Midway Read online

  Lifting the goggles from my face as I dipped into the bottom of a swell, I kicked up to raise myself a few inches from the water. I looked back east, I looked north and south and even full circle westward, the way I had been heading. Usually the boat would be churning slowly just twenty or so feet behind my right shoulder, the solar powered propeller pushing her along at maybe four or five miles per hour. But today it was gone. Either one of Tom’s jokes had gone way too far, or the rising fact bubbled away like acid in the pit of my stomach was that I, Sam Berlitz, was all alone in the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Shit,” was my solitary reply.

  ***

  Nothing but empty blue saline lay beneath me, until the silt floor of the Atlantic four thousand or so metres down. Subtracting the seven odd miles I had covered this afternoon. The beach at Belém on the coast of Brazil was still some fifteen hundred miles west from where I floated, while Gabon on the West African coast was about over two and a half thousand miles back the way I had already come. I scanned the horizon again, spinning on the spot, soon losing my bearings as I had nothing to fix on in this plain of open water.

  The Lord Burringham should have been matching my speed about thirty feet behind me. Maybe it was, but in another direction. Pirates. Maybe pirates had chased them and fearing for their lives they’d fled, abandoning me as saving five lives and losing one was deemed morally better than losing six.

  Whatever the cause, they’d left me.

  Keep breathing, don’t hyperventilate. Keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

  I cursed again to make myself feel better, anything to stop the rise of emotion rising up through my cheeks. I felt flushed, thirsty, and longed to step on something solid as my feet flailed beneath me. I’d become a fledging tossed out over the abyss.

  Learn to fly, little birdie.

  And breathe. They’ll be here somewhere. How could they lose me?

  Treading water, I hung undecided above the gaping blue abyss. Circling and circling whilst I fought the sink or swim.

  Whatatodo? Whatatodo?

  I thought I saw a boat on the horizon, and I propelled myself up from the ocean with a kick push from my legs. Nothing, nada. Probably the crash of a breaking wave miles away, tearing up a patch of white surf along this infinite sheet of blue.

  Maybe they had boat trouble? Maybe they had blown the horn, but I was too engrossed in what I was doing that I hadn’t heard the call. Something had happened to the boat, something had collided with them, or someone hit their head and fallen overboard. Maybe.

  They wouldn’t have gone ahead, they wouldn’t leave me. Besides, I’d notice the churn of the waves as they passed me. They were behind me, back east, maybe a mile, maybe a little bit more. They must be. I should have stopped and turned when I heard the scream, I chided myself. My pride had done me in. All I had left to do was wait for the fall and eventual sink to the bottom feeders. I took little comfort in knowing that I wouldn’t go to waste out here. I morbidly wondered whether my Fast Skin would preserve and deter the mouths. Would sharks taste and spit me out? Would fish burrow their way into the succulent sack of flesh through the bite marks? Would my empty skull provide a sanctuary for crustaceans in the months to come? How many mouths would I feed? This is nature, and it happens every day between predator, prey, and scavenger. We humans took it upon ourselves to document our cause, then act surprised when death happens to us.

  “You can’t eat me! I pay my taxes and wear shoes! I’m above you! Above you I say!”

  These banal, clawing questions plagued the back of my mind, clouding what I should really be doing. I was alive. I should be dwelling about that, not my death, which would be of no consequence to me at all. I didn’t want it to be painful. What kind of sadist would wish for a painful death? I tried to will the universe into granting me a painless death. All I wanted was to fall into unconsciousness and slip away. Anyone would sign up for a quick divorce from life, as opposed to cancer, starvation, or the frantic gnashing of teeth on ones flesh and bone.

  No death. Not yet. As obvious as it was, I shouldn’t dwell on the inevitable. I had to try and wiggle out of this situation.

  Somehow.

  The frustrating thing was, what did I do next? I needed a rope ladder, not anvils.

  Do I wait? Do I head back?

  I scanned the horizon again. Nothing. Neither a sail or seabird, only sky and forever blue skirting around my own lonely little circle of the world. A few sparse clouds decorated the space between me and the stratosphere. Everything that I could see and touch (or could touch or see me) was about one percent of my world. The rest of my immediate universe expanded out beneath my neck, beyond the waterline, and into nothing. I was fifty percent blind to any danger with no one to help my cause of keeping afloat. Numbers didn’t matter. I was one thing in a seemingly infinite expanse. The only variables were my how long my stamina would last and whatever would end up eating me. This wouldn’t be my choice if I could help it. The weather didn’t really matter, nor did the direction I headed in. Without knowledge, maps, or radar I might as well have been in the Pacific Ocean, or even the Sea of Tranquillity.

  Alone; the odd peace of the ocean’s calming susurration passing around me and only me; the only sound in my water logged ears. Louder than the beating of my hysterical heart. A storm compared to the breath through my chattering teeth and the rush of red water in my veins. I screamed to be heard. I demanded to be recognised that I existed, even if it was for my own benefit. I wanted to look into a mirror and scream at my reflection; to see my spittle fly against my other self and for the breath to fog between us both. I needed to know that it was everybody else that had disappeared and not me. I wasn’t sure what scenario I preferred.

  What if all the continents had been pulled beneath the surface and all the birds had dropped from the sky? What if my lonely little head and shoulders were all that lie between the sea level and sky above?

  I thought back to the competition report this morning, the French were the next in front of us, roughly seven miles west, and then the Australians in front of them. The Americans and the Germans were behind Team GB, ten miles back fighting neck and neck for fourth place. I didn’t pay much attention to the rest. Someone would turn up soon enough. If, and it was a big IF, they hadn’t all changed course like they had been told to in order avoid Hurricane Wendy. If not, well I was screwed, wasn’t I?

  Instead of bobbing in loneliness, I decided to close the distance between me and my following rivals. If something had happened to the boat, then I needed to increase my chances of being scooped out the water, even if it was a rival team that found me.

  No time to pray, get moving. Close that distance.

  I thought I saw another ship in the distance over to my left, relief bloomed, sending a burst of adrenaline flooding through my pulsing, hard done veins. I spun, jarring my neck, a crippling jolt stabbing at the top of shoulders. The ship vanished. Yet another spider of my wishful mind, traipsing the harsh line of reality that blended the great churning blue and the figment of what I really hoped to see passing the corner of my eye. You’ll keep seeing spiders until you catch one.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on ideal scenarios. I checked for the sun, making sure it was few degrees behind me, as it began its inverted parabolic descent through the afternoon sky. I then pulled my goggles back down over my eyes and pushed on, scooping my hands through the water, though not at full speed, every minute or so bobbing my head up out of the water to check for any passing vessels.

  The stress of the situation brought on my cramp in crippling waves; soon I was favouring my right leg to kick with, leaving my left leg to dangle uselessly over the expanse of the void like a vestigial tail. My body was committing treason. But soon the agony became too much, so I stopped, took a breath, and dipped my head below the water to rub the back of my left leg, trying to knead the badness out.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  Beneath me, before the gloom swallowed up all vision, someth
ing moved. A shapeless, malformed silhouette spread out like an oil spill, its size undeterminable as it had no fixed points to focus on, the silvery shape simply spread out longer and more snake like, and then as soon as it decided on its length, the sides bulged out—becoming flatter. I thought I saw a tail, but the protrusion retracted like the eye of a snail. It didn’t emerge again.

  Oscillate. That’s the word I was after. It seemed to shimmer and quiver, a pool of oil vibrating during a tremor with its million curved angles. I couldn’t work out whether it was the filtered light tricking my eyes, or the actual locomotion of the vast, weird gelatinous thing.

  I forgot about the cramp as I viewed the spectacle unfolding beneath me, and hovered; treading water slowly and carefully as if any sudden movement might alert this great being to my presence. The pain was crippling, but the awesomeness of what was before me overtook it. Like when you don’t notice a cut until you see the wet blood trickling from your fingers; this was the reverse of this. It didn’t swim, nor did it glide through the ocean below. It folded over itself like a wet black omelette as each new shape was born, circling below, as would a shark.

  I tensed, ready for the attack. Surely a beast of that size could easily swallow me whole over and over.

  A shape unnatural to this otherworldly beast emerged from the side of the otherworldly phantasmagoria, a spike or spear of some sort? It gave the folding thing a sense of scale, portraying it as at least bus sized. A proboscis? No, something familiar resonated with me as I felt the pressure build up in my lungs. I gave in and burst to the surface, now knowing what it was emerging from the side of shapeless shape. It was the mast of The Lord Burringham.

  Recognizing the ragged British flag that floated unhurriedly through the darkened gloom, what else could it have been? Drawing a deep breath once more, I dived under and rushed my head back and forth in a futile attempt to once again see the last trace of my vessel, like a fleeting mirage in the desert, the shapeless thing that gripped the only piece of civilisation I had seen in over an hour had sunk into the depths. Again, I was alone in the vast blue emptiness. I wanted to curse, shout out and scream, but that thing was below me, waiting. The abject fear that if I so much as farted it would return heeded by a call to hunger. I wanted to fart. I wanted to see it again, this time through the safety of eight-inch thick aquarium glass.

  I forgot to breathe, the burning in my lungs told me I needed to take breath, so I clawed my way back to the surface, each breath a hyperventilated wheeze, each gasp probably drawing that thing closer.

  Celeste was gone.

  Tom was missing.

  Russell couldn’t be found.

  Charles was nowhere to be seen.

  Tamara had vanished off the face of the Earth.

  The boat had sunk.

  They were all dead.

  That had to be the answer.

  Had to be. . .

  This was getting serious.

  Breathe.

  Calm, I warned myself. Save your energy. Think logically. How could I pull myself up and out from this situation I had found myself in, what did I need to do next?

  Breathe.

  Easy. Get out of the water before the battery pack on the Shark Shield ran out. With about eleven hours of battery charge left, sharks weren’t my main concern just yet. That strange, alien sea creature that pulsated beneath me was the surest reason for emptying my bowels inside the tight confines of my Fast Skin. It had to be a figment of my imagination brought on by the stress of been abandoned in the middle of the Atlantic. My mind had conjured a monster to blame. So, The Lord Burringham had sunk, maybe the dark shape I had seen was simply fuel leaking as the vessel descended to the bottom of the ocean floor. Fuel doesn’t circle; it spreads. Besides it looked too thick and viscous to be fuel. Anything oil based would have floated on the surface; besides, I would have tasted it in the water. I tasted the water to be sure then spat it out. Sharp and salty; nothing else there but plankton and fish piss.

  Water unites. Water divides.

  And yet if the Burringham had sunk, which I was sure it had, surely I’d see some evidence of the survivors. Somebody else must have made it off alive.

  I shouted the names of my crew, favouring Celeste over the others in a three to one ratio. Nothing but the sloshing of the waves lapping against my face answered back.

  I didn’t really suffer from autophobia. I enjoyed the freedom and space away from humanity, but this time I’d gone too far. I like to be alone…for a while. For those that choose to be alone still have the option to return. I’d had that taken from me. The ocean had become an endless prison. Bordering this line of potential life/death, I felt a strange elation and a realisation of what true freedom was; whatever came next would be me going to the edge of the world. I had to hang onto whatever I could, because dying from loneliness scared me more than anything else.

  Maybe an explosion had sunk it. But anything of the magnitude to sink the vessel I would have heard, the resulting sound wave from the explosion would have easily carried through the water, I was sure of it. Unless it had been a gas leak, from below, intoxicating the crew, causing them to veer off course before the explosion. But I had seen the mast below. So, why was there no other wreckage floating upon the surface?

  The mast had been blown off in the explosion. Simple as.

  Curiouser and curiouser, I thought Alice-like, trying to make sense of what lay before me. Which way should I swim? Should I stay here or keep heading back east? Becoming fed up with my own indecisiveness, I continued the way I had been heading with a lazy breast stroke before the cramp had set in. All this pondering had made me forget about the spasms down the back of my leg. I could but hope that it was gone for good, though I knew that a wish coming true would be too good for a piece of breathing flotsam like me. Another spasm would strike me at any second; this was the one thing I could be sure of. It waited behind the curtain, ready to jump out, and surprise me.

  I looked north and saw a plane seven miles high heading over me, its contrail scarring the western blue behind it. I doubted that it was looking for me, but it was the only humanity I’d seen since I’d kissed Celeste goodbye. I removed my mask and aimed it towards the sun, praying that someone onboard happened to look down and see that strange glint amongst the enormity of the Atlantic. I wanted them, whoever they were, to land at whatever airport in Africa or Europe or wherever, and see our plight on the news. BOAT MISSING IN ATLANTIC. NO SIGN OF CREW. I wanted them to remember that strange glint that meant nothing at the time, and call somebody, or post it on Facebook, anything that starts a series of events that leads to my rescue. Later, when I’d been saved, I’d buy them a drink, and we’d lunch and have a photo together. And that person, whoever they are, would become part of my unique story, whether they like it or not.

  The plane continued overhead to wherever. I watched, patiently hoping that my signal, my little act had contributed to my ongoing existence, creating a chain of events that would end all of this. The plane vanished behind the clouds in the east, but the contrail remained. I treaded water, watching in daydream as the sky path dissipated, and faded before my eyes.

  I sighed and turned my face to the sun, basking in its unique warmth. I wondered how long it would take for the equatorial sun to bake my head. Each passing second exposed to the distant, celestial torch brought me closing to being cooked. Another fate to think of. Sunburn. I’d lathered my face with waterproof sunscreen that morning, so I had some protection, but for how long?

  Heading east, I stroked at the water with a lazy slap, keeping my head well above the surface to keep an eye out for any other vessels, floating or airborne, it didn’t matter. Though another reason was that I didn’t want to look beneath in case I saw whatever was stalking me. If I was going to eaten by a giant squid, or a Megladon, or Godzilla or whatever the hell it was that floated below me, then I didn’t want to see it coming, please just swallow me whole like Jonah or Pinocchio. Not like Quint in Jaws. Loneliness was
painful enough without been bitten in two. I can’t say I ever thought about being some other creatures shit until now. I suppose we all end up that way. Somehow.

  Loneliness was a pain of hell that shed no blood. The torture of losing a loved one was bad enough, but for everyone in the world to lose you, and be aware of the fact, squeezed my heart hard as water from a sponge. The thought was apparent that if I managed to get back safely to dry land, would I ever see Celeste again, dead or alive? If the boat was gone, and everybody with it for whatever reason, she had probably gone down with the ship. Inside I was crying and tormented, but no tears prickled my eyes, a mental block stopped me from doing so. I felt them bubbling up behind my cheeks, but nothing sprang forth. Maybe it was my survival instinct kicking in. Forget the dead. Weep later. Plenty of time for tears if I managed to get out of this wet mess. I had ten ever-shrinking odd hours at the most until the lithium battery had depleted itself bone dry. I completed a little calculation in my head. My Shark Shield would be dead by 3 a.m., giving that Great White’s usually feed around dawn; I’d be a goner not much later.

  This was a place that man wasn’t supposed to be. Nature had warned us. The land was ours. Fire was ours, we borrowed the sun, but the light was ours. We had a mutual, unspoken harmony. The night belonged to things with long teeth and short minds. The depths belonged to base creatures with little culture aside from mating routines and feeding patterns. If we happened to slip into their realm, then we were fair game. And here I was dangling like a worm off the hook; free from being the burden of bait, but now toiling against a different doom.

  “Crap,” I cursed.

  Reaching round to my back I found the little zip in the base of my spine, unzipped it, and slid the Shark Shield out and flicked the little switch left. The green LED died. Battery life had been preserved, for now anyway. I’d turn it back on when the sun went down. I’d maybe bought myself a few more hours into tomorrow. Great Whites, more often than not, took the opportunity to hunt in the dark before dawn, as they have just enough light to see their prey. Any later and the seal, turtle, or unfortunate surfer are usually able to see them coming.