End of the Ocean

by Matthew McBride

  He’d been betrayed and imprisoned and heartbroken then set free.

  “Sage, say the word, when I leave this room you’ll never see me again. I don’t exist. This never happened. But because I like you—and I do—and because we really fucked you, I want you to know you’ll be compensated.”

  Sage was incredulous after so many lies.

  “Well, of course we’re not really gonna pay you from smuggling heroin, but let’s just say someone made a small deposit in your bank account.”

  Sage laughed, though it was more of a snort. Did he thank Wayne or try to kill him? He didn’t know.

  “Don’t worry, no need to thank me.”

  Sage sat motionless.

  “This is the government. Lots of money, lotsa funds set aside for this kinda shit.”

  Wayne cleared his throat. Sage leaned against the soiled wall and closed his eyes.

  “OK, so they’ll come get you in a minute. Take you to a shower. You’ll find your clothes and the rest of your things waiting for you. Taxi’ll take you to the airport. After that, it’s up to you.”

  Sage tried to think of something important to say but could think of nothing.

  Wayne, standing, grabbing his chair, pulling it out behind him, opened the door and set the chair in the isle.

  Stepping out, he looked back at Sage and closed the door.

  Sage said, “How do I go back to a normal life after this?”

  “Exactly,” Wayne said. “How do you?”

  ***

  After a long shower with water that was colder than any water that had ever touched his body, where Sage stood under the small metal head, old and rusted, washing and rinsing, but mostly crying with joy and relief and sorrow, he left Kerobokan at noon, soaped and clean-shaven, dressed in clean clothes, walking through the same medium-sized room he had walked through a week before then ducking under the same small metal door. He walked through the large open room, passing many visitors waiting to see loved ones, sitting and standing and sleeping in chairs pushed against walls. He was expecting to see Owen, but was glad he didn’t, because he was ashamed. Outside now, stepping into the sun, feeling its heat, damp with sweat already, removing his dark sunglasses from the top of his head and cleaning the lenses on his shirt and putting them on and walking down the sidewalk, avoiding the rush of journalists and cameramen that still seemed to linger, though once they realized Sage was no one special they turned away. He walked to a taxi, driver waiting, smiling widely, wearing one glove, opening the door. Sage climbed in back and could have sworn he’d introduced himself as Michael Jackson.

  “Take you to airport.”

  “Just get me outta here.”

  Michael, smirking, said, “Yes, boss, I good driver. Get you airport on time.”

  While he rode—learning all about Michael Jackson, about all music really, but mostly about Michael Jackson—watching cars and trucks and vans and busses and motorbikes from the backseat, Sage could not believe, only days ago, he had been a part of it all. As dangerous as it was, and as chaotic as it had been, he knew he would miss it once he was gone. The rush and the excitement. The adrenaline.

  Beside them, Ratri passed the taxi on her pink motorbike and Sage sat up, telling his driver he must speed up, that he had to catch her now.

  “What you say, boss?”

  “Hurry up,” Sage said, leaning over the front seat, pointing. “Faster …that girl,” he said, still pointing, “I know her.”

  “Oh you know?”

  “I’ve gotta talk to her.”

  “You need talk to her? OK.”

  “Yes, hurry up, please. That’s my friend.”

  “Oh, that your friend. OK, boss,” Michael said, accelerating hard, and as they caught her the light changed and traffic slowed so they slowed. When the car came to a stop they were just behind her. Only a few rows of motorbikes stood between them.

  Opening the backdoor, climbing out despite protests from his driver, Sage could wait no longer. He walked toward her, stepping faster and faster, and then he began to run.

  “Ratri,” he yelled, moving faster, turning sideways, sprinting between motorbikes, until he was behind her. Then the light changed, but not before he reached her.

  When Sage touched her shoulder she jumped and when she turned to face him he saw it was not her. He was immobile. And, as she rode off, startled, horns honking all around him, Sage realized it had looked nothing like her all along.

  “Sage,” Michael called for him. “Please come back, Mr. Sage. Traffic so dangerous.”

  “Sorry,” Sage said absently, to every motorbike that passed him, all of them blowing their horns.

  Back in the car, they drove in silence. Michael turned off the radio. It began to rain.

  As they neared Ngurah Rai International Airport, after crossing the long bridge and paying the toll, jet planes thundering in the sky above them, his driver pulled to the curb, shut off the engine, turned around in the seat and asked if Sage was ready.

  Sage said he was and meant it, as much as he had ever meant anything. He said goodbye to Bali as he climbed from the car, vowing never to return.

  He grabbed his wallet from his backpack, having no idea how much rupiah he had, but Michael told him his fare had already been paid.

  He handed Sage an envelope.

  Sage looked at it but did not take it.

  Michael shook it. “Go head. Take it, boss. It from John Wayne.”

  As Sage took the envelope, Michael Jackson, after bowing respectfully, climbed in his taxi and drove away, blasting the radio as he went.

  Sage, holding the envelope, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, walked in the building expecting to be recognized by airport security, but was ignored.

  Standing at the departure gate, under a sign that said International Flights, he tore the envelope open, expecting to find one plane ticket. He instead found two.

  One ticket was for a two o’clock flight to San Francisco; the other, a flight to Jakarta, Indonesia, that left at ten after three.

  On the back of a Bintang receipt was a hand-drawn map of Java.

  There was a line connecting the airport, represented by a crudely drawn plane, to a small village a few hours away by motorbike. It was called Bojonegoro.

  Wayne drew a heart around it. That’s where Sage would find her.

  Looking up, feeling a warm wave wash over him, looking at each ticket and at each destination, looking to the sign above him that read international flights board left, all other flights board right, he thought about where he had been and what he had done and which direction he would follow.

  Then he thought about Ratri and he wondered if she had loved him as much as she said she had. Did she love him at all or did she say what she said because it was her job to say those things and she was good at what she did?

  As Sage watched tourists pass him, coming and going, talking between themselves, roaming with a mixture of excitement and disgust, he wondered how many travelers around him could be smuggling drugs.

  He stood there for a long time and thought.

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book has traveled the world with me, both on my computer and in my head. From the backwoods of Missouri to the mountains of California; I’ve written in restaurants and cafés and warungs, on remote islands and secret beaches; everywhere from an airport in Taiwan, to a gorgeous villa in the south of France, to a hotel on the outskirts of Saudi Arabia. I’ve written in airplanes, on ferries that crossed the ocean. I wrote a few hundred words on a night train to a place I can’t remember, a few thousand more at a Singapore lounge, late into the night, drinking Johnny Walker Black Label, before boarding a plane, at six AM, for a four hour flight to Bali.

  It has been a life changing experience, and throughout my journey I’ve met interesting people who were crucial in helping me write this. Whether they kne
w it or not, and most of them didn’t, they have helped make this book what it is.

  Thank you all (Terima kasih, Suksma, Khob khun).

  Bali

  Stephanie McClain, my crazy roommate and traveling partner. Thanks for climbing Mount Batur with me on Christmas Day. Mermaid Company, ftw.

  Suteyasa Ajus, my first Balinese friend, whose father dressed me in my first sarong. You took me to pray at many (eleven!) Hindu temples, on Galungan, then brought me to your village where I had the pleasure of your ibu’s cooking. That day was a privilege.

  Riris Pritandi, my wonderful Javanese friend, thank you for the many bowls of bakso, and for the grand adventures on the crazy streets of Denpasar.

  Raimundo Amenabar, thank you for showing me the night life in Kuta, my friend. I will never forget the foam parties.

  Maya Michelle, a finer salsa dancer there is none; I still owe you ice cream.

  Bali Goutama Tattoo, thank you, guys, for giving me fresh ink, in English, not your native tongue, and for spelling everything correctly.

  Joko, the best taxi driver in Indonesia; as kind as you are gracious, a true master who can navigate the most extreme traffic on earth with the ease of a seasoned wheelman.

  Fly Café, in Ubud, you gave me a place to write everyday, and the best Thai chicken curry I’ve ever had.

  Morgan Dimas (and his lovely wife), you said your uncle was a bank robber in the 1960’s, the ultimate conversation starter; thank you for giving me shelter, and for getting me out of Bali once shit hit the fan.

  Owen Palmona, minister, bodybuilder, former gangster, and fine Christian fellow. I’ll always remember riding motorbikes through Denpasar, in brutal traffic, late for Aleksandra Magnaeva’s hearing at the courthouse. You are a true soldier for the Lord. Next time I’m in New Zealand we’re going to Haka.

  Matthew Norman, of the infamous Bali 9, one day you will be free. I believe this. We will walk the beach, drinking beer, watching the sun set. Just like we said we would.

  Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran, I only saw you from across the room, but that was enough to leave a profound impression. The courage you showed at the end, the bravery and strength; you are deeply missed.

  Thailand

  Andrew and Tik, in Phuket, you were my first Couchsurfing friends and for that I will always be grateful. You gave us a room (with air con) and introduced me to the night markets (sorry about the vomit in your driveway).

  My good friend, Topp Siwadol, you are a generous, gregarious human being. Thank you for the room, and the whiskey. And for getting us out of that police roadblock at two AM (good thing they didn’t search us).

  Andy in Krabi, thank you for the root beer, and for the excellent steak. I appreciate you not caring that time I borrowed your motorcycle for the Full Moon Party on Koh Lanta and got lost for two weeks.

  The Island of Koh Phi Phi

  Beer (that’s really his name): you’re a fine bartender, musician, and chiropractor, all in one. I still have our selfie.

  Zack Zarate and his lovely wife, sometimes I still think about that long, slow night, so long ago, when we drank and played music, at a tiny hole in the wall, in a village by the sea.

  Wipapan Chaocheib, you helped me reach a new level of intoxication at the Slingshot Bar (even though you lost me for an hour and someone painted my face). That was one hell of a night.

  For both Dave’s (German and English) on Bob’s Booze Cruise: The finest drunken boat captain’s a man could ask for. That stunning aquatic experience and glorious sunset over Maya Beach (where they filmed The Beach) will never leave my mind.

  Pine Bungalow, the amazing place where I lived, for a time, where much of this book was written; 100 ft. from the ocean, my feet in a hammock and a cold drink in my hand. Your hospitality was second-to-none. Thank you for cooking me dinner at midnight. I’ll see you all next time.

  Brian and Brady Troutman: YouTube sensations and world travelers, from the beautiful sailboat SV Delos, who I (sadly), missed the opportunity to sail with off the coast of Thailand. Thank you for offering me shelter. I hope our paths will cross one day.

  Last but not least: my family; a handful of friends, my editor, Jason Pinter, for loving this book, and my much-loved agent, Stacia Decker, who believed in me when no one else did. That is 100% the truth.

  Your kindness and generosity will never be forgotten. One-thousand blessings to you all.

  About the Author

  Matthew McBride is the author of A Swollen Red Sun and the cult classic Frank Sinatra in a Blender. Originally from rural Missouri, he now lives in California. Visit him at @MatthewJMcbride.