Lost!

by Thomas Thompson

  To keep their respective families informed of their progress and well-being, Jim had established a radio liaison with a teaching colleague in Auburn who held a ham license. Each morning sharp at seven, as the plan went, Jim would reach his friend, whose name was Wes Parker, and report the Triton’s position, the weather being encountered, and any news they wished to pass on. And every Friday morning Bob and Linda were to talk to their families via telephone patches established by Wes Parker. This weekly link was especially important to Linda’s mother, Hisako Elliott, an emotional Japanese lady who had been opposed to the journey from the first time it was mentioned.

  Hisako had sharply questioned her daughter about Jim and Bob’s sailing experience.

  “Mother, please,” said Linda. “Trust me. Bob’s an expert sailor. He’s been sailing for seven years.” Once again she recited Bob’s credentials: skippering a sixteen-foot sailboat on the Columbia River with its tricky currents, pleasure sailing on Puget Sound, a summer of racing out of Marina Del Rey on a twenty-five-foot Cal.

  “That means he has experience with inland waters, rivers, and ocean,” said Linda.

  Unsatisfied with the answer, Hisako wept and implored her daughter not to go. “Has he been out in the middle of the ocean?” she demanded. “Tell me that. And who is this Jim Fisher? What do you know about him?”

  Linda sighed and closed the subject. She was an adult, capable of making her own decisions. She would do what she and her husband wanted to do. But she urged her sister, Judy, not to raise the topic of the summer cruise, lest she unleash her mother’s copious tears.

  Now, finished with the eggs and watching silently as the men examined the radios, Linda thought about asking permission to call her mother—just to prove that communication lines were open. But the men were so absorbed in their study that Linda put away the idea and set about preparing supper. On this first night out, she would serve fresh salmon steaks pan-broiled in butter, green peas, a plain salad with vinegar, and root beer. No wine or alcohol was on board in deference to Jim’s rigid abstinence. If he knew, he would probably even frown on the tea that Linda had smuggled into the provisions.

  The men decided to take four-hour shifts at the cockpit, which had to be manned twenty-four hours a day. After dinner, Bob took the evening shift from 9 P.M. to 1 A.M., and Jim sat on a bench to read his Bible, one of four he had brought with him. Linda put away the dishes and checked the provisions one more time. The Triton would make a stop on the third day, at a village port called Quinella, just before she left the Sound and entered the Pacific. There Linda could pick up fresh vegetables and any last-minute necessities.

  The food was Linda’s chief responsibility. The cupboards that lined the main hull were crowded with supplies to last fifty days. Always a meticulous researcher and planner, Linda had drawn up menus for seven days in advance. Her husband had long since stopped marveling at her organization and took it for granted. Even though her debut as a first-grade teacher was two months away, Linda had already planned the entire year’s curriculum. Her lectures were rehearsed, her charts prepared, her music chosen, her illustrations clipped out and ready to show the youngsters. She had read up on Costa Rica so exhaustively that she could probably give guided tours to the natives. But this was her way. Very much the efficient, liberated woman, she ran all parts of her life with grace and skill.

  Because she had no desire to spend the hours required to prepare three full meals a day on the Triton, Linda shrewdly pointed out to the men that they all should eat lightly. There would be little opportunity for exercise, save sitting at the wheel or sunbathing, and all should watch their calories. And they would save money, as well. Jim and Bob instantly agreed: two meals only—breakfast and dinner. They would skip lunch. Nor would there be opportunity for leisurely dinners in which the three could linger into the night with conversation. One person always had to be at the wheel. Leisurely dinners held no appeal for Jim, anyway, since he was not comfortable with idle talk. He preferred to spend his free time reading his Bible or the Adventist literature that filled his satchel.

  Linda was weary now and ready for bed, but she took out her own shopping list to make red checks beside what she had purchased and stored: freeze-dried peas, potatoes, beans, rice, macaroni, vegetable-substitute frankfurters and meat patties (Jim liked these, but Bob made gagging noises when they were set before him), canned vegetables, soups, luncheon meats, soda pop, fruit juices, the four dozen eggs, cheese, fresh fruit, and meat for everybody but Jim. If the winds cooperated, reasoned Linda, the eggs and cheese and fruits and meat would last in the medieval icebox almost to Los Angeles, where they could be replenished. In another cabinet she counted powdered milk, Kool-Aid, cookies, spices, and five pounds each of red licorice rope and jelly beans. So much for dieting! These were Bob’s indulgence. Not only did he like candy, he felt it would be helpful in his vow to stop smoking. With ceremony he had flung away his last pack of Camels just before departure. Jim had looked askance at the sweets—his budget did not permit such extravagances—but Bob had explained briskly that he had picked them up at a ski resort’s end-of-season bargain sale.

  Finishing the inventory, Linda moved to the compartment where she and Bob slept; behind curtains drawn to separate the double bed from the main hull. Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept across her. She put her head in her hands for a moment and swallowed a rise of nausea. I can’t be seasick already! she told herself. The first night out! And the Sound is like glass. There’s not even enough wind to make the boat go without the motor. Shaking her head stubbornly, denying the possibility of illness, Linda reached for a glass to fill with water. She remembered Bob’s admonition to use the water sparingly and filled it only halfway. Quickly she drank. She felt better immediately. If the nausea returned, the idea of which she refused to permit, she would open a can of soda pop and spare the water. There were only sixty gallons on board for all their needs—twenty in each of the two outriggers, and another twenty in the main tank.

  She looked at Jim anxiously—she did not want her discomfort known. But he was intent on his Bible, his back to her. “I’m turning in,” she said. Jim looked around and smiled. He was a pleasant-looking man, but the sunny face was somehow vacant, as if he were a figure in a coloring book with the lines there and the character left to be filled in. Although Linda did not understand her brother-in-law’s way of life or his religious passion, she admired his gentleness.

  “Sleep well,” said Jim.

  “I will, if you’ll keep the waves soft.” Linda put on her nightgown and climbed into the double bed. After a time, she heard Jim go to his bed on the other side of the main hull and draw his drapes. He would rest for a while before relieving Bob for the 1 A.M. to 5 A.M. shift.

  An hour after midnight, Bob turned the wheel over to Jim and hurried down to Linda. He found her asleep, her copy of Anna Karenina open on her chest. This was to be her summer for Russian novels. Her place marker was the list of supplies to buy on Wednesday’s brief stop in Quinella. Bob scanned the list, finding a few items he had dictated. “New wet suit, fishing lures, fresh meat, vegetables, kerosene, two life preserver seats, yarn for ‘tell tales,’ lipstick, chewing gum, deck of cards …”

  Lifting the book gently from her chest, Bob undressed and slipped in beside his wife. He put the lightest of arms around her and pushed his head against her hair.

  Linda came quickly to life and pulled Bob closer.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

  “I wasn’t asleep,” she lied. “I was just catnapping. Waiting for the sailor to come home from the sea.”

  Bob smiled. He kissed her tenderly. Each time he saw her face, her beauty refreshed him. If she did nothing but rise each day and let him look at her, that would be a positive contribution to the world, Bob thought. She was unique. He relished a photograph in Linda’s family album, a picture showing her as a high school cheerleader. With a score of animated, vibrant teen-age girls squealing at the camera, the eye we
nt instantly to Linda, to that curious blend of East and West, to that melange of the exotic and the wholesome. His family had written Bob off as a confirmed bachelor until, at the age of thirty-three, Linda had appeared on his mountain with her bindings on backwards.

  Now he held her tightly and treasured the moment. “Jim and I just decided something,” he said. “It’s ridiculous to keep four-hour shifts because you can hardly get to sleep before it’s time to get up.”

  Linda snuggled against his chest. “Not to mention other activities which can take up rest time,” she said.

  Bob smiled. “We’ll get to that. Anyway, we’ve decided to take six-hour shifts from now on, and if you want to, you can take the wheel a couple of hours in the afternoon. Okay?”

  Linda was happy at the news. During their preliminary meetings to plan the trip, she had kept insisting that she could steer the boat as well as they. She had certainly read more books on the subject.

  She looked at her watch. “Does this six-hour thing start now?”

  “Do you want it to?”

  Her kiss, Bob decided, was a perfectly good answer.

  (3)

  Shortly after midnight Tuesday, Jim tried to ease his Triton into the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a notorious bottleneck that links Puget Sound with the Pacific Ocean. But sudden heavy winds from the west hurled the boat back. Treacherous currents swirled about her, thwarting Jim’s attempt to tack. Wisely, he sailed to a secluded cove out of the wind’s way and dropped anchor for the rest of the night.

  The next morning Bob took over and, though the winds still behaved contrarily, guided the trimaran to the port of Quinella where the last-minute purchases were to be made. Linda hurried to the pay telephone and called her parents in Kelso, Washington. Her report was cheerful and hurried: weather warm and cloudy, the Sound fairly calm except for the winds of the night before, the Triton performing beautifully, everybody getting along well.

  “Are you all right?” demanded Mrs. Elliott.

  “I’m fine.” Linda did not mention her minor bout with nausea.

  “You can get off at Los Angeles. You know that, don’t you?” said Mrs. Elliott. “If you don’t like it, if you don’t feel safe or good, then get off. Promise me you’ll get off at Los Angeles.”

  “I won’t promise that, Mother. If anything goes wrong, then I promise I’ll get off.”

  Her mother’s voice broke, tears beginning to fall at her end of the line. “I have a bad feeling about this trip, Linda. Why won’t you listen to me?”

  Annoyed, Linda made a rushed good-bye, reminding her mother that she would talk to her in two days—on Friday morning—via the radiophone patch. She hung up. Never had she heard her mother so worried before, so near hysteria, not even when she and Bob had disappeared inside Eastern Europe and Russia for a six-thousand-mile honeymoon trip in their VW camper.

  The admonition hung over Linda as she prepared dinner—salmon again, Bob having caught three that afternoon in his free time. As she melted the butter to grill the fish, Linda had to drop her stirring spoon and run to the toilet and vomit. The attack lasted longer this time, five minutes, and did not completely go away until she went topside to take a steaming cup of Japanese tea to Bob at the wheel.

  She found her husband bathed in the reflection of a spectacular northwest sun, aflame at the Triton’s prow. His face was somber, filled with such seriousness that Linda quickly forgot her illness and the worry that her mother had planted within her. She sat beside him, grateful for the brisk winds. She put her hand across the shadow of worry that cloaked her husband’s face.

  “Okay, skipper?” she asked.

  Nodding, Bob pointed to the expanse before them. “That’s the pond,” he said. Respectfully, Linda looked at the Pacific, stretching forever beyond them, devouring the sun, melting the scarlet fire and spreading it evenly across the horizon. At that moment Bob was transfixed less by the beauty before him than by the serious challenge of their venture. The Triton was very small, and the sea was beyond imagination.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Linda.

  “I guess I’m thinking about a line from ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’” he answered in a voice so contained that Linda moved closer to hear him over the wind. “The one that goes, ‘Alone, alone, all, all alone … alone on a wide, wide sea.’” He had only dreamed of the sea when first he learned those lines. A boy of twelve, working the hard earth of Montana on his father’s tractor, Bob had read Coleridge and imagined the wind and the spray. The poetic fantasies evoked by the seascapes helped the farmer’s child get through a dozen tedious hours a day dressing the soil for wheat.

  Linda interrupted his reverie. “Did the Ancient Mariner eat?” she asked.

  Bob smiled. “I imagine so. Else he wouldn’t have gotten ancient.”

  “Then tell him dinner’s ready in ten minutes.” Linda disappeared through the hatch.

  Pleased at the easy manner in which Linda could usually lift his mood, Bob began preparations for a southwesterly tack. With the newly brisk wind from the west hitting the boat abeam, the result—called a “reach” in sailing terminology—would provide great speed for the trimaran. If the winds held, and they were expected to at this place at this time of the year, the boat would fairly race to Los Angeles, chewing up the sea at better than a hundred miles per day.

  But by the time Bob turned the wheel over to Jim, the winds abruptly eased, fell silent for half an hour, then, almost arrogantly, began anew, this time from the south. Once again they seemed to be challenging the Triton, forbidding her progress, shoving her defiantly back to where she had come.

  On the fourth day, Thursday, July 5, as they sailed about seventy miles off the coast of Washington, the two men decided to test their respective skills. It was agreed between them that Bob was the better sailor, having a seat-of-the-pants feel for the Triton, how she handled, how she accepted and rejected winds, how she best contended against the currents. On the other hand, Jim was far more sophisticated with sextants and compasses and charts. They complemented one another well.

  Therefore Jim plotted a test course that required Bob to tack east, then back west, then east again, and if the calculations were correct, the Triton should, by nightfall, be near a town called Astoria, at the mouth of the Columbia River on the border between Washington and Oregon. Most of the day, Bob ran the course, and at its designated end, both men were elated to see a Coast Guard lighthouse ship at the river, meaning that their navigational and sailing skills were less than a quarter of a mile off calculation.

  “If you were a drinking man,” cried Bob exuberantly, “this would call for a glass of champagne.”

  Jim’s expression turned quickly serious. He would not tolerate even a jesting intrusion on the severe code that governed his life.

  Linda was up early the next morning, anxious to prepare breakfast and get it out of the way so she could talk to her parents on the first Friday radiophone patch. She wanted to reassure her mother that the voyage was progressing beautifully, that she was in the hands of excellent sailors. All week long she had watched and listened as Jim tapped out his Morse code messages to Wes Parker, the liaison in Auburn. That Jim had never used voice transmission did not occur to her as unusual.

  When Jim finished his cereal and a bunch of fresh cherries, he went directly to the radio shelf and began transmitting—in Morse code. Joining him, waiting tactfully for a moment when she could intrude, Linda watched his fingers dance lightly on the transmitter key. But Jim did not look up or acknowledge Linda.

  In a few minutes he shut down the radio and looked at his watch. His shift was not due to begin until 9 A.M., more than an hour and a half away. But he made to climb the hatch.

  Puzzled, Linda touched his arm and stopped him. “Aren’t we going to call Wes and put in the phone patch? My parents are standing by.”

  Jim shook his head. “I’ve already talked to Wes,” he said.

  Now Linda was confused. She had heard no words,
only the rat-tat-tat of the code. “But it’s Friday,” she persisted. She pointed to her watch. “It’s all arranged.”

  “Well, it can’t be done today,” said Jim, hurrying topside.

  Linda climbed after him. She followed him into the cockpit, where Bob was guiding the boat. He looked up, catching the concern on her face.

  “Jim says we can’t call our parents,” said Linda.

  “Why, Jim?” asked Bob. “Radio on the blink?”

  Jim refused to answer, turning his face from the others and looking out to the morning sunlight sparkling on the swells. Clouds were moving in and before long the day would turn gray.

  Bob pressed for a response. “Something wrong with the set, Jim?”

  His face reddening, the face of a child forced to reveal a hidden truth, Jim slowly turned. For a time there were no sounds other than the waves slapping against the Triton’s blue hull, and the wind slicing through her. Finally he cleared his throat and, with difficulty, spoke.

  “I don’t have a license,” he said bluntly.

  Bob’s mouth fell open. Jim was not a man for jokes. “But you said you did. You’ve been studying all spring. You said you’d passed the Morse code test and were about to get the voice transmission certificate.”

  “I did pass the Morse code test,” said Jim in a voice strained and dry. “But I didn’t get the certificate in time to leave. So I—I—borrowed someone else’s number.”

  “What about the voice transmission license?” demanded Bob, disbelieving what he was hearing. In a minute Jim would surely laugh and reveal the charade that he and Linda had concocted for breakfast.

  Jim shrugged. He pushed his fingers together like a child forms a church steeple, only he pushed them so hard that they drained of blood and turned green-white. There was to be no laughter.

  “I know you’ve got a voice number,” insisted Bob. “I heard you and Wes Parker using it the day we left, when you were checking out the radios.”