Off Kilter

by Glen Robins

  With the increased speed, the stronger wind, and more rain, Collin’s core temperature was dropping. The cotton T-shirt and cargo shorts not only didn’t insulate, they sucked the heat from his body. His teeth clattered as his jaw quivered uncontrollably. The hand on the throttle was now a pasty white, and he could barely move his fingers. He switched hands frequently, keeping the free hand in his crotch for warmth, though there was little to be found anywhere on his body.

  His whole frame convulsed. He recognized this as the onset of hypothermia and followed his Boy Scout training, tensing every muscle in his body and holding it for ten seconds, releasing, then tensing again. This got his blood flowing to his muscles, preventing him from losing cognitive function and large motor skills.

  As he continued the regimen of tensing and flexing, Collin focused on preventing a capsize and staying on course. With the heavy rain and rough seas, all he could see in front of him was the next wave he had to surmount. This went on for what felt like hours. Checking the GPS, he was relieved to see that he had a mile and a half to go. The relief would have been greater were it not for the driving headwind keeping his speed under six knots. Another twenty minutes, he thought. That’s all.

  His relief and optimism were short-lived. A quarter mile later, the engine conked out and wouldn’t restart. He had run out of gas. He remembered the canister tied to the front bench, under the cover, but with the wind gusts and the crashing waves, Collin knew he was in peril. Working as fast as his cold, stiff muscles could work, he fumbled at the zipper. His fingers had so little feeling, let alone strength, the zipper tab kept slipping through their grasp. Each attempt gained him only inches of access. Waves continued to pound the dinghy, pushing it backward and tossing it about like the tiny object it was on this vast, surging sea. Fighting to keep his weight close to the center for maximum stability, Collin’s efforts with the zipper were fruitless. The activity was frustrating but had engaged his brain. He remembered seeing Rojas put a screwdriver in a clear, zippered pouch under the bench behind him. He fought the swells that threatened to capsize his little raft and struggled to get at the long, thin tool. Once he did, his fingers didn’t grip it well enough, and it dropped to the floor, and disappeared under several inches of water. Collin lunged into the rear of the dinghy, flailing wildly through the flooded bottom, shouting his frustration until he found it. With his weight in the back, the nose of the dinghy tipped upward as it was thrown to the top of another wave. Again, Collin lurched toward the center to prevent the boat from flipping backward. His heat-starved body lacked its usual coordination, and he landed awkwardly on the tarp, banging his shins on the aluminum bench. He had nothing to hold. The nose of the boat slapped into the water just as the dinghy reached the top of the wave. Collin bounced and skidded across the slick tarp and over the edge at the front left quarter of the raft. As he slid, his hands flailed in all directions; the three longest fingers of his right hand snagged and wrapped around one of the safety ropes that ran along the top of the dinghy’s inflated side tubes. His weight pulled him down as the sea pushed the boat up, shooting sharp pain through his fingers, tearing skin, and causing friction burns on the sensitive flesh underneath. A tearing sensation coursed through his upper arm and shoulder. Despite the pain, his survival instincts demanded he not let go. Like a rodeo cowboy, Collin held on as the boat bucked. His left hand still clutched the screwdriver.

  Kicking his legs and left hand—screwdriver, GPS, and all—he worked to turn his body until he could grasp the safety rope with both hands. He pulled his head out of the water and gasped for breath, sucking in rain and sea spray as he did. He sputtered and choked and coughed it out. Panicked like never before, Collin tried to pull his body onboard from the side. As he did, he felt the boat ready to flip on top of him. He relaxed his arms, letting his body slump back into the water. Instead, he shimmied along, hand to hand, to the nose of the boat and waited until a swell pushed him upward. Ignoring the stinging in his hand and the torn muscles in his arm, he pulled with all his might until he got one arm across the pointed front end and heaved his upper body onto the gunwale. The boat nosed up another wave, pushing his body upward until he sprawled out across the tarp, still holding the safety rope with one hand. He spun on his stomach to get his legs toward the aft. From there he inched backward until he was on his knees in front of the rear bench, where he had started.

  Wasting no time, Collin inserted the thin end of screwdriver through the eye of the jumbo zipper tab and tugged it open until he saw the gas can. A yank on the end of the knot loosened the can. Still fighting waves and wind and with rain lashing his face, Collin pulled the can to the rear of the boat and fumbled with the screw top on the floor-mounted tank. He fought to stay balanced. Gasoline splashed out of the spout of the gas can as he jarred it open. Waves threatened to overturn the dinghy, so he steadied himself against the bench. Settling his weight on the floor as close to the center of the boat as he could, he angled the spout of the can toward the tiny opening as the sea continued to jostle him violently. Gas spilled all over until he was able to jam the spout into the opening of the tank. Collin leaned forward to cup his hand over the opening and around the spout as he poured to prevent water entering the gas tank.

  When he had gotten what he deemed would be enough in the tank, he closed the spout and screwed the fuel tank cap back on. He dragged the half full can back to the front of the boat and pulled the zipper as far as he could in one effort, bracing for another wave as he did. He turned back to the pull cord starter. Fortunately, the engine started on the second pull. He revved the throttle and engaged the gear just in time to push up the face of a monster wave and avoid getting overturned by it. After stabilizing the boat, he checked the GPS attached to his left wrist and discovered that he had been pushed back two tenths of a mile. Steeling himself, he twisted the throttle and leaned into the wind and waves, fighting every moment to remain balanced and steady.

  The time lost proved critical. The leading edge of the hurricane was bearing down on him. Collin could tell by the erratic and powerful gusts of wind, howling like a hungry animal on the hunt. Darkness was setting in.

  He hunkered down, praying silently as he focused on following the course set by the GPS until the island was a just quarter mile away. Though it was reported by the Captain to be only twenty meters in length and eight meters wide, it provided a sliver of shelter from the torrent. In the shadow of the little spit of land, the waves were half as large and far less violent, allowing Collin to pick up much needed speed. He approached the island from the north and discovered a wall of rock, six feet high, as the Captain had said he would. He had to make his way around the east end to find the sandy, horseshoe-shaped lagoon where Captain Sewell told him to beach the boat. He pushed eastward, toward the storm, around the end of the rocky outcroppings. Turning to his right, the wall of rock continued. As he made the turn a ferocious wall of water greeted him, colliding with the island and amassing two meters above his head. He gunned the little engine full throttle and scaled the wave. The nose of the dinghy went airborne as he broke through the crest and sped down the back side, out of control. The sea pulled back and revealed in the fading twilight, an exposed shoal. He was headed straight for it. He throttled again and banked left, closing his eyes and bracing himself as he did.

  He expected to catapult headfirst out of the boat and into the rocks. Or to topple over and tumble onto the jagged surface. Instead, he swung upward again, racing up the face of another giant wave. This repeated several times until an inlet appeared to his right. Veering hard right at the bottom of the next wave, he narrowly avoided another towering rock. He slipped past it into a semi-protected, crescent-shaped cove. A row of sentinel-like spires of rock poked out of the water from the shoals, forming a breakwater.

  Collin cut the power to the motor as the water became shallow to avoid damaging the propeller on rock or sand. He slid into the water feet first over the bow, gathering the tie rope as he went. He landed ches
t-high in the water on a sandy bottom amid a powerful surge that thrust him and the dinghy to the shore, causing him to trip on an unseen rock. Scrambling on hands and knees, Collin dragged the little dinghy up the semi-sandy beach. Another surge pushed it several feet higher up the beach, which was pitched at a steep angle, washing over Collin’s head. He sputtered and grasped for a hold as the water receded, dragging him backward, across the sand. He struggled to get back on his hands and knees when another wave slammed into him, driving him face first up the beach. He held the rope tight, knowing the dinghy represented his salvation. Again, he scrambled to his knees and braced himself. The waves pushed him and the dinghy up the steep incline until he was able to grab hold of a football-sized rock. The waves continued to surge, but he was able to gain balance and traction and move up the beach, beyond the waves. Collin tugged the dinghy until it also reached sand, completely out of the water.

  The island was barren. Nothing but rocks and sand from what he could see silhouetted in the darkness. It stood maybe seven feet above the water at its peak and was half the size of a soccer field.

  There was not a good place to tie the boat that he could see, except a fat, round rock that looked like a toilet bowl—wider at the top, narrower at the base. Collin tied the bow rope around the base and cinched it tight. That way even if the water rose, the rope should hold. He swung the stern of the boat as far up the beach as he could and tied the stern rope to another rock. The dinghy sat perpendicular to the direction of the waves, but several yards from their terminus, its propeller and outdrive, he hoped, would be spared the pounding against sand or rock.

  As he scrambled up the beach toward a jumble of rocks in search of shelter, he remembered the sea bag and its precious contents. He turned toward the dinghy to retrieve it as a potent gust of wind hit him with such force it knocked him off his feet, hurling him toward the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Spit 3”, Gulf of Mexico

  June 6

  Collin felt the wind lift him off his feet. He was hurtling through the air, feeling minuscule and helpless. For the first time in his life, he feared being literally blown away, like a dry leaf. His imagination spun on that for a split second, wondering how far into oblivion the wind could actually carry him, afraid of being blown out to sea with no boat, no life jacket.

  He landed on his back, several feet from where he had been walking, with such force that his breath was pushed out of him. His landing spot was a low, bumpy boulder, thinly covered with a layer of fine sand. The impact sent fresh flashes of pain through his ribs, shoulder, and back. His head slammed against the rock hard enough to make him see stars. He lay there dazed, half in shock, trying to regain his breath and wits while the rain peppered his body with more ferocity than he had ever experienced.

  For several long moments, Collin struggled to move. Every attempt caused a wave of pain that incapacitated him. He had to get out of the rain and wind, so he rolled to his good side and pushed up to his knees. Staying low to the ground, moving along the clutter of slick rock and sodden sand, his knees wobbly and head bleeding, Collin searched for some sort of refuge. He couldn’t see because of the rain and the fast-encroaching darkness and was deafened by the roaring wind and pounding surf, making rational thought impossible. In all his years living in California, he had never experienced rain or wind like this. It brought to mind images of fire hoses knocking down protesters, such was the force behind it. This was raw, natural, fearsome power.

  Equally as powerful, though, was Collin’s will to survive.

  Within a few yards, he stumbled into something promising: a refrigerator-sized rock lying against another, creating a triangular space similar in size to that found under a large desk. Collin squeezed himself in, gathering his legs and torso into a ball and maneuvering until he was sitting with his back against the supporting rock. Rain water dripped and ran into the space, but he was protected from the wind and the pelting. He sat on a jagged, but mostly dry, rock. That’s when he remembered the sea bag with his raincoat and the dry clothes he had intended to bring. It was too risky to retrieve it. Instead, he fumbled to remove his shirt so he could wring out as much water as possible before putting it back on. It wasn’t much, but it would help. When he was done, he pulled his legs close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to conserve body heat. He placed his forehead against his knees, closed his eyes, and thanked God for helping him get here.

  * * * *

  London, England

  June 7

  Nic stared blankly at his computer screen. He had just hung up the phone with Reggie Crabtree and was dreading the meeting that would soon be convened in his boss’s office, where he would have to explain that Collin Cook was missing at sea. According to Crabtree, the commander of the Navy ship that intercepted the sailboat suspected of harboring Cook interviewed its captain and crew after escorting the sailboat out of the danger zone. The ship’s captain explained when asked that he did not know his passenger’s origins or history. All he knew was that the man was a good-paying customer who asked to tour the Caribbean. Each crew member’s statement indicated that Cook had stolen the dinghy and headed south, toward the approaching hurricane. To a man, each reported that Cook seemed wild, crazed, and suicidal as he commandeered their dinghy and raced off into the storm.

  The Navy and Coast Guard would suspend search efforts until morning, after the storm had passed, due to safety concerns.

  Nic wasn’t convinced that Collin Cook was lost at sea. But he needed to persuade Alastair Montgomery that Cook was dead, or the pressure would never let up.

  Like a two-day-old helium balloon, Nic’s spirit sagged. With Collin Cook, all hope of tracking down Pho Nam Penh and bringing him to justice for the world to see had disappeared. Wiped away by a Category Two hurricane named Abigail.

  Nic knew he would not have his day of redemption, let alone fame and recognition. He would not be shown on Sky News, hauling Collin Cook, the international cyber terrorist, into a detention facility. He would not be interviewed by the London papers. He would not be patted on the shoulder by Director McCutchins. His rise through the ranks would be somewhat less than meteoric. He would go back to monotonous days on the phone, chasing down empty leads, filling out reports on mundane criminals and their mundane activities. Living an ordinary life. Having an ordinary career. The thought crushed him.

  Nic blew out a breath he had been holding unconsciously, slapped the manila folder against his knees, and stood, pausing long enough to chase away the last lingering shadows of doubt. His twenty-meter walk of shame down the hallway, past the rows of cubicles, would be the longest of his career.

  If Collin Cook resurfaced, he would pay for this humiliation.

  * * * *

  “Spit 3”, Gulf of Mexico

  June 7

  When his eyes opened, they were greeted by blinding light. He lay on his side, curled like a fetus. His hands wedged in his armpits; his cheek pressed against wet sand. Rays of golden light sliced through puffy, purple-lined clouds, caressing his face and arms, infusing much needed warmth into his clammy, ashen skin. He didn’t remember falling asleep. The only thing he could recall was praying over and over that he would be spared as the surf pounded into the rocky shore, the wind roared, and the rain splattered all around him in an all-out assault on his senses. He imagined this was what it felt like to live through a massive bombing raid, never knowing when the one would drop that would snuff out his life.

  With only rocks shielding him from the elements, he shook with cold all night. His wet cotton clothing did nothing to insulate him, so he continually tensed his muscles and rubbed his skin to generate what little heat he could.

  As he awoke, he found it hard to move. Every muscle in his body was knotted and exhausted, a whole night of shivering and tensing taking its toll. After several attempts, Collin pushed up from the sand to a kneeling position and crawled out of his shelter, pausing to make sure the storm had really passed.
The filtered sunlight beckoned him, almost pulling him from under the rock, eager to claim victory over Abigail.

  Collin surveyed the tiny island that had saved him from the storm. His hole was along a rise that jutted no more than seven feet above sea level, littered with car-sized slabs of chocolate brown rock. He could see both ends of the island, which were only twenty yards apart.

  Unable to straighten his half-frozen frame, Collin hobbled to a throne-like rock at the edge of the sand. The coffee colored stone had soaked up enough energy to feel warm to the touch, exactly what Collin wanted. He spread across it, making as much contact with the heated surface as possible. Gradually, his muscles unwound. Color replaced pallor. Hollowness gave way to gratitude. Motivation supplanted melancholy. He cried out toward the sky, thanking God for helping him and for sending the sun to chase the storm.

  Time passed, though he had no idea how much. The sun broke free from the last of the clouds and poured on him full force. Steam rose from his shirt, patches of which had dried. His mind had thawed as well, and he remembered the sea bag in the dinghy and the dry clothes it contained.

  Rising unsteadily from the bed of rock, he worked to loosen the muscles in his legs, back, and arms by flexing and stretching them. Every joint felt locked or rusted. Prying them loose hurt at first, but the movements felt almost as good as the warmth of the sun. To his relief, the dinghy remained tied to the rocks, though the ropes were stretched and frayed. It was full of water, but no worse for the wear. He pulled out the sea bag, grateful to the Captain for making him pack it with food and water. First, he downed a quart of water, gulping the clear, cool liquid. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was. Then he changed his clothes and wolfed some bread and fruit.