RIP Tyde

by H. E. Goodhue

  Read on for a free sample of Midway: A Deep Sea Thriller

  Author’s Note

  Agent Travis Howard first appeared in Pink Slime published by Severed Press. If you want to know his back-story or why he will never eat Jell-O give Pink Slime a read.

  Midway

  With a perfect dive, I, Sam Berlitz, left the safety of my floating home and plunged beneath the warm equatorial waters of the briny Atlantic, barely leaving a splash in my wake. I am an arrow, and I shall follow my desire line straight and true.

  Kicking away from my support boat, The Lord Burringham, I started to glide, pulling myself through the rising and dipping waters, with my powerful front crawl. I opened my eyes after the initial impact, letting my vision and imagination be swallowed whole by the cavernous, and almost impossible to comprehend, cerulean expanse beneath me.

  And then, breathe.

  Brilliant lighter hues of the clear sky above briefly replaced the oceanic blue, then I dipped my head back under—for about the millionth time in less than a month. Not that I was counting.

  The team consisted of five Brits and me, we were just over the halfway point of our Atlantic crossing, and now we were in third place out of ten countries competing. Only the Australians and the French lay in front. Dogs and Frogs.

  Yesterday, Tom Hewitt, the eldest of our team at sixty-one, was sure he had seen the Tricolour bobbing on the western horizon, though no one had seen it since. I wondered if Tom had presented us with a mind fuck in order to get us charging ahead. It’s the sort of thing he’d do. A bolt up the bum to get our legs going.

  At twenty-one, I was the youngest of the Great Britain team swimming the Atlantic, and having won one gold and a silver medal in the games last year, I felt in the prime of my life. Though physically exhausting, the trial of swimming the Atlantic along the equator was exhilarating enough to warrant the amount of time it would take out of my life. I knew by the end when we reached that Brazilian beach on the far side of the world, the experience would all be worth it. Plus, the prize money acted as enough incentive; $100,000 for each team member, as well as more lucrative sponsorship and advertising deals on top as pure financial icing. Not to mention the numerous interviews with magazines and television. We’d be sought out as media whores, eager to tell our trials and tribulations of our ocean crossing.

  My shoulders would look awesome by time we all waded up the shore, dripping wet in the Brazilian sunshine. And that deal with Gillette would be in the bag.

  My fellow teammates and I would be seen as national heroes forever in the hearts of the good people of my hometown. We’d all trained and worked hard to get to the peaks of our physical and mental fitness, so only the best would cross the line first.

  The losers however reap nothing but the shadow of the spotlight. They’d be remembered as competitors, nothing more. I didn’t want history to leave me behind. I wanted to be remembered for something. Something great and true that mind fucked people to think about; some went into space, others climbed mountains. We were crossing an ocean with our wits and strength, and not much more.

  Push on, I reminded myself. To glory that waits beyond the thick bands of the blue/blue horizon.

  Each swimmer had to consume on average four thousand calories a day, so the boat was stocked well with pasta and energy bars to fill our bellies. Our sponsor, under the guise of Green Voodoo Tiger energy drinks, had provided us with 400 radioactive lime coloured bottles of their brand to consume along the journey. They’d encouraged us to drink as many as possible, ideally in front of the on-board cameras as we posed and pondered heroically on deck, gazing into the middle distance in-between swimming stints, as we philosophised about what crossing the Atlantic meant for us in the grand scheme of things. Personally, after one gulp, I was of the mind that it was what I’d imagine sugared rats’ piss to taste like, and refused to drink any more, fearing that it could quite possibly dissolve the marrow from my very bones. Tom Hewitt, on the other hand, loved the stuff, downing two tins before his hour a stint, saying it was akin to athletic Viagra. However, Celeste Marts, a year older than me, was of the same opinion. We carried on the joke that a pint of rat piss probably tasted better and was probably healthier; even though she was a model and spokesperson for the aspartame infused, electric green rat urine. That beautiful and shameless sell-out, Celeste. She was only in it for the money and held no love for the product. I still wasn’t sure whether or not that was an honourable attitude to have.

  At twenty-two, Celeste had been the highlight of the trip so far, becoming my new obsession. Beautiful, blonde, and a former gymnast to boot, you could say that I had dived head over heels for her. Judging from the sex, I was sure she felt the same way about me. What can I say? We hit it off, and we were magnetic. The chemistry couldn’t be avoided. We were petrol and fire, and we burned together beneath the sheets whenever we could. I’ve never met anyone like her. I couldn’t wait to reach that hotel on the other side of this ocean and just fall into her. So far all we’d managed were tangled, cramped fumbles and nervous quickies in our bunks. I longed to get her into a soft king size bed, with cool, white cotton sheets and have my way with her.

  But between now and then, we had half an ocean to cross. I had to concentrate on that.

  Luck, to aid us in the pursuit of our adventure came in the shape of Klear K plc, the company behind Green Voodoo Tiger, offered us full funding for the trip provided they were allowed full and sole advertising of Team GB. We agreed, though reluctantly. But we had no other choice; our original sponsor, a sportswear company, had dropped out at the last minute after a change in shareholders altered interests, so Klear K had forced our hand. We would have preferred a sponsor involved with sports nutrition or athletic equipment instead of tooth rot merchants. But the money came through, and the stipulations in the contract weren’t too ridiculous. When we weren’t taking part we were supposed to use a handheld camera to document the action. The footage of which would be used in an ongoing online series on Green Voodoo Tiger’s website. Celeste Marts had been that spokesperson, the only part of the deal I found sweet enough to warrant the sponsorship.

  The remainder of our team consisted of Russell Fryer, a former Olympic swimmer. Tamara Oaks, the other female on the team, and another former British Olympian gold winner. Charles Myers, although not an Olympian, was deemed fit enough for the race as he had taken part in various Iron Man competitions throughout the world, often coming third or better. The team was super fit and more than capable of working together in order to succeed the race to Brazil.

  All I had to concentrate on was what lay ahead, though a niggling worry at the back of my mind had wormed its way into my confidence. Two nights back, during my ration of sleep, a spasm of treacherous cramps had worked its way up my left leg with all the charm of scurrying crabs. The phantom pinch had woken Celeste and me up with an obvious start, terrifying us both in the process. This nocturnal niggle soon disappeared with a thoughtful and thorough massage from Celeste’s deft fingers. But now I was back in the water, I felt that familiar tickle back from the dead, creeping up the back of my leg like a spider under the skin, pinching tighter with each stroke.

  Tense and stretch.

  Tense and stretch.

  Tense and stretch.

  Every few minutes or so, I’d kick my leg out to its full extent, and try to stretch out the tightness. I didn’t want to stop. But I didn’t want to not be able to carry on either.

  Another worry had manifested over us in the form of Hurricane Wendy; an inconvenient shit-storm that started as a simple North Atlantic depression, which was currently gearing up to full force, and was set to cut across our path in the next day or two. Even though the skies ahead promised nothing but forever blue, the Met office suggested otherwise. Secondly, a minor undersea earthquake had shattered the ocean floor ahead of us, but seeing as we were in deep water, it shouldn’t have any affect. All that had been reported so far was a two foot high tsunami sweeping down the wes
t coast of Africa. As it had been detected early, few casualties had been reported. Lastly, they suggested that we start to bear slightly Northwest, hoping the storm would pass before we reached the cross point. We all dutifully agreed, upset at the fact we would lose time at the hands of this detour, but happy we were still headed in the right direction. Roughly. Apparently, the Australians didn’t see fit to agree to this suggestion, and continued towards the storm regardless of whatever may lay ahead. The French, however, did detour. Not to be too sentimental, I didn’t hold any worry for the teams that lagged behind, they could spin in circles for all I cared. As far as I was concerned, unless they were in front of us, they didn’t exist.

  Hurricanes, earthquakes and the shag of my life, so far this had turned out to be the adventure of my entire existence.

  Cramps and hurricanes aside, another worry we all faced on a daily basis was to be weary of the invisible residents of the ocean beyond and below us. Turtles proved no hazard, as did whales, dolphins and seals. Though caustic, a full body Fast Skin LRZ Racer swimming suit protected us from jellyfish stings. The swimwear also enabled each swimmer a personal top speed of six miles per hour. The Fast Skin took a swimmer beyond the capability of any ordinary human. Some athletic authorities saw the new suits as technological doping, but I saw it as advancement in sports that should be embraced and pushed forward. Didn’t runners get to wear trainers? Surely that was a similar kind of technological doping. Nevertheless, I wore my personally fitted suit with duty and pride; despite the fact the colour neared nuclear lime, with dark green tiger stripes to fit in with the Green Voodoo remit.

  Tom Hewitt saw this differently and gave himself unto the elements, often enjoying the freedom of swimming nude when it was his turn, much to the amusement of his fellow team-mates as he had shaved off all his body fuzz beforehand, becoming a hairless wonder. Tom’s segments in our crew documentary were often relegated to shots of his head bobbing up and down as he traversed the Atlantic Ocean. Celeste often had to convince him to at least wear the Fast Skin for the sake of a few shots for the camera. The rest of the time Tom braved the elements in his shorts, only removing them before his stints in the blue.

  ‘Little Tom Thumb has gone swimming again,’ Celeste would sing, a ‘seen it all’ before expression on her face. We only allowed Tom one stint of ‘Tom Time’ each day, any more and we would fall behind, as every other competitor wore similar slim line suits, and would soon catch up. We couldn’t allow that gap to get any closer.

  Sharks were another easily solved matter.

  An electromagnetic device called a Shark Shield located in the hull of the boat emitted a pulse every five seconds, which in tests, had proved to be distasteful to sharks. As long as the swimmer remained within fifty feet of The Lord Burringham, this sonic repellent ensured that we could swim freely without fear. Although in the last few days, damp had worked its way into the terminal connections, so unless we went down every hour or so and wiped them down with a dry cloth, the on-board Shark Shield would short itself out. Luckily, in addition to the larger device on the boat, each swimmer had a smaller Shark Shield unit built into the base of the spine of their suits. Unless Tom was naked, in which we’d edge the boat as close to him as possible.

  This rechargeable device, no larger than a mobile phone, created a pulsating spherical aura of 25 feet around the swimmer, deterring any type of shark, or stingray for that matter, from even approaching the wearer. The predators Ampullae of Lorenzini, a gel filled sac on the tip of their snout that they use as a sensor to zone in on prey when hunting, is bombarded with electrical pulses. This attack on the senses overwhelms them and they soon turn tail and never come back. As soon as the predator is out of range of the shield, the effects wear off, and no lasting damage is inflicted upon the creature. Before the invention of this device, any truly ambitious extreme swimmers traversing great oceans would swim within the confines of a shark cage, towed behind a boat. I had discussed this method with the others, despite the obvious benefits of swimming in an anti-shark cage, wearing the Shark Shield offered the user a great measure of unlimited freedom. We all agreed that the method we utilised was the safer of the two, as we had no metal bars to smash our teeth into should the cage come to a sudden and violent stop.

  In-between roaring splashes around my ears, I was sure I heard a nanosecond measure of a female scream, though too throaty to be Cellie, I assumed it must have been Tamara, a burly girl more butch than I ever could be. When we first set off on this trip I was sure that she had eyes on Celeste just as I had. Thankfully Cellie hadn’t been that way inclined, and thus I had become her object of lust instead of the short haired, round faced Tam-Tam. Once, in her youth, she’d been accused of being a man by a judge during a training session. He even went as far to demand a gender test and that she should be fully inspected by an independent doctor. Furious at this remark, Tamara stripped down to her underwear in front of the judge, then marched over and punched him square in the face. How could you not find her adorable?

  “C’mon! ‘it a wuman, I derhs yuh!” she taunted him with her thick, Lincolnshire brogue, slapping her own face repeatedly until her cheeks flared as red as her anger. This was the rugby player in her coming out. The judge, shamefaced, bloody nosed and corrected, retracted his statement, and the competition went on with Tamara being disqualified for improper behaviour. Although later a rumour circulated that in further revenge, Tamara had seduced and slept with the wife of the accusing judge. Whenever she was asked about this, she always winked and replied knowingly, ‘Revenge never tasted so sweet.’

  No more shrieks or screams came from the boat, so I assumed it was my fellow team-mates larking about. Besides, if I stopped to turn and investigate, I would lose my lumbering rhythm. Despite the horseplay that went on between us all, mere seconds were precious in a race where so much was at stake. I emptied my mind and ploughed on through the endless brine.

  Slice, push.

  Slice, push.

  Slice, push.

  Slice . . .

  A flurry of movement tensed me up, and sent a primal fearful shiver from my head to my toes, like I’d been skewered by a lightning bolt. The image of a Great White surged through my brain, rising from the darkness, and swiping me from below as if I was a wayward seal. My eyes adjusted to the gloom. Once acclimatised, they caught sight of what triggered my fear.

  Please God, let it be quick.

  Beneath me, a shoal of silver fish with a flash of frantic motion balled up and overtook my lead, fleeing to the west with a dire urgency only they could explain. Behind me, more shapes of shadows danced about, something glittered and then was gone, swallowed by the deepening, dreamy blue. A groan resonated in my ears; making me wonder whether a pod of whales were nearby, maybe that’s what had disturbed the fish. Wasting no more thought on the matter I ploughed on, slicing neat and firm through the Atlantic swells as if I were born from the ocean. Fear was natural. I should let it in, show it around and tell it that there was nothing of interest, then let it be snatched from me like a balloon into a hurricane. I had nothing to be afraid of. The Shark Shield would deter most predators. That I knew of. I’d seen the videos and had great faith in the technology.

  An eerie caution sprouted inside me, an all too casual uneasiness I couldn’t quite place a finger on, something was wrong. Not so much in myself but the environment. Ten minutes passed; then twenty, before it dawned on me, chilling me as a winter morning breeze over wet skin. The fish had gone.

  Usually I would see at least the odd one every minute or so, a silver glint or flash of tropical yellow or green as an individual braved the open water; but nearly half an hour had streamed by and nothing had appeared. Determined this anomaly wouldn’t put me off, I continued, hopefully gaining on our competitors that thrashed about not so far in front. More minutes passed. My body clock told me to stop, whispering that I had done my second hours worth for today, but a psychological block stopped me from doing so.

  A moun
tain climber I knew once gave me the advice, “Never plateau. There is no peak. Keep going.” I took this advice on board and it worked in theory, but I had to stop at some point. I had to plateau. There was no sky to grab.

  Ordinarily someone would sound the air horn to let the swimmer know that a change was due. It was now mandatory to give one another a high five as we swapped places in the race, to relay the team spirit.

  I decided to wait another minute, because I knew Sods Law would dictate that soon as I stopped to turn around, the air horn would blare, possibly a practical joke at the hands of Tom. Let’s wear little Sambo out so he hasn’t got any energy left for his little love Celeste. Muhahaha…

  Oh how we’d all laugh.

  Now came the dilemma, did I stop and turn, risking the laughter and jibes of my team mates, and the possible fact I still might only be fifty or so minutes into my jaunt? Or did I carry on regardless, and maybe end up exhausting myself?

  I continued, the worry slowing me down. I meandered, my stroke fading to a slap against the water as exhaustion pulled me back from my sprint. I needed this like an anchor around my feet.

  Enough was enough, I knew in my brain clock that I had done my share; I’d risk a quick peek around to check their position. Stopping my flow I slowed, yet my arms and legs felt like they still ploughed through the salty H2O.

  Lifting the goggles from my face as I dipped into the bottom of a swell, I kicked up to raise myself a few inches from the water. I looked back east, I looked north and south and even full circle westward, the way I had been heading. Usually the boat would be churning slowly just twenty or so feet behind my right shoulder, the solar powered propeller pushing her along at maybe four or five miles per hour. But today it was gone. Either one of Tom’s jokes had gone way too far, or the rising fact bubbled away like acid in the pit of my stomach was that I, Sam Berlitz, was all alone in the Atlantic Ocean.