Hunting the Dragon

by Peter Dixon

  He knew that whatever it was had been following him. Then he noticed that the tube of sunscreen had floated away during his moment of fright.

  His eyes searched the water for the bright plastic container. Nothing. It must have sunk, he thought bitterly.

  He was burning up and had to cool off. He stared underwater for several minutes. There was nothing but blueness fading to gray and he chanced sliding off the board. He hung there with his arms across the deck, allowing the water to ease the pain of his sunburned legs. He peered underwater again. It was as peaceful as before.

  I’ll rest a few moments and then get going.

  He laid his head on the surfboard and closed his eyes to shield them from the glare. With his body supported by the buoyancy of the salt water, Billy drifted into a momentary half-sleep, half-daydream of floating down a freshwater river in a bouncing inner tube. He saw himself scooping up the clear, chill mountain water and drinking his fill. His mind shifted to the day he had moved in with his Aunt Betty and her husband, Al. He had been ten years old, and from that day on, his life abruptly changed for the better.

  Betty and Al owned a small but successful boatyard in a large Southern California marina. Along with the love they gave Billy, they put him to work, and he quickly learned how to maintain and operate pleasure boats. His newfound skills led to paid work around boats. School friends ignited his interest in surfing and competitive swimming. Billy remembered with pride passing the beach lifeguard one-mile rough water swim test and his promotion to deckhand on a rescue launch. After high school he spent his entire savings from his boatyard work for a plane ticket to Fiji and a monthlong stay at Bombora Surf Camp. His ability to run small boats and repair outboard motors landed him a surf taxi operator’s job. With a resigned shake of his head he remembered how he’d screwed up and lost the best job a surfer could have.

  He began feeling sorry for himself and thought, Betty and Al, they gave me a lot of freedom and confidence. Maybe too much. Maybe I wouldn’t be floating out here now if they’d been more protective. Come on. Get real. It’s not because of them I was abandoned.

  Fighting to stay awake, he tried to remember all the boats he had ever sailed on. There had been a lot, but they were a jumble in his mind. His thoughts were so scattered by a constant nagging thirst and painful sunburn that he couldn’t concentrate. What he did recall was that every boat he’d been aboard had an ice chest or refrigerator loaded with cold fruit juices and soft drinks. He imagined reaching for a bottle of chilled lemon-lime soda, twisting the cap off, and drinking it down until he burped.

  Relaxing in a haze of good memories about Betty and Al and fun times surfing, he started to fall asleep. Then suddenly a nearby movement of something dark jolted him fully awake. Whatever it was came again, right for his legs, and then passed beneath him. He scrambled back onto the surfboard and looked wildly about. The sea was empty and he thought, It’s playing with me, like I’m its toy.

  Something hit him on the head. Before he could cry out, the tube of sunscreen landed on the board. It had been punctured and was oozing lotion. “What the hell?”

  He spun and saw a dolphin rise out of the water. A dab of white lotion by its mouth told him who had thrown the tube. As the small spinner chattered at Billy, his fear subsided and he called, “Look what you did to my sunscreen.”

  The sound of his parched, gravelly voice startled him, as it did the small dolphin, who dove to swim under his board. He called after it, “Hey, come back.”

  The dolphin surfaced again, closer now, almost within Billy’s reach. He didn’t dare make a motion that might frighten it away. He studied this curious mammal, with its anatomically fixed grin. It was a female, and she looked familiar. Her rapid clicks and high-pitched squeaks came again. Billy looked closer and saw abrasions where the dolphin’s beak projected from her head and thought, She’s the same one I freed from the net. And I got you out twice, didn’t I?

  He chanced a soft whisper. “Hey, you know me. I saved you from Gandara.”

  She chattered again, and Billy asked, “So what are you doing following me?”

  The dolphin swam a few inches closer and sounded a new, slower vocalization that Billy guessed might mean she was more relaxed with him. He sank to his knees and began to paddle, hoping the dolphin would stay abreast of him. She swam alongside, and he continued the one-sided conversation. “Okay, I’ve heard the stories about dolphins pushing people lost at sea to shore. Your kind saved my life, so I’ll believe anything. But you’re playing with me, right? You’re all alone out here and you’re bored. And what about the guys you push the wrong way? We never hear from them, right? Well, I’m not going to be much fun for you.”

  Then he realized the dolphin hadn’t joined him for fun and games. “Your pod, your whole family, they died in that net, didn’t they? You’re all alone like I am. Did you come to adopt me? Or have me adopt you? A lot of good I’ll do you. And I’m sorry for what happened; I want you to know I had nothing to do with it.”

  He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand and thought, Talking to a dolphin like this—the sun’s getting to me.

  The dolphin came closer, and he reached out to run his hand over the top of her head. She didn’t pull away, and he felt her energy flow into his fingertips. For the moment, his loneliness eased.

  Right now, at his side, another living creature was sharing his pain. He desperately needed the dolphin’s companionship and had to hold himself back from hugging her. He remembered seeing the Flipper TV show as a kid and said aloud, “You’re not Flipper. Flipper always had a happy ending. He never died in a tuna net. Flipper used to save Bud and Sandy, and next week they’d save him. How about saving me?”

  She nudged his surfboard and he asked, “What’s your name. Click-Click? Big Beak? Chatter? Hey, that’s good. Mind if I call you Chatter? Do you understand? I’m a mammal like you. I nursed at my mother’s breasts, and females of my species give live birth like your kind. But I have to have water without salt. And how about some raisin bread with almond butter and bananas? You know, health food stuff.”

  With a cry of desperation he yelled at the dolphin, “But I’d settle for a gallon of fresh water. Can you do that?”

  At the rising of his voice, the dolphin leaped over the surfboard and vanished into the depths. He told himself, My mind’s going, and I’ve only been out here one day. You’re supposed to be tough. So get with it, Billy. You’re not dead yet.

  He looked for the dolphin, but she had gone, and he thought, My life’s going to end on this ocean feeding the sharks. And what did I ever do for anyone but myself?

  To still his fears, Billy began paddling furiously, hoping the physical effort might bring back some sort of sanity. When his shoulders stiffened he came to his knees and kept on. An hour later, exhaustion forced him to stop, and he collapsed on the surfboard. He lay on the deck gasping, fully aware that the sun was blistering the backs of his legs and dehydrating his already parched body.

  He rolled off the board to cool down. He heard her click-tick-clicking at him, and a second later she appeared at his side. He felt a surge of happiness. He wasn’t alone after all. As Billy climbed back on the board the dolphin surfaced next to him. He saw she was holding a limp and lifeless fish in her mouth and suppressed a shout of joy. He spoke to her calmly so she wouldn’t drop the small tuna.

  “That’s a beautiful fish, Chatter. Did you catch it for me?”

  She moved next to Billy and he slowly reached for the fish. Taking it by the tail, he give it a little tug and said, “Really a great-looking fish. Now let it go, and we’ll share…fifty-fifty, okay?”

  She wouldn’t release the fish and Billy felt a moment of panic. He stroked Chatter’s head and his touch seemed to relax the dolphin’s jaw. She dropped the fish and it fell into the sea. As his heart skipped a beat, Billy snatched the fish and laid it on the surfboard. He flipped the big blade out of his Swiss Army knife and began to fillet the tuna. “Really a
nice fish, Chatter. How’d you know I like sashimi?”

  He handed the first strip of the firm, moist flesh to the dolphin. She accepted his offering and it went down her throat. He popped a chunk into his mouth and chewed. “This is awesome. I bet there’s a cup of water in every pound.”

  By the time the small tuna was nothing but viscera and bone and the liver, which he couldn’t bring himself to swallow, his stomach was full. He stroked the dolphin, sensing she liked his touch. “Here’s the idea, Chatter. I pet you, you catch fish.”

  He gave her the liver and rubbed her head again. “I pet, you bring fish. Got it?”

  She shook her head energetically and squeaked at him.

  “Does that mean yes, or no, Chatter?”

  He stared at the dolphin and thought, If she brings me another one, that means I got through to her. If not, I’d better learn to speak dolphin, and fast.

  Feeling refreshed, Billy paddled on until fatigue forced him to rest. He pulled in the fishing line, and the useless lure, and connected the leash to his ankle. As he fastened the Velcro strap he thought, Maybe with Chatter, I have a chance.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Three days later Billy held the water bottle high and drained the last few drops into his mouth. The jug was empty, and with it went his confidence that he might survive. His will to live was evaporating as rapidly as his body was drying out, and he tossed the plastic bottle aside. Chatter discovered the buoyant jug, a fascinating plaything, and kept bringing it back to Billy. He’d throw it away, she’d bring it back. They evolved a game, but the water bottle always came back empty. Though the dolphin had brought him two more fish, Billy knew he was suffering from dehydration. He searched the horizon hoping to see a rain-pregnant squall come boiling out of the south to dump rainwater on him. He paddled on thinking, Maybe she wants me to keep the bottle. Maybe she’s teaching me, and I’m not smart enough to understand her.

  Late on the fourth day Billy noticed sores on his ankles and hands from their constant immersion in salt water. And the meager intake of fish flesh was certainly adding to his body’s absorption of salt. When he brought his fingers and feet out of the water they hurt painfully. He began to dream of rolling in the snow and stuffing his mouth with the icy-cold white stuff. Then came memories of turning on the water spigot in his parents’ kitchen and sticking his mouth under the faucet to drink his fill of chlorine-contaminated Los Angeles County tap water. It was a crummy kitchen, but there was always something to eat, even if it was Hamburger Helper. God, I’d like a cold pineapple smoothie. Oh, shut up and keep going.

  He paddled into another flaming sunset. With abrupt swiftness night came, and Billy was plunged into darkness. He felt a change in the weather. It was colder. He paddled on, sighting between his compass and the Southern Cross. Then a chill breeze came out of the south and he began to shiver. “All I need to make life perfect is a hurricane, or do they call them cyclones south of the equator?”

  He stroked on through the night, occasionally glancing into the darkness to check on the dolphin. She was there, swimming steadily beside him. Chatter was a comfort. He knew he would have freaked out days ago without her at his side.

  He tried to sleep on the board, but the breeze was causing it to pitch, and it was impossible to stretch out. Sometime before dawn, despite the chill, Billy’s head sagged and he slept fitfully until he felt Chatter’s beak nudging him.

  He opened his eyes and saw a dark squall line on the horizon. At first he thought he was hallucinating. He took a deep breath and pinched an earlobe. He was awake, and the sea-hugging clouds seemed to be moving closer. When a moist wind kicked up whitecaps, he allowed his hopes to soar. “It’s going to rain, but is it going to rain on me?”

  As the storm front rolled toward Billy, he stopped paddling, ripped off his wind shirt, and made ready to use the tightly woven cloth to catch the rain. He was glad now that Chatter had forced him to keep the bottle, and if he was careful, he could funnel any water he caught into the narrow top.

  The first drops were cooling little caresses that washed away the encrusted salt. Like a sponge, Billy’s parched skin soaked up the moisture. As the downpour grew in intensity he held the nylon cloth out to catch the rain. Then the sky turned black and fresh water fell in torrents. There was no horizon, no sea, no sky. Only the fresh, cold water raining down. The marble-size drops battered him painfully, but their wet sting meant life.

  The wind shirt filled in seconds. He pressed his lips into the water and sucked in his fill. When he could drink no more, he tilted the corner of the cloth to the opening of the bottle. Water flowed into the container so quickly it filled in a minute. He screwed the lid back on and looked about for the dolphin. Chatter’s head was out of the water and she floated with her mouth open catching the raindrops. He called to her over the spattering noise, “Thanks for bringing the bottle back. Did you know it was going to rain?”

  The squall raced on and moments later the sun beat down so hot that the droplets on his board steamed as they evaporated. As he paddled on, he talked with the dolphin, trying to teach her his name, and the name he had given her. She responded when he called, “Chatter.” Or was she reacting to the sound of his voice rather than the name? He knew that when he slept she stayed close to him. When his touch was soothing and given with love, the dolphin would nudge him back. Billy realized there was some sort of strange empathetic communication evolving between them and he thought, We’re together twenty-four hours every day. If we didn’t pick up clues about each other, we’d be nothing but driftwood.

  The constant paddling was draining his strength. He could no longer take a hundred strokes between rest breaks. It was down to twenty, and it took him ten minutes to recover from the effort. He glanced at Chatter and said, “I’m going to need some help, and you’re going to learn a new trick. It’s called tugboat. You’re the tug and I’m the boat.”

  Billy’s eyes flicked from the leash fastened to his ankle to the other end, which was attached to a loop of nylon cord tied to a fastener embedded in the fiberglass and foam at the stern of his surfboard. He realized that if Chatter could be taught to tow him, he had to fasten the surf leash to the bow. He could solve that problem, but it would mean boring a hole through the fiberglass at the nose of the board and then threading a nylon fishing line through the opening. The opening would allow water to seep into the foam core, which would ultimately rot the surfboard. But, what the hell? It’s my life. Becker can always shape me another board.

  With the awl of his Swiss Army knife he drilled a narrow hole through the board’s nose, inserted the line, tied a loop, and then attached the Velcro end of the surf leash. “If we’re gentle with this it should hold. Okay, Chatter. Let’s play tugboat.”

  He freed the surf leash from his ankle and flicked the looped end at Chatter. She was immediately interested in the new game and flipped the leash back at him.

  As she came close, he again dropped the loop over her beak and made soothing, happy sounds. She cast it aside easily, but came back again and again to have Billy drop it over her beak. She couldn’t get the idea of towing him. He fought down his frustration and asked himself, If I was Chatter, how would I be seeing all this? Seeing? Maybe that’s it. I’ll play the tugboat and she’ll see what I want her to do.

  He grabbed the loop and slid off the board. Taking the Velcro strap in his teeth, he began to swim. Billy noticed that the dolphin was showing interest. She moved closer to inspect this strange change in his behavior pattern.

  He kicked on and muttered, “Tow…tow…tow…” again and again. After twenty repetitions, and a hundred yards more, he slowed to rest and reached to pet her. She hovered beside him, click-ticking, as if wanting to know more. Moving slowly, Billy took the leash from his mouth and slid the loop over Chatter’s beak, all the while stroking her with his other hand. He could see she was about to cast it off and hurried to say the command: “Tow, Chatter. Tow!”

  With an energetic beat of her powerful
fluke, the dolphin surged ahead dragging the surfboard out of Billy’s reach. He held back his scream of fear and spoke calmly, “That’s great, Chatter. Bring it back, please.”

  She stopped some distance across the water and stared at him. Was she being mischievous, or did her behavior suggest a deeper meaning? Billy sensed that Chatter knew she held his life around her beak. He floated and watched her, waiting for the dolphin to make a decision. Billy sensed that yelling at Chatter would only drive her off. He tried to communicate the way he thought she might understand—by projecting his inner feelings to the dolphin. “Chatter, we’re friends, and I need your help. Please tow the surfboard back to me. Come on, Chatter. I know you can understand what I’m sending out to you. Please bring the surfboard back.”

  With agonizing slowness the dolphin returned to him. He hugged her and climbed back on top of the surfboard thinking, Here’s the test. I hope to God you understand, Chatter.

  Aloud, Billy said with more confidence than he felt, “Okay, Chatter. Tow! Tow Billy!”

  She turned to look at him and shook her head. The loop almost came off her beak and Billy thought, I’m being condescending, and she senses that.