this god-forsaken hell. But he knew if he did, lassitude would take over, seeing him slip from this world into the next and condemning his beautiful girl to a watery grave. Their survival rested on Hans patching the leak. Somehow he had to raise it out of the water and let the sun work its magic, drying the area around the hole so the adhesive would take.
Solid rubber anchor points secured the exterior handline to the top tube at three-foot intervals. Hans took a coil of nylon cord from the ditch kit and cut off a length. He lashed one end to the section of handline below the starboard side of the doorway and the other to a webbing strap at the rear of the raft, repeating the process for the port side, resulting in two guy ropes spanning the doughnut-shaped hull like thwarts in a rowing boat.
Hans inserted the raft’s wooden paddle into a bight in the starboard cord and began twisting it slowly. The effect was immediate, the tubes bowing inwards like a pair of lopsided lips. He locked the paddle off against the rope with a length of string and repeated the process using the snorkel for leverage on the port line.
Although Hans was pleased with his effort, the floor hung low in the water and the bottom tube dipped below the surface every time he leant out of the doorway to inspect the leak. It was imperative to keep the damaged area out of the sea long enough to make the repair. The alternative meant hopping overboard and attempting to fix the problem while treading shark-infested water, and by the time the tube dried enough for him to patch it, he doubted he would have the strength left to climb back aboard.
Hans’ stress increased, and the stabbing pain intensified. He took a few deep breaths, which only exacerbated the agony, and went to work untying all his knots. Adopting a different approach, he fed the remaining ten feet of cord through the section of handline directly below the doorway and pulled it back on itself to create two equal lengths. He knotted the doubled-up cord in the middle and lashed the two ends a yard apart to webbing straps on the opposite side of the raft, resulting in a Y-shaped arrangement. He hoped that when tensioned, the rope would divide the strain across the three points, and only the raft’s damaged front section would rise up, like the prow of an inflatable speedboat.
Hans inserted the paddle into the doubled-up stem of the Y and began to wind, gradually letting air out of the top tube’s valve as he did.
“Hee-hee-hee!”
Although far from perfect, the pulley system worked better than before, the punctured area slowly scrunching inwards as planned. Hans treated himself to a rest.
“What are you doing, Papa?”
In the relatively calm conditions, the troublesome hole lifted clear of the water, with only the odd wave lapping up to foil Hans’ plan. He found that by positioning their weight and equipment accordingly, the section of tube remained out of the water long enough for the sun’s rays to take effect. In no time at all it was as dry as the day it came out of the factory.
Hans took a small square of sandpaper from the repair kit and, lying flat across the sagging floor, roughed up the area around the leak so the adhesive would take hold. He knew from countless times fixing bicycle punctures it was best to be generous with the glue, so he squeezed a large bead from the tube and wiped it around the hole. Hans’ arm went into spasm, his face screwing up as he stifled a scream. When he opened his eyes, their only tube of adhesive had slipped from his grasp.
“No!”
Hans considered diving after it but knew it was too late. Instead he scrambled for the repair kit, pulling out the first patch he found. In his haste to lie back down, water surged up over the carefully prepared hole. Fighting to stay calm, Hans blew off the worst of the unwanted brine and, using his finger, dabbed at the adhesive in an attempt to spread it evenly. He removed the protective film from the back of the patch, but the situation did not look good. The minimal amount of glue adhering to the tube had turned milky in color, indicating contamination with salt water. Hans had no choice but to slap on the patch and hope for the best.
He clambered over the restraining cords and slumped against the tubes at the rear of the raft, trying to keep the repair aloft long enough for the adhesive to dry.
The Phantom of the Opera is here . . . inside my mind . . .
Hans could see it now. This whole experience had been a battle of good versus evil, and the phantom had struck again. The phantom was winning.
After half an hour Hans released the tension in the cords and pumped the top tube back up to capacity. Then he secured the connector to the bottom tube’s valve. This was it. Everything rested on whether the patch held.
As he squeezed it in his hands, the pump wheezed like a forty-a-day smoker running for a bus. Hans was hesitant to inflate the chamber completely, happy to leave it slightly under pressure to give the repair the best chance of success. But just as he thought the battle was over, bubbles spilled out from under the patch with as much vigor as before.
- 78 -
Under a halo of cigarette smoke in a Filipino restaurant basement on the outskirts of Tokyo, Alfonso played the poker game of his life.
Sipping whiskey, the usual suspects crowding the baize, he reflected on what a tough week it had been sitting in his crane loading goods onto the endless stream of colossi pulling up at the dockside in Yokohama, a process made all the more difficult by stringent safety rules implemented in the wake of the Tokyo Pride incident. The subsequent inquiry into the loss of eighty-seven containers went on for months, yet Alfonso managed to come through it unscathed, the guilt assigned to the haulage company for supplying aging equipment. Besides, universally accepted was that no one could have anticipated a force ten gale wreaking havoc in the North Atlantic in May.
In the Philippine village of Jimenez on the island of Mindanao, life ticked over at a snail’s pace compared to the bustling Japanese capital. Auto rickshaws and other mostly dilapidated modes of transport spewed noxious fumes as they chugged in a slow procession along the narrow high street, roadside entrepreneurs selling all manner of fast food, fruit and vegetables off barrows shaded from the sun by large parasols.
Alfonso’s wife, Nichol, pulled a tissue from a cellophane pack and wiped the sweat from her brow before presenting her ID card to the woman in the post office. The worker smiled and barked an order to an elderly man in a sleeveless shirt, shorts and flip-flops, who sat dozing under a cooling fan. He disappeared into the backroom and returned seconds later hefting a large rectangular object wrapped in cardboard and plastered with airfreight stickers.
With the help of her two children, Alfonso Jr. and Lilibeth, Nichol lugged the surprise delivery back to their wooden shack, its brand-new corrugated-iron roof shining like silver foil in the midday rays. She cut through the packaging with a kitchen knife to reveal a Hitachi 42-ES-1080 widescreen TV – another luxury sent from Yokohama. As the children shrieked with joy, Nichol’s devout Catholic mind didn’t question how her husband afforded such gifts on his paltry salary.
- 79 -
That night, although utterly drained, Hans barely slept. He did not have the energy to inflate the leaking tube with the five hundred pumps an hour it required to keep its shape. As a result, the ocean splashed up over the canopy and seeped through the zippers, the excess drag working against Eurus’ compassionate blow to reduce their progress to nothing.
The sagging floor enveloped Hans, and he feared they would drown. He attempted to lie at the edge of the raft but soon rolled back into its waterlogged folds. Raising himself took increasing effort, Hans’ panic worsened by sharks knocking against his outlined figure. Being lighter, Jessica fared better and slept peacefully.
In the morning the little girl’s gentle snores signaled obliviousness to her father’s failure and broken promises. Hans watched his angel’s chest rise and fall, happy memories floating up out of the insanity like compassionate ghosts . . .
Rescuing her mother in Sierra Leone. Waking up in the hospital after the car crash to find Kerry there by his side. Buying their first home in Maine and – ha! – painting over those ugly pink walls. Founding the Larsson Investigation Agency and holding his tiny baby seconds after she entered the world without so much as a whimper.
He thought about the night terrors she experienced as a tot, knocking on their bedroom door with tears running down her cheeks, and the satisfying sense of family he experienced when she climbed under the covers between them.
Boy, did we make a fuss of her in the morning!
The time he taught her to ride her first bicycle – not that she needed teaching. Hans had steadied his child for all of ten seconds before she pulled away and pedaled up the street without so much as a backwards look.
When JJ arrived, Jessica doted on her sibling as if nothing else mattered. The two years between them could easily have been ten for all the love and attention she gave him. Their bond had been strong. She had been so brave since his death.
“She didn’t deserve it.” Hans burst into tears. “She didn’t deserve it . . . She didn’t deserve it!”
Anger engulfed him, like wildfire raging through a tinder-dry forest.
“Nooooooo! God! Nooooooo! She doesn’t deserve this! She doesn’t deserve this!”
He sobbed and sobbed, until apathy took hold, gradually pacified his ire. He was tired of struggling to survive, tired of fighting all his life.
“Damn you, phantom! Damn you! I don’t care about your pathetic opera, your stupid scary games! I don’t care . . . I don’t ca . . . a . . . a . . . re . . . u-huht . . . huh . . . uh . . .”
Hans pulled Jessica’s knife from his pocket and peeled open the blade. He paused, contemplating whether to slash at the raft’s useless tubes, but decided to plunge it straight into his heart. He climbed into the doorway with the intention of letting his dying body fall overboard. Without his weight in the raft, Jessica stood a better chance of reaching the shipping lanes.
He held the knifepoint a foot from his chest with his good arm. It was all he could do to reach out and close his other palm around the handle, blanking the agony in the knowledge it would be over in a moment and he would reunite with his wife and son.
He thrust the blade toward him. “Arrrrrrrh!”
“Papa!”
The knifepoint stopped an inch from his rib cage.
Jessica was not impressed. “You must never hold the blade toward you! Naughty Papa!”
Fraught with pain and guilt, Hans let his daughter’s words sink in. He stared at
the knife, remembering the day Old Bill pressed it into Jessica’s hand, her smile of appreciation – gratitude he felt tenfold, truly understanding the sentiment represented by . . . the silver anchor screwed to the ebony handle!
Hell!
Why had he not thought of this?
The screws!
Surely he could use one of them to seal the puncture.
Everything suddenly made sense.
Old Bill wasn’t stupid. He knew dilemmas like this were the norm. He prepared us for the worst eventuality, not only with his kind words but also with this gift from afar.
Hans set to work, using the filleting knife’s fine tip to locate the screw’s slot and applying gentle pressure to turn it. Triumphant, he held the small stainless steel fixing aloft, knowing their troubles would soon be behind them. Leaning over the side, he pondered how to secure the screw in place, or at least get its thread to bite into the raft’s rubber skirt. There was no way he could mess this up. No way would he would let their last chance at salvation end up in Davy Jones’ locker.
Hans clamped the head of the screw between his thumb and forefinger, ignoring the intense pain to focus on locating the miserable little hole. He scraped the brass point over the carapace in ever-decreasing circles until he felt the point sink home. As he turned the screw, the thread bit into the rubber and its beveled head began to rip through his shriveled fingertips. It was a positive sign. The fit was snug. He switched to the filleting knife, delighted when the screwface finally countersunk in the rubber.
Hans had a good feeling about the repair, a perfect union in every sense. With no waiting for glue to dry, he began pumping up the tube, experiencing a degree of contempt and flagrant disregard for the seriousness of their predicament. The screw would either hold or it wouldn’t, and there was not a lot he could do about it.
The tube plumped to near capacity, and despite feelings of recklessness, Hans was content to stop there. A wave of nostalgia swept over him as he remembered fixing the leaking planks in his daysailer as a teenager before putting to sea for a test.