“Dig deep,” he yells. “We have to stay with them.”
I guess we decide that it’s okay if we lose a limb to a shark, because, almost in unison, we all throw our arms into the water. It reminds me of when we tried to row to Burr. No. Stop thinking about Burr. Row. Row. Stay with the fish. We use our arms like paddles, trying to pull the boat against the ocean’s current. We’re so tired, but we try to stay with the fish. I think we realize this could be our only and last chance to be rescued.
“Who the hell is Omega Protein?” Landon asks.
“They’re a company.” Wick is swatting his arms into the ocean, gasping to breathe, let alone talk. “They look for the menhaden in the air, then they send in ships. Then they vacuum them out of the sea. It’s a terrible way to fish. That’s why I donated money to Greenpeace.”
I remember. He told me that, and then we broke up. Then he decided to pursue Simone. Then our boat sank. Then people I loved died. Row. Row.
“Terrible way to fish,” Wick repeats.
But I don’t say anything. If Omega Protein wants to rescue me, I’m totally willing to overlook their fishing methods. But we’re not making progress. The school of fish are thinning out; we’re moving past them.
“The log is slowing us down!” Wick says. “Lose it!”
“We might need it,” Dale says.
“If we stay with the fish, we could get rescued,” Wick says.
“Lose the log!” I say.
Dale doesn’t let go of it.
“Make him, Landon,” I say. “Make him!”
Landon moves to where Dale is gripping the driftwood.
“Help us, man,” Landon says.
Wick, Munny, Sov, and I continue to try to stay with the fish. They’re almost all gone. But if we stay close . . . if we stay in a certain range, maybe the plane will see us.
“But what if the raft deflates?” Dale says. “We’d need it.”
“No,” I hear Landon say. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Either we make it now. Or we don’t make it.”
Why can’t Dale let go of the stupid log?
He finally does it. Dale and Landon join us. The splashing intensifies. We’re all clawing at the water, trying to stay with the fish. I don’t think I hear the plane anymore. I don’t see the fish. But we’re still in range. We have to still be in range.
“Sharks!” Sov yells, pulling his arms back into the boat. We all follow his lead.
The fins are popping up left and right. I am so tired. I really didn’t have the energy to try to row the boat with my arms for much longer. I sit and hug myself. My sores are stinging. My muscles ache. And it’s hard for me to catch my breath.
“Go screw yourselves, you lousy menhaden!” Wick yells.
He looks at me and smiles, not out of happiness, but out of disbelief.
“I gave Greenpeace money. Those asshole fish,” he says. “Filter feeders. Menhaden control algae growth in coastal waters.” He cups his hands over his mouth and yells at them, “Assholes!” Then he shakes his head at me. “Why wouldn’t they stay with us? They should be good fish. Phytoplankton consumers. Their numbers drop, algal blooms multiply. Inshore waters become dead zones. They could have been good fish. Why wouldn’t they stay with us?”
He’s acting like I don’t hate him. Why is he acting like that? Did I forgive him? I don’t remember doing that. I didn’t. I still hate him. I bury my face in my own body.
“They’re fish. Their brains are the size of peas,” Dale says.
“If people can’t eat them because they’re so bony, why does Omega Protein want them?” Landon asks.
“Bones and oil. They make lipstick and cat food out of them,” Wick says.
Hate is too strong a word. I lift my head. I like that Wick knows random things. Science things. It’s part of why I liked him. The random. The science. He continues to watch the shoal grow smaller and smaller. The whirr of the plane is totally gone now, if it was really even there at all. Wick’s face literally droops from disappointment. But he keeps talking about the fish.
“They’re loaded with omega-3 fatty acids. Food supplements. Health-crazed shoppers.” He holds onto the dinghy with both hands, looking into the water. It’s like a scene from a movie where the guy has to leave his lover behind. “They’re turned into fish meal. Used in poultry and livestock feed. Used in cooking oils and margarine in Europe. Selfish. So selfish. What terrible fish.”
His voice has grown so soft that I think he might have lost it. It’s hard for any of us to talk for too long. I feel something slap against my foot. I look into the gross bottom water. It’s my menhaden. I forgot all about catching a fish. I pick up one fish and Sov picks up the other.
All the guys circle around me and Sov. I know I should offer to divvy it up, but I follow my instincts, which are to stick the fish in my mouth and gnaw on its head. But my teeth are so sore that I can’t break through the fish’s skin. I take it out of my mouth and hand it to Landon. He tries too, but it’s too thick for us. This fish’s skin doesn’t look tough, but our mouths are so weak that we can’t chew it. Landon passes it to Dale. He closes his mouth around it several times. He, too, isn’t able to break the skin.
“You are an asshole!” Dale yells. He throws it back into the water.
“Wait!” I say. “Maybe we could eat its eyeballs.”
Now we’re down to one fish. Sov holds it tightly with both hands. He tries to adjust his grip, so that he can move his thumbs closer to the fish’s eyes. But the fish slips out of his grasp and lands in the raft’s disgusting water. The fish thrashes at our feet.
“Get it!” Dale yells.
We all drop to our knees, trying to catch the flopping, dying fish. Sov quickly recaptures it between his hands and lifts it out of the water. He sets his thumbnail next to its watery eye, preparing to apply enough pressure to pop it from its soft socket. But he pauses.
“There’s only two eyeballs and six of us,” he says.
Dale looks eager and confused.
“There’s not enough eyes to divide,” Landon says.
“We should let it live,” I say. “We should throw it back over.”
“No way,” Dale says. “Let’s eat its eyes.”
Sov pitches it over quickly, and the fish arches its body before it swims off. It actually seems appreciative.
“What a terrible fish,” Wick says.
“Dude, acts of humanitarianism will only get us killed. From now on, we eat their eyes.”
I don’t know if Dale’s right. I don’t know if it will matter. These are the only catchable fish we’ve come across. I curl up into a ball. The bad water in the raft ebbs and flows across my deteriorating skin. This is so awful. This is worse than I ever imagined it could get. We could have been saved. There were planes in the sky looking into the water, and we were almost in their sights. I will never look at the sky again.
“Enid?” Landon says.
The way he says my name almost makes we want to tell him about Grace. I can feel Landon lightly tracing my initials on my leg. I don’t tell him that I called her, because I’m not ready to admit to somebody that I called a fourth-grader and said the things I said. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have blamed Grace. She’s innocent. She didn’t ask to be born. But at the time, I was so mad that I couldn’t stop myself. Sometimes I’m like that. I let my emotions take over. Actually, I think that’s why I’m in this lousy raft. My emotions. I let them control me. I need to use my head more. I have a brain. I need to use it. If we get saved, if I get to live, if God gives me that chance, I’m going to start using my brain all the time. I promise.
Sov and Munny are arguing over whether it’s three or four o’clock. I don’t care. It’s not like I have to be anywhere. “Enid,” Landon yells. “Enid, wake up.”
“A ship?” I mumble.
“No, I just think you should stay awake for a while,” he says.
I open my eyes. Sov and Munny no longer look identical. Munny has a shi
ner and Sov looks perfectly gray. In addition to being blessed with dramatically straight teeth, I think Munny also is predisposed to be tougher. His eyes don’t appear as sunken. His body looks less lean.
“Enid, do you want to sit by me?” Wick asks.
I shake my head. Is he serious? No, I think. No. No. No.
“I’m so sorry about this.” Wick practically groans his apology.
I hear myself say the word “Okay.” I’m staring right at him. My head throbs and my legs feel wobbly.
“You forgive me?” he asks. Even though his eyes are sunken and yellowed, they look so happy.
I turn away. It’s too soon.
“You said ‘Okay,’” Wick says. “You forgive me?”
Why did I say “Okay”?
I think Wick is about to say something else, but Landon cuts him off. “Sort it out later.”
I nod. I feel Wick’s gaze leave me. I glance around the raft. I need to keep my mind working. I need to keep thinking. Not about Wick. About life. I need to rally.
It’s hard to rally when I look at everyone. I can’t believe how quickly we’ve all lost weight. Wick’s face looks skeletal. I mean, I can see the outline of his bones beneath his skin. His eyes look like they’ve retracted back into his head. His cheekbones are protruding, and he’s growing a beard. I never realized he had the potential to sprout this much facial hair. I close my eyes, intending to blink, but it’s easier to just keep them closed. Half the time, when I shut my eyes, I hear a faint buzzing sound. I always pop them right back open and scout the skies for a plane. It happens again.
“What are you looking for?” Landon asks.
“A plane,” I say. “Look, there, isn’t that a plane?”
“It is,” Landon says. “But it’s an airliner. It’s cruising at over thirty thousand feet. It’ll never see us.”
“Never?” I ask.
“I’ve seen about dozen of them,” Wick says. “They’re just too high.”
I’m surprised that people have been noticing planes and not saying anything. It seems polite to at least point them out.
“Why are we so hung up on boats saving us?” I ask. “Couldn’t a low-flying plane see us? Munny, has a plane ever spotted someone and rescued them at sea?”
Munny looks so tired. The bruise below his eye is bright purple. He weakly nods his head. “It has,” he says.
I feel a new sense of hope. “How did it happen?” I ask. “Maybe we need to have somebody on plane watch.”
Munny slowly shakes his head from side to side. “It doesn’t matter if you spot the plane. The plane needs to spot you.”
“How come you didn’t tell us this sea rescue story when you told us about the others?” I ask.
“Because Landon said no more stories with torpedoes,” he says.
“There’s torpedoes in the plane rescue story?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Several.”
“Tell us anyway,” Landon says. “It’ll give us something to do.”
I rest my head against Landon’s shoulder and feel myself relax into him.
“During World War II, an American cruiser, the USS Indianapolis, was struck by two torpedoes. The ship went down fast. About three hundred people were killed instantly, and another nine hundred went into the Pacific,” Munny says.
“And then a plane came and got them?” I asked.
“Not at first. There was some sort of misunderstanding. Nobody came. They drifted in the water, injured, covered in oil. Some of the men were lucky enough to be in rafts.”
“How long did they drift?” Landon asks.
“Four nights and five days,” Munny says.
“We’ve been drifting almost that long,” Dale says.
“Go on,” I say. I want to hear how they were rescued.
“It was bad. There were a lot of burn victims. Some of them drowned. Some of them were eaten by sharks. Actually, a lot of them were eaten by sharks. Some just gave up. Finally, a plane flew over and saw them.”
“Was it a friendly plane?” Dale asks.
“Yeah, it was an American bomber, and the pilot just came across them. It was a total coincidence. He saw the guys in the water and he wagged his wings, letting them know he saw them. But they were in the middle of the Pacific. It took time for people to get there. So the plane circled to keep them reassured, because by this point some of them were giving up.”
“I can totally relate,” I said. “How long before they were rescued?”
“Well, another plane showed up and saw a major shark attack, like thirty sharks taking sixty men, and so the pilot landed his plane in the water for them. And ships finally came. About three hundred men survived.”
“I thought you said nine hundred went into the water,” I say.
“Yeah, but there were a lot of sharks,” Munny says.
“What kind of sharks?” Landon asks.
“Tiger sharks. Oceanic whitetips. Makos. Blue sharks. All sorts, I guess,” Munny says.
“Dude, how do you know about this?” Dale asks.
“We read a book about it in Culture Club,” Munny says.
“People think the ship had bad karma,” Sov says.
“Why?” Wick asks. “What did it do?”
“The Indianapolis carried components of the atom bomb, Little Boy. That’s the one that was dropped on Hiroshima. It killed eighty thousand instantly. And something like two hundred thousand people died later from the radiation.”
“I thought there were two bombs,” I say.
“Yeah, Little Boy was dropped first, by Colonel Tibbets, who flew the Enola Gay. Fat Man was the second bomb, dropped on Nagasaki. It killed about the same number of people.”
“We never should have dropped those bombs on innocent people,” I say.
Nobody says anything for a long time. That wasn’t a very uplifting story. Too much death.
“Did the captain of the ship live?” I ask.
“He did,” Munny says. “But he committed suicide twenty years later. Shot himself.”
“Why?” I ask. “That’s crazy. If you survived, why give up like that?” I’m shocked. I would never do that. None of us would ever do that.
“I’m not completely sure, but he used to get a lot of mail from parents who felt he was responsible for the accident. A lot of them blamed him for the deaths of their sons. Especially around the holidays.”
“But it wasn’t his fault,” I say. “They were torpedoed.”
“He was court-martialed for hazarding his ship by failing to zigzag. He was found guilty. I think that’s why people blamed him.”
“That’s totally wrong,” I say. “Somebody should do something to fix that.”
“Somebody has. It’s what this book Left for Dead was about. This middle-school kid did a report on it, because of something a character said in Jaws. Then a guy wrote a book about that kid’s report,” Munny says. “The kid met with a bunch of the survivors and the captain’s family. They tried to get the captain exonerated.”
“But he’s dead,” Wick says.
Ever since the menhaden got away, Wick has been a lot more depressed. I think about trying to cheer him up. But I’m not ready to talk to him. What would I say?
“All right,” Landon says. “We need to switch topics. Listen, Munny, unless you’ve got something totally uplifting to say, you need to keep it zipped. We need hope. We need to focus on what’s good in the world. No more Fat Man and Little Boy.”
“I agree,” Munny says. “I was just trying to answer Enid’s question.”
“Wait,” I say. “What did the character in Jaws say that got this kid so interested in a World War II sea disaster?”
“Quint, the main shark hunter, talks about being in the water with the sharks after the ship went down.”
“Doesn’t that character get eaten by the shark?” I ask.
Munny nods.
“That’s so sad,” I say, putting my face in my hands.
“I’m going to te
ll you what I hate about that movie,” Dale says.
“You watched the whole thing?” I ask.
“I watched the whole thing,” Dale says. “And it was a stupid movie. The entire film is a total moral lesson. I mean, who gets killed? All the people misbehaving. The naked chick on the beach who’s messing around with that guy. Then, a bunch of horny teens who didn’t listen to their parents end up biting it. It’s like a Sunday school lesson with sharks. I never bought any of it.”
“I guess,” Munny says.
“You’re wrong. Don’t some of the good people die? Like the helicopter pilot or that poor dog?” I ask.
“It was a book before it was a movie,” Munny said. “And the helicopter pilot gets killed in Jaws Two.”
“Dude, what do you do? Sit around all day and watch Jaws One to Four?” Dale asks.
“Yes, Dale. I’m addicted to movies depicting unrealistic shark carnage.”
“Shit!”
Water sprays over the raft as a lone motivated shark rams against the side.
“Shut up about Jaws,” Landon says. “Fiction, nonfiction, half-fiction, we never need to mention that fish ever again.”
None of us say anything else, which I guess is a form of agreement.
“Why is Sov so quiet?” I ask.
“Is he sleeping?” Landon asks.
“Sov. Sov,” Munny says, shaking his shoulders.
Sov doesn’t open his eyes.
“Hit him!” I yell.
“Calm down, Enid,” Landon says. “Don’t hit him, but shake him harder.”
Munny hooks his hands on the life jacket and jerks Sov forward and backward several times. His head flops loosely. I’m scared he might not wake up. Then, suddenly, Sov’s eyes blink open and he looks surprised.
“Is there a plane?” he asks. “I dreamed there was a plane.”
The afternoon is setting in. The sun is lowering itself into the sea. We all look hopefully into the empty sky.
“No, we didn’t see a plane,” Landon says. “We just missed your company.”
“Do I look that bad?” Sov asks. “That when I sleep I look dead?” Out of either fear or sadness, his dry lips tremble.
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