Hunting the Dragon

by Peter Dixon

  Despite his left ear’s impairment from two burst eardrums, the hearing in his right ear was perfect. Earphones connected to the ship’s bank of radios were Benny’s far-ranging attempt to learn Lucky Dragon’s sailing orders. He had been listening and scanning the bands since midnight. At night, single sideband and UHF radio transmissions bounced around between the troposphere and the sea. With any luck he might intercept a message between Gandara and Universal Brands’ Samoa cannery transmitter. It had happened before. Benny reached for his coffeepot sitting on a hot plate and poured himself another cup. He knew he should cut down on caffeine, but he had to stay awake.

  He adjusted the frequency and scanned the channels. There were so many to monitor—192 in all that Lucky Dragon might be receiving or sending on. And the cannery could be transmitting scrambled messages. He knew the company used a code. He’d broken it before, but they had changed it again. Maybe someone would get careless and send an uncoded message. That was what Benny was waiting for: a careless mistake. An hour later he got lucky. It came as a signal bounced erratically from land to sky and down to Salvador’s antenna. The voice was very weak. Benny guessed the transmission came from a handheld radio announcing Lucky Dragon’s departure to the port captain at Pago Pago. It was a standard, curt transmission from someone on the clipper’s bridge followed by the port captain wishing Lucky Dragon a safe voyage to Costa Rica.

  “Got you now, sucker,” Benny muttered as he ripped off the earphones and moved to the chart table.

  He unrolled a map of the eastern Pacific and tried to visualize his problem as a whole. At Lucky Dragon’s cruising speed, she would take about twelve days to reach Costa Rica. Then Gandara would put in to port for fuel and supplies, probably at Puntarenas. So he’d be fishing somewhere off Central America in about three weeks. Benny shook his head sadly. And we have to dock at Suva, Fiji, for repairs. How long is that going to take? Maybe a week. Do I chance sailing on with a dirty bottom and a failing generator? We have to fill the fuel tanks anyway. So we make the ship ready, then go after him.

  Benny turned from the chart and spoke to a young helmsman. “I’m getting some sleep, Jamie. Keep an eye on the radar and depth sounder. We’ll be nearing the coast shortly.”

  Benny entered his cabin, lay on the narrow bunk and tried to relax. Into his mind he brought a favorite image that always helped him fall asleep. He was in the water with the dolphins, somehow given the power to journey with them. His legs kicked like their flukes. Without the slightest effort he could swim at their speed, diving and surfacing, joyously chasing fish. In time, the pod come to acknowledge him as their leader and he guided them safely around the nets. He smiled and then drifted into a deep sleep.

  The second day out of Samoa, Lucky Dragon’s mast lookout spotted birds working a school of bait and picked up the phone to alert the bridge. The helmsman spun the wheel and sent the clipper on a heading to investigate. Ten minutes later the lookout put down his binoculars and reported dolphins under the wheeling, dipping flock.

  The captain studied the pod through spotting glasses. It was a large throng and the schooling yellowfin below the dolphins would number in the thousands. Gandara turned to Santos. “Unusual to find them out here so far from land. Perhaps it’s the currents, or the seas are growing warmer. Something’s changing their migration pattern.”

  “It’s because we have a lucky ship,” Santos said, grinning with anticipation. “And we will find tuna with them. I can feel it, captain.”

  “So can I, Santos. Shall we gamble and make a set?”

  “With you, the odds are good.”

  Gandara called into the wheelhouse, “Radar?”

  “Nothing on the scope, captain.”

  Gandara patted Santos on the back like an Englishman petting his pet Yorkshire terrier and said, “This time, Santos, you order the set.”

  The mate smiled, tapped the klaxon’s button, and picked up the mike. “Atún! Atún! Atún!”

  Billy’s stomach constricted as the skiff dropped off the stern and smashed into the water. He didn’t want to be in the boat, but Rocha had grabbed him and hurled him aboard with a warning that his refusal to work would give Santos an excuse to belt him again. Remembering the mate’s hands around his throat, Billy stood numbly and watched the net spill off the clipper’s stern. He knew enough now not to ask about the sharp thump of the seal bombs exploding in front of the pod that destroyed their acute sensing capabilities. The sight of the cowboys harassing the dolphins ignited his anger.

  He turned to Rocha. “It’s like we’re at war with them. There’s gotta be a better way to catch tuna!”

  “Yeah, with hooks, like my grandfather used to use. In the old days, they’d throw bait in for ’em, then cast out the hooks. Tuna bite on anything. He said they caught one-, two-, and three-pole tuna.”

  “What’s that mean?” Billy asked, wanting to keep the talk going.

  “Small tuna…one man to one pole and a hook. Bigger tuna…two men to two poles and a line to one hook. And for the big ones, it took three guys holding three poles attached to one line and a single hook. Yeah, they’d catch a few hundred out of a school. Big deal. With the net, we get ’em by the thousands.”

  They stood in the roaring skiff listening to radio chatter between the bridge and the chase boat drivers. Billy bit his lip and prayed the dolphins would not be stopped by the cowboys hurling seal bombs. The voices from the speaker were excited, anxious, and Billy heard one of the cowboys yelling, “They’re not turning. There’s a big male leading them away! We’re losing ’em!”

  Then Gandara ordered, “Well then, stop him.”

  “Jesus, captain, how?”

  “You’re a boat driver, aren’t you? Chop him up with your propeller.”

  As they raced to close the net, Billy saw one of the speedboats charge the lead dolphin. The snarling outboard was no more than thirty yards away when it rammed into the big male. An instant later the propeller sliced through the creature’s back, ripping him open to the spine. His murder stopped the old dolphin’s followers and they turned aside to group around him. Several of the pod nudged him with their beaks as if mourning his death. Rocha drove the skiff around the milling, confused dolphins, and the net sealed off their escape.

  Billy turned his eyes away and peered over the side looking for sharks amid the cauldron of thrashing creatures. Maybe this time there wouldn’t be any. Maybe the captain would order a back-down. He shifted his eyes to the sea. It was oily calm, without a cloud in the sky. Rocha had said that in smooth seas American skippers always backed down, allowing almost all of the dolphins to escape the net. It was during night fishing, or when the ocean was rough, Rocha had explained, that disaster sets occurred. Well, today, damn it to hell, it’s like a swimming pool out here.

  Rocha yelled for Billy to cast off from the net. He reached over the stern and unhooked the line. Then Rocha turned the skiff away from the clipper and they idled alongside the corkline, some fifty yards off Lucky Dragon’s stern.

  As the net drew tighter, the frenzied dolphins beat against the mesh and became entangled, drowning themselves. Billy yelled at Rocha, “We gotta cut the net!”

  “Are you crazy or something?”

  “Don’t you understand? We gotta save them!”

  “Shut the hell up!”

  Directly below the corkline a dolphin struggled in the webbing, drowning before Billy’s eyes. His rage came pouring out. He jumped on the engine cover and screamed, “Damn you, you’re killing them all, you bastard!”

  On the bridge, Gandara leaned against the railing watching the seine skiff when Billy’s cry reached across the water. The captain swore and lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck. He focused on the skiff and saw the young American dive into the net. Gandara murmured, “Since you like to swim so much…”

  Amid the thrashing, crazed dolphins Billy dove and untangled one. Riding it to the surface, he thrust it over the net. Another beat against the corkline, and he hu
rled it over the rim. He was consumed by his battle to save them and lost all sense of where he was, who he was, what he was. All that mattered was freeing them. He failed to realize that the net was shrinking around him until he heard Rocha yell that sharks were arriving.

  His hands went around the body of a small female caught in the upper strands. At his touch she ceased struggling and allowed him to untangle her. She looked familiar. He thought the dolphin might be one he had saved before and began swimming her toward the corkline. As he gasped for breath, he told the dolphin, “Not so smart to get caught again.”

  On the bridge, Gandara picked up a handheld radio and keyed the transmit button. “Rocha, bring the skiff back immediately, and I mean right now.”

  The boatman’s astonished voice came out of the radio’s tinny speaker. “But, captain, he’s—”

  “Now, Rocha! That is an order! Pronto! Pronto! Or you’re shark bait too!”

  He saw the boatman hesitate, then start the engine and turn the skiff toward Lucky Dragon. Gandara turned to yell at the helmsman, “We’re getting under way. Give me three knots, slow and steady.”

  He brought the radio to his lips, “Santos, haul the net as fast as you can. Pronto, man. Pronto!”

  Santos didn’t question the command.

  Billy reached the corkline and gently shoved the little female out of the net. The dolphin floated just beyond the rim, looking at him instead of swimming away. Billy called to her. “What’s a matter with you?”

  He wriggled over the net and reached for the dolphin. This time she didn’t swim off. He put his hands around the dolphin’s body and began to tow her from the net. As they inched away from the corkline she drew life from his touch. He felt her quiver. Then her fluke began to beat against the water. “Go on,” he urged. “You can make it. Get out of here!”

  The dolphin gathered strength. With an energetic beat of her tail, she swam on. He watched her leave and turned to look for the skiff. The boat wasn’t there. He spun toward the ship. His eyes went wide with dread. The skiff floated beside the ship and the net was being drawn aboard.

  He screamed at the clipper, “No!”

  On the aft deck, Rocha heard Billy’s frantic cry. He turned to see the captain on the bridge wing watching Billy. Santos moved quickly to intercept Rocha and grabbed the boatman. “Stay out of it, niño….”

  In the water Billy sprinted after the trailing edge of the net that retreated from his grasp. He swam harder and faster, faster than when he had won the lifeguard one-mile rough water swim two years ago. But he wasn’t fast enough to seize the corkline.

  He gave up and screamed at the departing ship, “Don’t leave me!”

  The crew turned their backs on him and returned to work. Only Rocha remained at the railing, staring at him with a haunted expression of resignation.

  Billy’s chest burned from exertion and he was forced to tread water. As the ship sailed off he saw Gandara and Santos move toward the midship railing. A splash of bright color caught his attention. The mate was carrying his surfboard, and he saw Santos throw it far over the side. A moment later he hurled Billy’s pack and getaway bag into the sea, removing the last evidence of his existence. Billy realized that by disposing of him and his things, Gandara was cleansing the ship of the guilt he had brought aboard.

  Exhausted, and badly frightened, Billy watched the clipper sail away. There was nothing he could do except swim for the surfboard and climb on. As Lucky Dragon receded from view, the last of the dolphins caught in the net were tossed overboard leaving a bloody trail of their dead and broken bodies in the clipper’s wake.

  With tears of fear, rage, and frustration streaming down his face, Billy sat up straight and bellowed his outrage, “I’ll sink you, Gandara, I swear to God I will!”

  Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, Billy turned away from the ship and looked about. There was nothing to break the empty line of horizon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tears and anger gave way to thoughts of his impending death. After that, the desire to survive overcame his sense of hopelessness.

  Billy thought, How far am I from land? We were a day and a half out of Samoa, maybe two hundred miles from the coast. Which way? Yeah, it has to be southwest. With water and food I could paddle twenty-five miles a day. That’s eight days of paddling. I can catch fish, maybe. But without water, I’m dead.

  He took two strokes and sent the surfboard gliding ahead to retrieve his pack and getaway bag. He cursed Gandara and Santos for giving him the means to prolong his agony. And it’s going be agony, he thought. Am I kidding myself? I might as well end it now. How? Dive down a hundred feet and suck in a gallon of seawater? Hang myself with the surf leash?

  Billy set his two packs on the deck of his surfboard and opened the larger one. He began tossing aside things he wouldn’t need. Into the water went Levi’s, T-shirts, shorts, jogging shoes, his leather shaving kit. He’d keep the nylon wind shirt surfers wore to help prevent paddling rash. Good-bye to all the rest. His earthly possessions drifted away and sank. He opened the getaway bag and began an inventory.

  Here were treasures that would mean life or death, and he laid them on the surfboard’s deck. He picked up the compass and took a sight. The needle quivered and settled on its northerly magnetic point. He turned the bezel and hoped he had the right direction to Samoa. The fishhooks, line, and lures were critical, as were the sunscreen and nylon wind shirt. The twenty-foot length of stout nylon line would come in handy. He wiped a drop of water off his stainless-steel signal mirror and polished it. The mirror’s glint reflecting in the eyes of a sleepy lookout could save him.

  There was also food, and he said aloud, “Ah, granola bars. Ten of ’em. I’ll catch fish and eat one granola bar a day. Ugh.” Then his fingers caressed the quart bottle of distilled water he used for his watercolors. He was thirsty already. Two swallows a day, and chew some raw fish for extra moisture. Hey, I’m gonna make it.

  He was tempted to discard his paints, brushes, pencils, and sketch pad. But his artist’s tools meant too much, and he stuffed them back into the waterproof bag. He still had his wallet, his passport, and the money from his first watercolor sale. He pulled the soggy billfold out of his shorts and packed it away with the rest.

  The day’s last minutes of sun still gave a radiant warmth. He knew in the nights to come he’d suffer from the cold, and with daylight he would curse the endless, searing, body-blistering heat, but for now the sun was a comfort.

  “I’ll make it!” he screamed at the fiery red ball as it touched the western horizon. “And I’ll see you in hell, Gandara!”

  He began paddling. One hundred strokes, then a two-minute rest. He alternated between paddling prone and on his knees. He stroked on and on until total darkness and a million times a million stars shone overhead. The physical effort kept him sane and partly stilled the fear that surged in his guts. He was dancing on the edge of panic. One hundred strokes. Rest. Look at the stars. Ask how they got there. Then one hundred more. When the Southern Cross appeared he stopped and pulled on his tightly woven nylon wind shirt. Next he reached for the safety leash that surfers use to connect themselves to their boards. His was ten feet long, incredibly strong, and elastic. He had gone over the falls many times in twenty-foot waves and had seen the leash stretch to double its length. Each end had a loop of adhesive Velcro. The loops allowed one end of the urethane cord to be secured to a ring in the tail of the board. The other end was strapped around an ankle. He fixed the leash to the board and his leg. No matter what happened during the night he would stay connected. Without the board, he was dead.

  Billy leaned forward and lay on the surfboard. Keeping movement to a minimum, he cradled his arms around the getaway bag and began taking deep, relaxing breaths. His body unconsciously adjusted to the tipping and tilting of the board, and the water that sloshed over his elbows and feet. In less than a minute he fell into a fitful sleep.

  He awoke at dawn and sensed that somethin
g off to his left was watching him. He sat up, stiff and sore, and moved his aching shoulders. His eyes roved across the sea. Nothing was out there except the tint of dawn rising in the east. Not a cloud in sight. No chance of a squall to drench him with rain. Not even a bird. He thought, One sip of water now, then I’ll try fishing.

  Billy carefully broke the plastic bottle’s seal and unscrewed the cap. Taking great care not to spill a drop, he put the lid into a pocket. To lose the cap, and not be able to contain the quart of water, would be a disaster. He brought the bottle to his lips, and fighting to keep from draining it all, filled his mouth. He rinsed the liquid around, savoring it, and then slowly swallowed. He carefully replaced the cap and stowed it back in the bag. Next, he tied a wriggly plastic trolling lure, with its sharp barbed hook, to a length of fishing line and let it out a hundred feet. He secured the line to the loop at the end of the surfboard leash, figuring if he hooked a big fish the elastic cord would take the shock. Next he cut off two feet of nylon line, made a lanyard for his Swiss Army knife, and hung it around his neck. If he did catch a fish, he would have to kill it quickly or chance being thrown off his board. If the fish was really big, he’d have to cut the line or be yanked off his surfboard. That was his big fear. Losing his board meant it would all be over. He began paddling again and glanced back. The brightly colored lure skipped across the surface and Billy muttered, “If I were a fish, I’d sure take a bite at that.”

  Then he saw a flick of movement far behind the lure. Something surfaced, and then disappeared below the water. Billy held his breath. Let it be a small tuna. No more than twenty pounds. If a shark hits it, there goes my lure. Come on, tuna. Bite!

  Nothing happened. He paddled on, towing the dancing plastic wiggly as the sun climbed higher. Billy stopped to rest, slathered lotion on his tender nose and reddened face, then coated the backs of his legs where he was already starting to burn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something dark move. He saw it again—the tip of a black dorsal fin. Then it was gone. Was it a great white, a mako, a tiger? It wasn’t after his lure. Was it after him? At noon, with the sun hammering down, he ripped open a granola bar and wished he’d packed canned pineapple instead. The dried fruit and abrasive grains didn’t produce the saliva he needed to swallow. He was forced to take a gulp of his precious water to get the concoction down. He capped the bottle and reached for the sunblock to put another layer on his nose. As Billy lifted the tube out the bag he saw a shadowy barrel-shaped form swim swiftly under his surfboard. Startled, Billy dropped the tube and yanked his legs out of the water. “What the hell was that?” he muttered fearfully.