Sail (15 page)
WE’RE ABOUT four hundred yards from the island. Then three hundred. And suddenly Ernie stops paddling.
“Hey,” he says, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Where is everybody?”
We all stop and squint. We’re finally close enough to shore for a good look-see at the beach dead ahead. But no matter where we look, we don’t see a single person.
We don’t see much of anything, actually. No houses, no huts, no construction of any kind.
No sign of life.
“Big deal. So it’s a secluded beach,” says Carrie with a shrug. “Keep paddling, my hearties. Look how beautiful it is!”
She’s certainly right about that. The sand, a gorgeous pastel pink, is practically sparkling under the morning sun, while in the background huge sweeping palms gently lean forward as if each tree is listening to the surf. It’s the very definition of unspoiled.
“I bet you ten bucks only the locals know about this beach,” says Mark. “They probably keep it a secret from the tourists.”
“Yeah, it would get way too crowded,” adds Carrie warily. “It’s not very big.”
No, actually it’s very small. In fact, the whole island looks small, at least from this angle. For all I know—and hope—my pillow-top bed at the St. Regis is waiting for me on the other side.
“Let’s keep paddling,” I say.
We’re churning on nothing but a mix of adrenaline and curiosity now, our mild joking giving way to a hushed silence. We’re staring straight ahead at the best news we’ve had in four days, if not our entire lives—land!—and yet there’s no escaping this weird feeling among us. It’s as if Ernie’s question is echoing in all our heads.
Where is everybody? Or anybody, for that matter?
We keep paddling, we keep looking at the perfect beach.
With nobody on it.
FROM LAND HO to land here.
The kids hop out into waist-high water and pull the raft up onto shore with me still in it. I’m nowhere near able to put any pressure on my broken leg, so Mark carries me over to a spot on the sand and sets me down with great care. I have never seen him acting like this, and it’s impressive.
Mark
is impressive.
No one says anything as we all look around, our necks craning left and right.
Finally Ernie sums it all up. “I get the feeling we’re a long, long way from any McDonald’s, or even a Taco Bell.”
I’m afraid that’s right. If first impressions count for anything, it’s hard to imagine there being Happy Meals, or for that matter a steakhouse, on this island. As for a five-star hotel, that’s not looking too promising either. Or a telephone.
Especially when the only footprints on this beach are ours.
“There’s no way this is a deserted island,” says Carrie, as if trying to convince herself. “I mean, there’s no way . . . Right?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” I assure her while trying to convince myself.
“Yes, but it is definitely possible,” says Ernie matter-of-factly. “I saw this movie in my science class that said there are a lot more deserted islands than people think.”
Mark rolls his eyes. “That movie was probably made fifty years ago. At worst, this place might be uninhabited at the moment, but it’s not
deserted.
”
“What’s the difference if there’s no one here to help us?” asks Carrie.
“A big difference,” says Mark. “It means that somewhere on this island there’s probably a house, or a couple of houses, with a satellite link.
E.T., phone home
—you follow?”
Carrie nods, cowering slightly at the thought that her younger, pot-smoking Deerfield brother has shown up his older, wiser, better-SAT-scoring Yalie sister. Sibling rivalry knows no bounds, even on an island.
“So what are we waiting for?” asks Ernie. “Let’s go find a phone.”
Of course, I’m not about to go anywhere. Not unless a pair of crutches were suddenly to fall from the sky. Even if they did, I’d be having second thoughts about this proposed trek. Something doesn’t feel right to me.
“Whoa,” I say, raising my palm like a traffic cop. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea right now.”
“Maybe what’s not such a good idea right now?” asks Mark. “Calling the Coast Guard?”
“Going off exploring the island right away. The sun’s not even all the way up yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. All we’ve done so far is trade in a raft for a beach. We still need to find help. And help’s
that
way.”
He points beyond the beach as Carrie and Ernie nod in agreement.
“He’s right, Mom,” says Carrie. “We have to find out what’s here.”
I know they’re both right. That’s the problem.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I say, sounding exactly the way I feel—like a nervous mother. “The three of you absolutely have to stay together and look out for one another. Whatever you do,
don’t get separated.
And there can be no fights.”
Mark salutes. “Gotcha, Doc.”
“I’m serious, you guys. Don’t take too long, either.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be quick,” says Carrie. “We won’t leave you here long. And we’ll be on our best behavior.”
As the three of them walk off, Mark shouts over his shoulder, “If we’re not back in a couple of hours, call the Coast Guard!”
I KNOW I TOLD THEM to be quick. But I didn’t mean
this
quick. This is either very good or very bad.
In less than twenty minutes the kids are back. As they emerge from the palm trees and trudge across the beach, I notice something dangling from Mark’s fingertips.
“What is that?” I call out. “What did you find?”
“The only sign of civilization here,” he answers.
He holds it up for me to see. It’s caked with sand, and the label has completely worn off. But the shape is unmistakable. Classic.
It’s a Coke bottle.
“Yeah, we found it right beyond the beach,” says Ernie.
“That’s it? No house with a satellite link?” I ask.
“No
anything
,” says Mark. “No roads, no signs, and definitely no people.” He glances at the old Coke bottle. “At least, not recently.”
“Are you sure? You guys weren’t gone for too long.”
“We didn’t need to be,” he says. “It’s literally a jungle out there,
thick,
and nothing more. This island is deserted with a capital
D.
”
“So now what do we do?” asks Carrie.
It’s a good question, and one I don’t immediately have an answer for. I’m too busy thinking about all the awful signals I’m beginning to get from my body.
What began as a low-grade fever is starting to climb. I don’t need a thermometer, I can feel it—much like the chills I’m also having. The result is a cold sweat from head to toe. The only reason the kids don’t notice is that we’re all sweating in this heat, too.
Meanwhile, Mark seems to have more energy and ideas than I’ve seen from him in a year. “I think we need to do a few things,” he says. “First we have to be able to signal boats and planes, right? We should spell out
SOS
with rocks and prepare a big fire we can light. We also should figure out where we’ll sleep tonight.”
“I vote for somewhere with a roof,” says Ernie, pointing out over the water.
We all turn to look at some very ominously dark clouds on the horizon.
“Shit, I thought we were done with storms for a while,” says Carrie with a groan.
“Yeah, just like we all thought we were saved,” says Mark, kicking at nothing in the sand. He’s pissed. Suddenly he rears back and heaves the Coke bottle into the surf.
“Hey, don’t!”
objects Ernie.
Mark bristles. “Why not? What, do you want to keep it for the deposit?”
Ernie ignores his big brother and wades into the water. He snatches up the Coke bottle floating amid the waves. “Don’t you get it, Mark? This could save us!”
“Oh, yeah?” says Mark incredulously. “How would it do that?”
“It’s simple, you dope. We put a message in it.”
We all laugh, and I immediately feel awful. Perhaps Mark and Carrie ought to know better, but I definitely should. This is no time to be teasing poor Ernie.
“I’m sorry, honey, I know you’re only trying to help,” I say. “We shouldn’t be laughing. We’re all dopes.”
“Go ahead and laugh. You’ll be thanking me later.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” says Mark. “Tell me, Baby Einstein, what are you going to write your message on?”
Ernie appears momentarily stumped by that one. So am I, actually. Then his face lights up with an idea. “I’ll write it on a piece of my T-shirt,” he says. He grabs his T-shirt from the bottom, pulling it tight. “I’ll tear off a section and write on that.”
Mark nods, if only to play along. “Okay, and what are you going to write with? I mean, I’d love to help you out, but I’m fresh out of pens.”
But Ernie’s ahead of the curve now.
“I saw some red berries on a bush when we were walking before. I’ll crush them and make ink.” He mugs at his brother, and it’s kind of cute.
“Let me guess—you saw that in another movie from science class.”
“Go ahead, keep laughing. I’ll have the last one, guys.”
Mark walks over to Ernie and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Dude, in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been drifting for days without coming anywhere near a boat. It would take months, if not years, before that Coke bottle could wash ashore somewhere else, so who do you think is going to find it in the meantime, Aquaman?”
Carrie laughs again, but I don’t.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say. “If Ernie wants to do it, let him. In the meantime, we need to get busy making some kind of camp.”
“Yeah,” says Carrie. “Camp Shipwreck!”
LOOKING CRISP AND CLEAN in his neatly pressed white Coast Guard uniform, Andrew Tatem stepped up to the depressing bouquet of microphones in the parking lot outside his base. Beyond the mikes was the press. Their cameras liked him already. He was thirty-eight years old, just over six-one, with a Florida tan and shiny white teeth, which he was planning to keep all to himself today.
The media frenzy that he knew was coming had come all right, and the street directly outside the front gates to the base looked like an overbooked satellite-dish convention. One after another, reporters lined up before the cameras, their caked-on makeup barely withstanding the sweltering summer heat of Miami as they doled out the latest on the mysterious case of the missing
Family Dunne.
But the pack was growing restless.
For an entire news cycle, a veritable lifetime for these media types, they hadn’t been fed any new information. Tatem knew why, of course.
Because there wasn’t any.
Nonetheless, Tatem also knew he had to let them do their jobs. Reporters were a fickle bunch, and the last thing he needed right now was to have them turn on him.
Hence the press conference.
Slowly, calmly, methodically, Tatem delivered his prepared statement.
The search continues . . . no effort being spared . . . It’s a big ocean out there . . . The Coast Guard remains extremely hopeful . . . I remain extremely hopeful.
It was all true. It just wasn’t new.
Which was why Tatem braced himself as he stopped, drew a deep breath, and made a simple offer.
“I’ll answer your questions now.”
All at once the air exploded with shouting as the reporters verbally elbowed one another in order to be heard.
“At what point will you call off the search effort?”
“Can you confirm that
The Family Dunne
issued a Mayday call before it disappeared?”
“Why hasn’t the Navy been brought in?”
Tatem had given his fair share of press conferences, but they had never been like this. Not even close to this magnitude and intensity.
One man off to the side, a scraggly-haired beat reporter from the
Daily Miami,
was particularly relentless. Florida was this guy’s turf, and he clearly didn’t want anybody to forget it.
“What’s your reaction to the rumor that you’re about to be replaced as the officer in charge of this search effort?” he asked.
Tatem blinked.
Replaced?
“I’m certainly not aware of any such rumor,” he answered.
The reporter turned to the brunette next to him, muttering loudly enough to be heard.
“They never are.”
Tatem ignored the unpleasant remark, not to mention the overwhelming urge to leap from behind the microphones and lock this asshole in a half nelson before dropping him down to the pavement.
What’s your reaction to that, punk?
It was time to wrap things up.
“I’ll answer one more question,” he announced.
Immediately the shouting escalated, the gaggle of reporters pushing up closer to the microphones. As nonchalantly as he could, Tatem raised his hand to wipe away a bead of sweat from his forehead, only to hear the air explode again with the sound of clicking cameras.
Damn.
They didn’t miss a gnat fart, did they?
He could see it now, his photo splashed across every major newspaper in the country.
Coast Guard Lieutenant Andrew Tatem on the hot seat,
the caption would read.
Or, worse,
Andrew Tatem only hours before being replaced in Miami.
He suddenly wished he’d never heard of the Dunne family and their damn sailboat. He had felt sorry for them, but in the media’s intense glare—this ridiculous 24/7 circus—the feeling had shifted to intense frustration. Even some anger.
What the hell happened to that family?
It didn’t make any sense so far.
Tatem suddenly saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was Millcrest. His lieutenant was walking straight toward him with that familiar look on his face.
There was something Tatem needed to know.
And it couldn’t wait.
TATEM STEPPED BACK from the microphones as Millcrest whispered up against his ear.
“We found something, sir.”
That was it. Four words he’d been waiting to hear. That’s all it took.
Quickly copping his best poker face, Tatem turned to the crowd of reporters and announced that there was another matter he had to attend to. No one bought it, but he didn’t care. As they all began shouting “What other matter?” he was hightailing it back inside the base.
Directly to the Sit Room.
“It’s a life jacket from the boat,” Millcrest told him along the way. “There must have been a fire onboard, because part of it was badly burned.”
“You said it was from the boat. How do you know?” asked Tatem.
“Because it said so,” answered Millcrest with a slight smirk. “They actually had monogrammed life jackets, if you can believe that. ‘The Family Dunne’ was sewn along the back of the collar.”
“Only one life jacket was found?”
“So far.”
“Nothing else—no other debris from the boat, the fire, whatever happened?”
“Not yet. We’re circling the area again, widening the perimeter. With the jacket being scorched, though —”
“I know,” said Tatem.
That’s probably all they’ll find.
Millcrest grabbed the door of the Sit Room and held it open for Tatem, who immediately locked eyes with the junior officer on the radio.
“Which team was it?” Tatem asked. “Powell?”
“No, it was Hawkins,” answered the officer.
“They on a secure channel?”
“Yes, and waiting for you, sir.”
The officer radioed the SAR team and they answered within seconds.
“Nice catch, boys,” said Tatem, which he truly meant. A life jacket floating in the ocean was the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Now came the key question he had to ask them. This was the gutwhacker.
“How far from the original EPIRB coordinates are you?”
“That’s the thing,” answered Hawkins, the SAR pilot, his voice echoing through the radio. “We’re a whole lot farther away than any current or drift pattern could’ve taken them. Lieutenant, you know what that means.”
Tatem fell silent. On the one hand, this explained why the search teams hadn’t found anything sooner.
The Family Dunne
had never been at those original coordinates.
On the other hand, it made the situation clear to him—from a Coast Guard perspective, anyway.
It was hopeless out there.
“Sir?” asked Millcrest.
Tatem’s mind returned to the room. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Would you like Hawkins to fan the area one more time?”
Tatem took a moment, squeezing his temples as if to force out the answer he didn’t want to give. But had to.
“No,” he finally said. “Bring ’em home . . . bring ’em
all
home. The search is over. The area’s too large.
The Family Dunne
went down.”