Uncharted Waters

by Scott MacKenzie

  However, as I said, I’d been making plans for weeks. Planning one’s death is complex, especially with the aforementioned considerations. What was needed, I felt, was mystery. Suicide is so final. There are a couple stock conversations to have afterward and then it is over. My poor widow would have the sympathy of the world and I would be the loser that killed himself. I needed mystery, intrigue, and loose ends.

  I would indeed kill myself, that part was straightforward enough. But there would be no note — just a trail of clues that would suggest I was sailing my little boat out to the open ocean and perhaps even attempting to circumnavigate the globe. I could be at the bottom of the ocean after I bravely battled a storm at sea. I could be held captive by pirates; maybe I became a pirate. Maybe I was on a deserted island with a young lover and we had children, starting our own perfect family living in a tropical paradise. The possibilities would be endless, and people would speculate for years. My life had not been impressive, so I saw my death being my last chance at greatness.

  The reality was far from greatness. I would simply be at the bottom of the ocean in the harbor, only miles from the marina where I kept my little boat. It’s a very deep part of the harbor and my boat and I would never be found. We’d simply disappear into the cold, black Pacific Northwest Sea.

  But there was a problem. I still had the very basic survival instinct that all living things tend to have. There was no question I was done living, but it’s another thing to pull the trigger. I remedied this problem easily. I arranged things so when I pulled the trigger, nothing would happen immediately. Basically, I would hole the vessel, chain myself up inside the boat, lock the chain, and throw the key overboard. The trigger would figuratively be pulled, but it would be several hours before I would have to deal with all the nastiness that I assume comes with death.

  I left clues everywhere. Social media was a big one, of course. I made friends online in sailing forums and more or less told them I was just going for it. I spoke about it at work in the breakroom for months before the big day.

  Then the big day came. I was rather outside myself as I untied the lines and motored away from the dock. I had empty diesel cans on deck, and a few other things that suggested I was going on a rather long voyage, just in case someone saw me leave. I felt numb as I rounded the corner and motored toward the spot I had picked to be my final resting place.

  I remember feeling as if I wasn’t alone. This was the end for my little sailboat, too. She was an old girl, and I sensed it was her time as well. It was twilight by the time I reached the deepest part of the harbor. There’s nowhere in the world that has a twilight like the Pacific Northwest. It’s magical and seems to make time stop until night takes over.

  The motor was turned off, and I drifted only by a slight current in the windless harbor. I wanted to wait until dark just in case the boat was spotted going down. I had some time, so I arranged the chain, lock, and key as I had planned. There wasn’t much space in the cabin of the little sailboat, but I felt being below deck would be better in case I couldn’t hold back a final scream. Also, even though I would be chained down, the chance of floating to the top years later would be far less likely if I was inside. I left a hatch open so I could effectively throw the key overboard when it was time.

  There was a little galley sink with a drain that, if dislodged, would cause the boat to take on water. Ironically, I was always worried that it would happen when I was sailing far from land, but it took a great deal of effort to break it. Once it came apart, the water was coming in about as fast as a garden hose open all the way. It would take a considerable amount of time before we went down, but that was how I wanted it.

  The chain was heavy, rusted, and had sharp barnacles encrusted to it. I remember thinking about trying to find one that wasn’t so shabby, as if a more comfortable chain would be like a first-class ticket. But this chain worked well enough. I twisted around it, and it around me. I felt like Houdini, but of course, I would not be making an escape.

  The water had covered the entire floor of the cabin. I instinctively shifted around so I wasn’t sitting in the cold sea water while I put the key into the lock that was holding the chain tight against my chest.

  One of the reasons I planned things this way was so there was not one “pull the trigger” moment. But, as I clicked the lock closed and held the key in my hand, I knew this was it. I didn’t wait, too much time to think would be problematic. I threw the key out of the hatch and heard it splash into the water.

  That was it. I had done it. After all those years of thinking about doing it, I had finally done it. I almost felt proud of myself, lying there tied up in an old rusty chain. The water wasn’t rising very fast, so I had plenty of time.

  I think it was when the cabin lights went out that I began to panic. I was slumped in a seated position and the water was about waist high at that point. It was a moonless and starless night, and I could see almost nothing. What was worse was that there was almost no sound. The water was still coming in, but the hole was under water and I could no longer hear it rushing in. Other than the occasional groan of the flexing hull, it was virtually silent. Sitting in the cold sea water for so long had me shivering and chattering my teeth.

  Oddly enough, all the reasons I had decided to end my life, not once entered my thoughts. I thought of the reasons I wanted to live. I didn’t think of my enemies, I thought of those I’d loved. People I had almost completely forgotten about. Childhood memories of playing marbles with a caring auntie, teenage love, sharing laughter with coworkers. I mostly thought of my mother. How sad this would make her if she were alive to hear the news. I wondered if there was a heaven and if I would see her there. I’m not a religious man, but I thought of heaven quite a bit as the water reached my chest. Of course I considered hell. I decided hell was a more likely destination and wondered who I would run into there.

  My mind and heart raced. I had never felt so alive and full of emotion. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t shake the thought of my mother. It reminded me of war movies when soldiers would cry out for their mothers while they were critically injured on the battlefield. Perhaps this is a human instinct. A mother’s love for a child is the only unconditional love that exists.

  I was cold. I wondered if I would succumb to hypothermia before I had to take a watery breath. The water was nearly at the bottom of my chin, and rising faster now. I imagined the boat was sitting low enough in the water that it was flooding in from other places. It wouldn’t be long. Adrenaline began to course though me. My life flashed before my eyes. It seemed so incomplete, and I suddenly felt like I had made a mistake. My life had been unremarkable, but there were moments of love and kindness I had completely forgotten about until this final moment.

  I had made a mistake. I still had a chance to make something of my life, and I had given up. Perhaps I should have tried to sail around the world. I want to try again, I thought. Though not a religious man I found myself praying, as I’m sure many do in their final moments.

  Thud.

  Something was not right. The water in the cabin began to swoosh back and forth, causing my head to be underwater for moments. I spit out the sea water and cried out a sound that echoed off the ceiling of the cabin.

  Thud.

  The feeling was strange and unnatural. The thud happened again and again until it stopped. Strangely, the water very slowly began to recede. At that moment I thought it could be an angel. Perhaps it was.

  The water continued to go down over the course of a couple hours until I was sitting in a puddle. I lay there, shaking and confused, cold and wet, wrapped in a rusty chain.

  The light was changing. It must have been close to dawn. I could hear what sounded like vehicles driving around. I thought I must have died, and heaven is nothing like it had been advertised. I could hear laughter and men’s voices shouting. I wasn’t thinking clearly. In fact, I was suffering from hypothermia at that point. I could hear that I was being boarded. Maybe this was god welcoming
me?

  “What the fuck?” a grizzled looking man in a heavy plaid jacket said, looking down at me. He was certainly not god. He made eye contact after surveying the scene. I could see the moment when he realized he had stumbled upon a suicide attempt.

  “Holy fuck,” he said to himself. “Get me the fucking bolt cutters out of the back of my truck!” he yelled to someone.

  I remember it like a dream. Apparently, I was conscious, but I felt like I was floating outside myself watching the man cut me out of the chain and carry me out of the boat. I was not strong enough to make it down the ladder and landed with a splat into the foul mud below. With an arm around each man, I was able to wobble through the mud to the large truck that was parked next to my boat on the beach.

  Looking back at my boat was a surreal sight. She was resting between rocks on the muddy shore, the sea at least a hundred feet away. I must have drifted with the current further than I thought was possible, and as the tide went out, it left me on the beach. I had run aground.

  How did you fuck this one up? I thought.

  The two men drove me to the hospital and dropped me off at the front door. I thanked them before they drove away and left me standing at the sliding doors of the emergency room. My muddy, wet clothes were torn, and I was a mess. I must have looked like a drowned river rat.

  What happens now?

  I lived about a thirty-minute walk away and decided to forego the hospital and head home. I shuffled all the way there. I regretted not at least getting patched up where the sharp barnacles of the chain had cut into me. Perhaps a shot or two was in order, but it felt silly having such health concerns after a failed suicide attempt.

  My house key was still in my pocket. I opened my front door and stumbled along the hallway to the kitchen like a sick, broken man, holding the walls to keep my balance. A trail of mud was left behind me on the floor.

  I filled my favorite glass with water and drank it over the sink. It felt like life. Most of the water fell down my chin and into the sink below. I drank and drank, then splashed my face with warm water. The sink was black with the dirt being washed off my face and out of my hair.

  Laughter. I could hear laughter from the bedroom. It was Lydia. I hadn’t heard her laugh like that in years. I walked down the hall to the bedroom and opened the door.

  “No, oh my god, Vince, what are you doing here?” Lydia yelled.

  She was naked, lying in bed with a friend from work — the guy she ended up leaving me for — also in a state of undress.

  “Vince,” he said, with his hands over his mouth.

  “You said you were going sailing for a few days,” Lydia said as she pulled up a blanket.

  I stood there smelling like a bilge. I was a bloody mess from all the cuts. My clothes were ripped and caked with stinky low-tide sludge. I must have looked half dead. I saw a version of the both of them I had never seen before. They were so loose and free together, naked on the clean white sheets. It was clear this had been happening for some time.

  “I’m sorry man, umm…” my pal said as he pulled up the sheets.

  I closed the door slowly and rested my forehead on the doorframe. I could hear them frantically trying to decide what to do while they got dressed.

  My life had been at a steady low with very few peaks and valleys, but I seemed to have found a very deep valley today. I felt like this was the moment I had been waiting for.

  When you are that low, you can only go up.

  The door opened, and Lydia was surprised by me standing right there. She, too, rested her head on the doorframe so our faces were rather close.

  “I want a divorce,” she said as she blew out a puff of smoke from her freshly lit cigarette.

  I felt relief wash over me. I couldn’t help but think that a divorce would be a simpler choice than drowning myself, and she could have saved me some trouble by doing this yesterday.

  The words that came out of my mouth surprised me. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  I felt like I was being freed from a psychological spell she had me under. I remember thinking that this is how the rest of my life starts.

  My dark memory passes with a blink of my eye. When I open them again, I see Tenn on her knees trying to touch the jumping dolphins. I feel a deep happiness, like my heart is smiling. It’s good to remember where you came from, but sometimes it’s better to focus on where you are.

  Twenty

  It is day twenty-three of our passage.

  Cleaning the flying fish off the deck has become a part of my morning routine. I wish a nice tuna would jump on deck, and perhaps fillet itself. I haven’t had much luck fishing lately and we have been eating canned food as all our fresh food is long gone.

  Even with the lack of fish, spirits are high, and it’s fair to say that Tenn and I are growing closer. Certainly, surviving the storm has strengthened our bond. Our relationship has become slightly more sober and adult, although at times we can be so foolish and silly it borders on madness. I’ve discovered Tenn is ticklish, and I enjoy working her into a frenzy.

  We have been wagering bets on who will spot land first. I don’t expect to see land for another couple of days, but I don’t tell Tenn that to keep a sense of hope and purpose throughout the day.

  Our rations of rum have all been consumed. I think Tenn is bothered by the lack of rum more than I am. I have always had a complex relationship with alcohol: it can get its hooks in me and I have a hard time letting it go once I start. It has been several days that I have been sober, and I welcome the clarity that comes with not drinking. The last bottle we drank hurt us both, and it took a couple days for my body to heal itself. Tenn had pressed for parts of my past that I didn’t want to discuss. Not about Lydia, but about my odd personality and afflictions. She wanted to know if I ever saw a psychiatrist, and if I had a diagnosis. She said she didn’t care and liked me for who I was, but she was just curious. I tried deflecting her drunken questions and may have gotten overly defensive. We were able to shake off our little squabble and haven’t spoken about it since.

  The lowest, most center part of the boat is where the boat’s motion is most tolerable. On Crazy Lady, this is where the table and benches are, and where Tenn sleeps when the seas cause an uneasy motion. There is a lee cloth that holds her in snuggly. I notice her lips are in an easy smile as she sleeps, so I walk on deck with soft steps to not wake her from whatever peaceful dream she is having.

  Over the next few hours I lay on the foredeck and read the last few chapters of the book that has taken much of my attention over the past few days, Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut. The story plays with the concept of time, and for a moment makes me feel like I’m still on my boat back in Solitude Bay. I get lost in the book and time gets away from me.

  I can hear that Tenn has been up for some time. The smell of bread baking has been billowing out of the open hatch next to me. I love that she has taken it upon herself to bake bread every morning.

  “Do you want coffee?” she shouts up to me.

  “Yes, please,” I shout back.

  Tenn’s hand appears through the open hatch holding a mug, which I take with thanks. We have only spotted boats a few times while on this passage, but other sailboats and large freight ships are becoming more common. I watch a sailboat in the distance and wonder what their story is, where they are coming from and where they are going. I wonder if they, too, are transporting over a ton of cocaine in their hull. I doubt it.

  Tenn joins me and puts down a plate with slices of warm bread with butter melted on top.

  “Morning,” she says, mouth full.

  “Morning,” I respond, happily taking the warm bread.

  Tenn puts her hands on her hips. “So, when are you going to tell me how you ended up living on that fancy boat in the Caribbean, and don’t tell me it’s from being a railroader.”

  “What do you have against railroaders?” I ask playfully.

  “It would take you a lifetime of savings to buy a boat li
ke that, and you aren’t exactly at retiring age. It doesn’t sound like you inherited money. So, what’s the deal? I’ve told you all my secrets.”

  “What would you guess?”

  “I think this isn’t your first time on the wrong side of the law,” Tenn speculates.

  I laugh. I enjoy her theory and encourage her. “Like maybe a bank robber, or a jewel thief?”

  “I don’t know, are you? You seem like a tough guy. I was thinking you could be one of those guys that collects money or something like that. But bank robber is interesting. Honestly darlin’, what’s the deal?”

  “Pirates,” I answer flatly.

  “Oh my god, you were a pirate?” she says excitedly.

  “No. Pirates,” I say as I point at the horizon where a large black speedboat is racing toward us.

  “I thought there were no pirates in these waters?” Tenn questions.

  “There shouldn’t be.”

  The boat turns to the side and we can see what is written on the side.

  GNR.

  The National Republican Guard, or Guarda Nacional Republicana.

  “Those aren’t pirates,” Tenn says.

  Suddenly, I wish they were. The GNR are the police of the Portuguese coasts. Both Tenn and I would be put in prison for life if our cargo was discovered. Why are they interested in us?

  The boat cruises close, sidling up next to us, and slows down to our speed. I can see one of the officers holding up a megaphone. The words are in Portuguese first, I’m guessing, and then repeated in multiple languages, until finally we can understand what they are saying.

  “This is the National Republican Guard. Take down your sails and prepare to be boarded.”

  Tenn looks like a statue, her half-eaten piece of bread falling from her hand. I give a friendly wave that is not returned.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I reassure her as I get up and take down the sails.