Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  Just as Paul predicted, the winds have indeed abandoned us. Though locked in another doldrum, it has been our extreme good fortune to be captured by a strong, wide current. The current carries us in more or less the exact direction we need to go, north-by-northeast. As the old sea captain Malmud taught us, you don’t mess with a good current.

  The shark carcass is also caught in the flow. With a tumult of seabirds to mark its location, the decaying corpse never drifts from sight. Perhaps it was the territorial nature of our arch-nemesis, but it was not until the second day after his demise that his brother and sister sharks arrived. As much as I would have liked to take a pass on the toothy carnage, Paul was anxious to see, so we teamed to work the tiller back and forth and scull ourselves close. More than the frenzy of sharks, or the clouds of birds fighting over scraps, it will be the smell hanging in the dead air that will remain longest in my mind. The warm sunshine we have enjoyed these past days had not been so kind to our putrid foe.

  Paul is perhaps 45 percent back to his former self. He is now able to kneel and work the tiller with two hands. His tongue has been untied somewhat, and though it may be uncouth to mention, that is not his only appendage to return to action.

  We were watching the sunset, spooned together on the deck and talking about how much we missed our fire hearth, when I felt the beginnings of a once-familiar bulge growing behind me. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked. “Take look and see,” was his shy reply.

  We have been behaving like young lovers reunited after a long absence. Our lovemaking is often tender and slow, but occasionally it takes on a recklessness that almost frightens me. Deep in our hearts, we are both aware this day could be our last. We have seen enough of this world to know that death and destruction are possible at any time. We explore each others’ bodies and think up new ways to make each other happy. Apart from songs and stories, little things like sunsets and endless dinners of raw fish and seaweed…that is all we have.

  There is much free time on this little boat. I am determined to make the most of every minute.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Paul honey, do you think the water tastes salty?”

  Kaikane: “F-f-f-filters. M-m-m-mus… mus… b-be clog.”

  Duarte: “If they quit, we’re in a fucking pickle.”

  Kaikane: “Cook b-b-b-bags. Fill.”

  Duarte: “Good idea.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  It has been 21 days since the death of the shark, and 15 days since the water filtration systems on our kayaks failed. Once again, Paul and I find ourselves on a cold, wind-swept sea dying of thirst.

  The drinking water dispensed from the taps in each kayak’s hull had been growing increasingly salty since our encounter with the shark. And then, within five hours of each other, both systems quit working altogether. I believe the bashing they took did something to cause the malfunction.

  It was easy to take the systems for granted when they were humming along, providing clean water to drink and bathe ourselves each day. I would give just about anything right now for two turtle shell bowls of cool water to drink and a way to rinse the salt off our bodies.

  Anticipating there may be a problem, we managed to stockpile two cook bags of salty water before the shutdown, but one bag sprung a leak during a tumultuous night in big waves, and the other lasted as long as we could stretch it. The bag is now bone dry. After all the goddamn rainstorms we’ve sailed through in the past five months, not one drop of precipitation has fallen since our troubles began. We have encountered plenty of marine fog, but no rain. For now, we survive on dewdrops licked off the rigging, and whatever moisture we can glean from the sea animals we catch.

  The deprivations have been particularly hard on my poor husband. Nearly all gains Paul made leading up to our conquest of the shark have been lost. He is weaker than ever. I watch him suck the juice from a slice of manta ray wing, too feeble to chew the rubbery meat, and find my clinical mind gauging how many more days he will last. If those clouds on the horizon do not hold rain, I give him three and a half days. Me? I may endure for another week, but do I want to without Paul?

  Every square inch of our skin exposed to the elements is covered in sores. My once-beautiful hands, which I always considered my best feature, resemble patties of raw hamburger. Paul’s lips are puffy and blistered, the whites of his eyes, brilliant red. I imagine mine are the same. We have both lost so much weight our native clothes sag upon our frames. But I will not wear that damn suit. Not as long as Paul is alive.

  It has been more than a month since we lost sight of land. I have no clue where we are, except to say, adrift in the Atlantic Ocean. The warm current that carried us through the doldrums for more than a week has delivered us straight into a bank of thick fog. By the time the wind filled in, it had been days since I had seen the sun, moon or stars. I did not know how far west we had drifted.

  Too tired to fight the winds, I rigged the boat for a downwind course and let the breeze take us. When the sun rose through blue skies on the third morning under sail, we found we were streaking northwest, toward North America. Though I turned quickly due east, I don’t know if we are 100 or 1,000 miles from shore.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Rain-c-c-c-old.”

  Duarte: “I know, hon, but we need to rinse off.”

  Kaikane: “N-n-n-n-nice t-t-its!”

  Duarte: “Those better not be your last words.”

  Kaikane: “L-l-l-ove. L-l-l—love, you.”

  Duarte: “I know, I know. Lie back down, let me get you washed off.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Boss sayyys type. Sun out warm. No birds no fish no seaweed hungry thirsty All F-d up. my last entry?? Love U Maria. Keep mooing forward

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Gonna make yourself a snakeskin belt?”

  Bolzano: “Even if I desired to, there is no time. Leonglauix is anxious to return to the trail.”

  Jones: “Ya sure other snake got their dog?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, while we were engaged. How very sad. They are both quite upset by the loss.”

  Jones: “Should be thanking their lucky stars.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Old dude’s tryin’ to set some kinda land speed record crossing France–without being spotted by other Cro-Magnons or Neanderthal. Says he doesn’t want anybody giving Babeck intel on where the fuck we’re headed. His words were different, but meaning was the same.

  At first, the stealthy shit was pretty easy. Weren’t too many folks out ahead of the herds, not with the ground so muddy and weather so rainy and cold. We had the tall-grass plains just about to ourselves–us and a couple billion animals. As days grow longer and things dry out some, we cover more ground, but we’re also seeing more hunting parties and clans.

  Gray Beard knows all the signs. He spots most crews far enough out to let us slide by without anyone the wiser. Few times, we’ve had to give curious little fuckers the slip. Despite complaints about old man’s pace, guess we’re all anxious to reach the coast and see if Duarte and Kaikane beat us there.

  Thumb Day off today. First one in a long time. Me and Corporal Bolzano climbed a little hill to get away from the gang. There’s times when I feel like a full-blooded Cro-Mag, but hanging with these guys 24/7 for so many weeks in a row wears thin. Needed to get away to talk some English, maybe watch a movie or finish the book I started last fall. Expected Bolzano to jump right on his computer, but he stretched out in a patch of sun, used a moss-covered stone for a pillow and crashed out cold.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Captain Jones, what is your favorite all-time movie?”

  Jones: “Ya asked me that at least five times already.”

  Bolzano: “I know. I am waiting for you to do the gentlemanly thing and reciproc
ate by inquiring which movie is my favorite.”

  Jones: “Don’t care about your stupid fucking movie.”

  Bolzano: “Is someone in a bad mood today? Lady troubles?”

  Jones: “How’d ya know.”

  Bolzano: “I heard you two squabbling last night. Care to share?”

  Jones: “Ain’t gettin’ any.”

  Bolzano: “Getting any? Oh, I see, problems in the boudoir.”

  Jones: “She had a scare, missed her period or something. Now she’s afraid I’ll get her pregnant.”

  Bolzano: “Did you tell her it was impossible?”

  Jones: “Don’t believe me.”

  Bolzano: “How does one say vasectomy in Green Turtle dialect?”

  Jones: “Sal, shut the fuck up.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Having whiled away nearly all my free time with a refreshing nap and homesick-inducing perusal of the Bolzano family photo album, I fear this journal entry must be brief. I understand the intense consternation this must cause you loyal readers, but take heart, when we reach the coast, I promise to go into stunning detail about our trip across the plains, both in my reports and journal entries.

  Do not roll your eyes. Hardworking Salvatore Bolzano promises to hop to it first chance he gets.

  The toot of Gray Beard’s whistle shows he is growing impatient. Until next time, ta-ta.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “That’s the English Channel?”

  Bolzano: “If these hillocks are the Monts d’Arree, which I am quite sure they are, then that is the English Channel.”

  Jones: “Where’s the water?”

  Bolzano: “It is not yet a channel, though one of Europe’s widest, strongest rivers flows down through the marshes, somewhere out there in the hazy distance.”

  Jones: “All this’ll be washed away by rising sea levels?”

  Bolzano: “Not really. I believe a great tsunami plays a role in causing a great lake in the north to breach its walls. The ensuing floods will scour clean the plains before us, and also reshape the islands of Great Britain and Ireland.”

  Jones: “Gonna happen soon?”

  Bolzano: “Not for ten or twenty thousand years.”

  Jones: “Good to know.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  After reaching the beautifully craggy Atlantic coast five days ago, we have settled into a comfortable camp which overlooks the aqua blue ocean from an elevation of about 100 meters. There is a goat path wending through stunted white birch and pine to the white sand beach below the hillside camp. I made the mistake of saying how easy the trail was to climb, and now it has become my job to dutifully feed driftwood into a trio of signal fires arranged in a triangle shape, two on the beach and one midway up the hill. It seems I am the only one with free time on my hands.

  Tomon and Gertie are as industrious as ever, but still find many spare moments to play with their bright little boy. Who could blame them? The kid is a real charmer. There were times on the trail when we all grew quite concerned about his health. He had three mothers, but only two teats to suckle, and those two were constantly in danger of drying up. “No Name” proved he was pure Green Turtle, through and through. He survived without a hiccup. Once he began eating solid food, starting with crushed grubs and moving quickly to early berries and bird’s eggs, we all knew he was going to survive–even if Gertie’s milk did dry up, which, so far, has not happened.

  Leonglauix gave the boy Greemil every opportunity to return to the Owl Clan, but the boy has wanderlust, as well as regular old lusty lust in his eye. He elected to remain with us on our adventure to the north, and not soon after, he and Lanio moved past puppy love into what I guess you could call a marriage.

  You do not need a certificate or fancy ceremony in the Cro-Magnon world to become mates. All you must do is declare your intentions and act upon them. I envy their love and commitment. Am I jealous, you wonder? Maybe a little, but Salvatore Bolzano was born a bachelor and will probably die one as well. When it comes right down to it, I am too selfish for all that compromising.

  In news of other couples, Captain Jones and his soul mate spend about a third of their days happy together, a third bickering, and a third not speaking to one another. It seems like a rather typical union when compared to my married friends back in Milano.

  We have not seen hide nor hair of Doctor Maria Duarte and Specialist Paul Kaikane yet, but trust they are still two peas in a pod. The nautical couple has sailed to the forefront of my mind of late. I find myself daydreaming about one pleasant experience or another we shared, but the memories always seem to turn sour. My mother the worrier would proclaim it time to light a candle and say a prayer. I do hope they are safe.

  I guess that makes Leonglauix and me the final couple. Now that we have completed this leg of the journey, he has more time to teach. I believe he thinks he can turn me into a storyteller. Only time will let us know if that is true or not. One thing I do know, I too enjoy attention. If I cannot sing my favorite opera in the Paleolithic, perhaps regurgitating a blend of old stories and blatant, self-serving fabrications will be the next best thing. We will see.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Paul!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I woke this morning to find Paul lying stone still next to me on deck, sleeping with both eyes wide open. With no movement of his chest and his hands ice cold, I thought he was dead. Calling out his name, gathering him in a hug, I put my head on his chest and began to sob.

  “S-s-all-right,” he whispered weakly in my ear.

  When I finally attempted to stand, I barely had the strength to do so. Staggering through morning inspection, I found all four fishhooks as empty as our water collection bag.

  Our time is running out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Ya seein’ this?”

  Bolzano: “Indeed. My helmet is back in my pack, however, and I cannot make out much beyond a beige smudge. What do you observe?”

  Jones: “Think somethin’s wrong. I count two of ’em, but only one’s standing, working tiller. Think it’s Duarte. Musta made a new sail. This one’s not leather. Range is 4.6 miles. Should be here soon.”

  Bolzano: “Not so soon. Headwinds make their job difficult.”

  Jones: “That why they keep sailing back and forth?”

  Bolzano: “It is called tacking. Yes, that is why.”

  Jones: “Thought they might be tryin’ to get our attention.”

  Bolzano: “Their arrival will make the old man happy.”

  Jones: “Was thinkin’ same thing.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  While the rest of our eclectic little clan scampers down to the driftwood-strewn beach to greet Dr. Maria Duarte and Recreation Specialist Paul Kaikane to the shores of Bretagne, I have remained back to begin their celebratory feast. I wonder if the honorees are as fond of stewed rabbit as I am. The tender meat should be a welcome change of pace. I can’t imagine they have been catching many of the furry creatures while so long at sea.

  Captain Jones and I have spent the past few weeks scanning the southern coastline, expecting (hoping) to spy our comrades sailing their way up the nearshore waters. Land-loving coward that I am, that is how I would have done it. This morning, however, I was engrossed in my morning calisthenics, breathing deeply and staring straight out to sea, when I first spotted the tiny speck of their sail. That was several hours ago.

  Winds sweeping down the marshy plains which will one day become the English Channel meet our Teammates head on. They have at least three more tacking runs before they reach my signal fires smoking on the beach. By then, the rabbits in the cook bags shall have bec
ome so tender their sweet flesh will be falling from the bones. How I wish we had a tasty wine to serve.

  It will be interesting to hear what they have encountered on their epic voyage. I’m sure we will need to shed our native clan mates before Jones and I hear the full account.

  If Gray Beard has his way, this welcome home party will be a short one. He is anxious to head north. I doubt he will give them more than a day to get their land legs under themselves before he orders the march.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Specialist Kaikane, ya look like shit. Know that?”

  Kaikane: “W-w-weak, re-re-re-real we-we-weak.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  The alarming condition of Team members Dr. Maria Duarte and Specialist Paul Kaikane upon their arrival to Bretagne took the starch out of our grand reunion celebration. Granted, the rabbit stew and post-prandial musical offerings were both well received, but the duo’s weakened state has forced our group to reassess its plans. Along with canceled rumba parties and spear golf tournaments, our departure for the north has been placed on indefinite hold.