Beached

by Brenda Beem

  “Damn!” Dylan headed for the dinghy.

  Dylan and Zoë had a heated discussion while he rowed to Whistler. She insisted we needed her help. Dylan argued it was too risky and reminded her that she was pregnant. I went back to the family lying on the beach. Both the kids were asleep or passed out. The father mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

  I kneeled beside him.

  “Wife?” he croaked.

  “She didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

  He closed his eyes and his body convulsed. “My fault,” he moaned.

  I decided to give him a few moments alone and went back to their tent. I tried to ignore the flies and dead body and started pulling out duffels and sleeping bags.

  “Toni, what are you doing? Get out of the tents,” Zoë screamed across the water.

  I turned to her. Dylan was floating in the dinghy a short ways off the stern. Nick was tossing water bottles into the dinghy. Zoë and Angelina were on the swim platform filling a plastic bin with stuff.

  “Zoë, I’ve already been exposed. Quit yelling.” I hurried with my arms full of supplies back to the dad.

  I put a life jacket behind his head as a pillow. He stared into space.

  “Look,” I told him as I unzipped the sleeping bag and covered him. “You have two kids that need you. I know this is incredibly hard. I just lost loved ones too. But you can’t fall apart. They’re just kids and you’re all they have.”

  He inhaled deeply and for the first time seemed to notice his children. I pulled the sides of the sleeping bag out and moved the kids on top of the bag that covered him. He continued to silently cry. The toddler whimpered. The little girl opened her eyes.

  Dylan returned with the water bottles. He handed one to the man. I was glad to see he had the strength to lift the bottle to his mouth, but I had to stop him when he began to guzzle it.

  “It will all come back up if you drink too fast.” I pulled the bottle back.

  “I’ll go slowly…” he gasped.

  “Okay then.” I gave it back.

  He took a long swig, sat the water down beside him, and closed his eyes. Dylan grabbed it before it tipped over and screwed the lid back on.

  I placed another life jacket under the little girl’s head and drizzled water into her mouth. This time it went down smoothly. I held the toddler on my lap and gave him a little at a time.

  I laid the toddler back down and covered each of the kids with smaller sleeping bags. Both the kids, and finally the father, fell asleep.

  Dylan gestured for me to follow him. He perched on the edge of the dinghy and I joined him.

  “How long are you planning to nurse this family back to health?” he asked.

  “Dylan!”

  “Mom and Dad might be in the next harbor. And didn’t you text Takumi that you’d be right back? We’re wasting time.”

  Part of me knew he was right. I glanced at the tents and then at the family that was barely alive. “We don’t know what happened here. If we’re contagious we can’t go anywhere anyway. We have to help this little family recover and maybe do something with the dead bodies.”

  “Dead bodies! We are not touching them.” Dylan stood and began to pace. “We’ve already taken a big risk. Look around. There is death and disease in every tent. We need to get away from here as fast as we can.”

  “The dad seems to be getting stronger. I bet he’ll be able to talk soon. Once we learn what happened, we’ll know how to deal with it. Can you just relax until then?”

  Dylan stared back at Whistler and Zoë. “No. I wish we’d never stopped here.”

  He rowed to the boat three times for supplies. Each time I was sure Zoë would come back with him, but she didn’t. It gave me a small amount of pleasure to know she actually listened to him.

  We spent the morning giving water to the family and preparing our campsite. Dylan brought back a tent for us and I gathered firewood. There weren’t any trees around, and surprisingly, very little debris on the beach. I gathered mud-covered dead shrubs, but knew they would burn up quickly. The toddler started moving around and began to whimper. The man was awake and watching us, but didn’t react to his son. The toddler’s cries grew stronger and louder. The dad didn’t seem to notice. After about ten minutes of constant crying I couldn’t stand it.

  “Your son needs you.” I stood over the dad with my hands on my hips.

  “Mother,” the man whispered. “Needs mother.”

  “You are mom and dad now.” I picked up the little guy and laid him on the man’s chest. “Comfort him.” I walked away.

  The toddler’s cries stopped for a little while, then started back up. I tore branches off the dead brush I’d gathered and pretended to ignore the pitiful cries. Finally, it stopped. I watched the man massaging his son’s back. The toddler had his thumb in his mouth.

  It was a start.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Zoë’s high-pitched voice echoed across the water. “Soup’s ready.”

  Dylan headed for the dinghy.

  “Let me go this time.” I ran past him.

  It felt wonderful to be back on the water. The gentle waves comforted me. I felt clean and safer. I wondered how I’d manage to sleep with dead bodies all around me. And flies? I shuddered. I would never go off and leave the young family helpless, but I understood Dylan’s desire to flee.

  “Where’s Dylan?” Zoë called to me as I rowed.

  Boots yipped. He was excited to see me.

  “Quiet,” Zoë yelled and clapped her hands at the little dog. Boots put his tail between his legs and ran to Makala.

  “Don’t talk that way to Boots!” Makala comforted the quivering dog.

  I spun the dinghy around. My back was to Whistler as I rowed. Dylan was building a fire pit with some large rocks. If I could see him, so could Zoë.

  “I need to talk to Dylan!” Zoë’s shrill voice had gotten louder.

  I dipped the oars in the water. “Talk to him, then. We can hear you loud and clear from the beach.”

  “You are so mean!” Zoë cried. “This is my honeymoon, and I’m not with my husband. He won’t let me go ashore.”

  The dinghy bounced on a wave. “Believe me, you are better off on Whistler. There are dead bodies and so many flies it’s just... He’s trying to protect you, and the baby.”

  “But what if he gets sick?”

  I stopped rowing and floated around so I could face her. Angelina and Nick joined Makala and Zoë on the stern. “We’re helping a father and his two kids. They seem to be getting stronger. Once we learn what happened, we’ll know what to do. Dylan and I both want off that beach badly.”

  I shoved a plastic storage bin toward the swim-platform. “You mentioned soup?”

  Angelina stepped to the rail. “Since the family was so dehydrated, Zoë thought they might need salt to retain water. She suggested we make a salty soup. We used part sea water, some seaweed for vitamins, and a whitefish that Makala caught.”

  “Makala caught a fish?” I grinned at her.

  Makala smiled shyly and nodded her head.

  Angelina winked. “She did. And it was a big one too.”

  “Sounds yummy.” The fish soup reminded me of something Takumi would make. I pulled out my phone to see if he’d sent a message. My cell battery had died.

  The crew floated the bin out to me. A small wave rocked it. I worried it would tip and spill the soup, but soon I had the bin securely onboard the dinghy. I unloaded the kettle, the utensils, and a bottle of gin.

  “Gin?” I stared back at Angelina.

  “Pour it over your hands to disinfect them,” she said.

  I laid my cell in the bottom of the bin and shoved it back toward Whistler.

  “Please charge my phone the next time you have power. And if I get a message, read it to me.” I watched the crew as I rowed with my back to the beach. Makala kept waving at me.

  Nick fished the bin out of the sea. “We’re short on water. We need to leave tomo
rrow to find some.”

  I steadied the pot as a wave rocked the little boat. “The dad is almost ready to talk. Hopefully we can go with you.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” Angelina asked.

  “I’m fine. But I hate being around all this death. It’s so sad. And the bodies are just… rotting. We should bury them, but I’m afraid to touch them.”

  “What about burning them. Tents and all?” Angelina suggested.

  “Will the canvas burn?” I turned to see how close to the beach I was.

  “I’ve heard of tents catching on fire, especially if the tent is old. The newer ones have fire retardant built into the canvas, but they’ll burn if the fire is hot enough,” Nick said.

  “I saw you gathering dried brush. Maybe if you put some kindling inside the tent, and piled more on top, you could get a blaze going,” Angelina suggested.

  Dylan had been listening to our conversation and called out, “Remember when you gave away two containers of gas to those Coast Guard dudes? If we had that gas, we could make a really hot fire.”

  Dylan was right, but I had no regrets. The gas I gave to the desperate sailors might have saved their lives. The people in the tents on shore were already dead.

  “What about a burial at sea?” Nick suggested.

  “We’d have to get them out of the tents and onto a boat. I like the fire idea. No touching allowed, but at least we’d be stopping the flies and risk of disease.” I hopped out of the dinghy and sat the soup pot on the beach. Dylan secured the little boat.

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure it will work, but it’s better than doing nothing. What if we wait until low tide and drag the tents to the shoreline? Fire them each up as best we can, and then let the tide take what’s left out to sea.”

  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was something we could handle. I would sleep better at night knowing we’d given the people who’d died some kind of closure. I picked up the pot and headed up the beach.

  The dad was helping his daughter drink from a bottle of water when I showed up with the soup. Four empty water bottles lay in the sand. That seemed like a good sign. The toddler stared up at me, his eyes huge and questioning.

  “Anyone hungry?” I showed them the pot of soup.

  “She’s not doing well,” the dad croaked as he laid his daughter back on the edge of his sleeping bag. She groaned and closed her eyes.

  I poured a little soup into a plastic cup. It was still hot and the cup warmed my hand. “Maybe this will help. Zoë, my brother’s wife, was a sports medicine student. She said you all need salt to help you rehydrate. She and my friends made a salty fish soup for you.”

  The man pushed himself up and took the cup. He glanced down at it and made a face.

  “The green stuff is seaweed. My boyfriend says it’s full of all kinds of good stuff. It takes a little getting used to, but grows on you after a while.”

  The man took a sip, looked up at me, and mouthed: “Thank you.” He turned on his side, raised his daughter’s head, and fed her. The toddler held his arms up to me. I scooped him up and held him on my lap. After a moment, he struggled to get back to his dad, but stopped when I showed him the soup. He hungrily ate almost a half a cup.

  The act of eating wore them all out. I covered the family back up and sat with Dylan while we had our lunch and planned the rest of the day.

  The tide was still coming in. We spent our time gathering as much dry brush and wood as we could find. The larger pieces Dylan threw into the campfire pit he’d built for us to light at night. Soon we had a six-foot high pile of dried brush.

  Dylan and I took turns forcing the family to drink small amounts of water as often as we could. There was no one on Whistler’s deck most of the afternoon. I guessed they were napping.

  When the tide began to turn, Dylan and I decided it was time to talk to the dad. He had been growing stronger by the hour. The toddler was still weak, but alert. The little girl worried me.

  The dad was sitting up watching us as we approached. Dylan blurted out, “We need to know what happened here.”

  The man nodded. “Can you take me to the bathroom first?” His voice was weak, but stronger than it had been. And if he had to go to the bathroom, didn’t that mean he was doing well?

  Dylan propped him up and took him away. I kneeled to check on the kids. The little girl was asleep and felt hot. The toddler grinned at me. The dad asked Dylan to stop at his tent on their way back, then crawled into his tent by himself. When he opened the flap, a swarm of flies escaped. I covered the kids and my face with blankets.

  The dad was in the tent for a long time. Finally, he emerged with a pillowcase full of the family’s belongings, and handed the bag to Dylan. When he was settled in, I asked, “How did all these people die?”

  He spoke in a soft whisper. Dylan and I had to lean close to him to hear.

  “My name is Greg.” He laid his hand on top of his children’s heads. “This is Beth and Byron. Our family’s from Santa Barbara. We went to the mountains to be safe from the tsunami, and came back when it was over. Our home was destroyed.” He laid his head on the log behind him. I handed him one of the last of the water bottles, and he took a big swig.

  Greg scooted forward and continued. “We ended up in one of the camps. There wasn’t enough water or food. And it was dangerous. A group of us joined together to protect ourselves. We talked about getting away.”

  He took a deep breath. “Most of us had gone on day trips to Santa Cruz Island. We knew it had water. We searched the California shoreline for broken and abandoned boats and kayaks, saved as much water and food as we could, and headed out. We figured we could make it over here in one long day. Two, at the most. But a storm hit.”

  “Oh no!” I groaned.

  He lay back on the log. “We tied our kayaks and boats together and rode it out. We arrived here four days later. We ran out of food and water on day two.”

  “Were any of you sick? I hear there’s sickness in the camps.” Dylan stared down at Beth.

  “No. I don’t think so. Some got seasick. They grew weak faster than the rest of us and were the first to die.”

  “That had to be horrible.” I scooted down in the sand beside Byron.

  His head drooped. “We’d become close friends.”

  Dylan began to pace again. “So you made it to the island. What happened then?”

  Greg narrowed his eyes at Dylan. “We came ashore at the first land we found. I still don’t know the name of this beach. A couple of us were strong enough to go and look for water. But there wasn’t any. By the time we figured it out, we were too weak to row away.”

  I took his hand.

  “My wife refused to eat or drink early on. She gave the kids and me her rations. She didn’t make it, but her sacrifice…” He stared at his kids.

  A tear rolled down his cheek. “Beth needs a doctor and Byron needs his mom. I don’t know what to do.”

  I patted Greg’s shoulder and stood. Dylan and I moved to the receding water’s edge.

  I whispered in Dylan’s ear. “We need to tell him our plan to burn the tents. He should have some say. His wife is one of the dead. The rest were his friends. The good news is, if they all died from dehydration, they weren’t contagious.”

  “If he’s telling the truth.” Dylan scowled.

  I took a step back. “Why would you say that?”

  “He’s not stupid. He knows that we won’t take them with us if they’re sick.”

  “Stop it, Dylan. The man just lost almost everything. We need to burn the bodies and get his daughter some help.”

  “After we look for our mom and dad.”

  I sighed. “First things first.”

  Greg was appalled at our plan to burn the tents with the bodies, but finally agreed if we would let him bury his wife. I wasn’t sure how we would manage that, but we agreed.

  We ate the last of the fish soup for dinner. It had been cold
for hours, but was still filling. The conversation had been too much for Greg. He barely managed to feed the kids and change his son’s diaper before he fell asleep.

  Dylan and I put on winter gloves and covered our noses and mouths with scarves Zoë had sent over. We pushed, pulled, and dragged the tents down to the shoreline. We had waited all day for low tide, and now that it was here, we were racing the clock. Halfway through the process, I started to limp. My injured ankle was hurting, but there was no time to baby it. I kept going.

  Finally we had all the tents lined up, except for the one with Greg’s wife in it.

  We ran back and forth from the pile of dried brush to the tents. At first we threw the branches into the tents, then tried to pile them on top. But everything rolled off the rounded roofs. Finally, we unhooked the poles that held the domes up. When the tents collapsed, we had a place to pile more sticks and twigs.

  Greg woke up and watched us. So did the crew from Whistler.

  “Okay, it’s time,” I told Dylan.

  Dylan searched his pocket for matches, but came up empty. I reached into the bag of supplies Greg had brought out of his tent and found a stick lighter.

  “Wait!” Angelina cried from Whistler. “We should at least know their names. We need to report their deaths.”

  To whom, I wondered. But Dylan and I turned to Greg.

  He pointed at the tent farthest away. “Susan and Bill Barnes.”

  One by one, Greg told us the names of the campers. Dylan called them out to Zoë, who wrote them down in dad’s logbook. Dylan lit the dried twigs inside the tents first, then those on top. Slowly, every tent burst into flames, although some smoked more than others.

  Angelina read a short verse from her Bible for every name. Nick sang, Amazing Grace.

  Soon the shore was ablaze and Whistler’s crew grew silent. I leaned on Dylan as the fires raged on. I wanted to cry, but somehow couldn’t. Dylan was tense and fidgety. Greg cradled Byron in his arms and shed enough tears for all of us.

  It was dark and cold when the fires finally died out. Dylan and I found a sandy hill a short ways from the campsite, and began digging with the small shovel we’d gotten off the boat. We made great progress at first, but then hit a hard rocky layer. The grave wasn’t as deep at it should have been, but it would have to do.