Midway Page 3

  Or me. But I was defenceless, and sharks didn’t take risks. They went in fast for a quick chomp, and then backed off while their victim panicked, thrashed and bled out. Brutal, but genius. You couldn’t fault them for their attitude. It had kept them at the top of the food chain for millions of years. Humans had been using modern shops for less than a hundred years for their ultimate foraging needs, and look at all the devastation and chaos that produced. At least nothing went to waste in the great width and depth of the oceans. I imagined a bird or handsome gull astride my shoulders—pecking at the bloated meat of my face, and tugging at the dead elastic of my ears. My senses now nothing more than a floating buffet. I thought about all the other things that would start to doom me, aside from sharks or strange creatures. Exposure to the elements was one, either the sun would cook me, or the ocean of night would chill me into hypothermia. Electrolyte depletion as I slowly shrugged into exhaustion, tiredness, unconsciousness then eventual drowning. I shouldn’t dwell on what hasn’t happened yet. I had to be careful, I needed to be alert.

  I slipped the Shark Shield back beneath the gap in the Fast Skin for safekeeping, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake, or perhaps the smartest decision of my life. Either way, I’d find out the outcome later tonight.

  After checking the vast horizon for signs of life, I lay back in the water, and commenced a steady backstroke towards the west coast of Africa and whatever waited in-between. I’d try anything to help break the monotony my muscles had endured.

  As the next hour floated by, my thoughts soon drifted back to Celeste and what happy memories I had left of her. On our first meeting of each other, we both flirted outrageously from the get go, the seduction lay in both of our hands, the relationship both of our faults, but I—

  Something small and firm bopped against my head and slid past my ear with the abrupt, cool smoothness of a metal pipe. I started thrashing about in sheer fear, punching and kicking at the ocean around me. My violence punished empty water. Nothing received a beating. There was no immediate danger of gaping, monstrous jaws for me to fall into.

  I kept turning trying to find my attacker, realising that shark skin wouldn’t have been that smooth.

  Then I noticed the familiar green logo on the bottle floating in front of my eyes; reaching out I grabbed it and pulled it closer, holding it before me.

  I laughed. And felt bad for doing so. My stupidity was a relief.

  It was an unopened plastic bottle of Green Voodoo Tiger. Whatever deity patrolled this vicinity, they sure were mocking me.

  In my hand it didn’t seem real, a dream, a mirage, a trick played on me and only me by some conniving, hidden conjurer. I looked at my fingers, and how old and shrivelled they looked. If this was a dream, the details were impeccable. Well played daemon, good game. It looks real.

  Was somebody playing a joke? If it was, the humour was sick. Of all the flotsam that lay on the surfaces of all the oceans in the world, I had to bump into this rats piss.

  Nevertheless, I’d hold on to it for the time being as it was the only source of nutrition to hand and it may be a while until my next meal. Or I may be a meal, whichever came first.

  The craving thought of food got my stomach growling, tickling against the wall of water that pressed against my gut. I considered trying to snatch out at the passing fish when they returned, maybe get lucky and grab one for my tea. Good thing I don’t mind sushi. Perhaps I could eat some seaweed? My eyes scanned the surface. No such luck in these crystal waters. I’d be lucky to come across a stray turd this far out in the Atlantic.

  There was nothing but life and death this far away from civilisation. Life was pure out here. I don’t think I’d ever felt as spiritual as I did right now, despite the ridiculousness of the Green Voodoo Tiger.

  Nature was my god; the water was my mistress (after Celeste of course). I’m here with nature and she is here with me.

  Can she help me?

  No.

  Is she testing me?

  I’ll know when all this is all over. I’ve decided this fate for myself. It’s no one’s fault but my own. I’m here because of my own twisted desire to achieve, to be recognised as someone different. We’re designed to fight for survival, and I was here to prove that.

  With the green bottle gripped tight in my left hand and a draining gurgle emptying in my stomach, I swam until I found my second tangible item floating out here with me. Blocking my path and emerging up about two feet from out of the waterline, it was long, sleek, and black. My first thought was that it was a dead shark or whale, bloated with noxious gas, and moments from exploding because of the burgeoning build up inside its dead sac of skin. The last thing I wanted to be hanging around was a corpse. If a feast was to occur, I didn’t want an invite. But given my situation, I decided to check out my visitor as I had little else to do. I adjusted my goggles and dipped my head below the water line, into the brine. A black skeleton hovered before me, the bones of no sea creature I’d ever seen. I was startled for a moment as my mind tried to categorise the (hopefully) dead beast. It was roughly fifty feet long with three spiky tentacles emerging from the underside. The far end had a close cluster of more tentacles, shorter but greater in number. As my eyes took the monstrosity in, I figured it immediately for a giant squid, with extremities nibbled and chewed back to their nubs by lesser beasts. But it didn’t move right, it was the wrong kind of dead, too stiff for something born in the ocean. What remained of the tentacles didn’t sway as freely as they should against the currents, they appeared fixed, as if the squid was frozen or had escaped the studio of some bold though macabre taxidermist. The body was all wrong as well. Too long and bloated along the full length, not even a hint of the spade-like head. I turned my head sideward; my pondering brow ceased its furrowing. I was looking at a tree.

  I guessed it was Baobab judging from the thick shape and stubby branches. But the surface looked soft instead of the usual firm, concrete smoothness I expected. I swam closer to my unexpected island. A drowning man would take a rope from anybody. I wondered for a moment that maybe the Lord Burringham had perhaps struck this flotsam, disabling the boat, and sinking it in seconds as the underside was sheared away. It only made sense that I make it my own, if indeed it had sealed the fates of my crewmates.

  My fingers reached out and touched cool black jelly. The trunk of the Baobab was earthy, pliable mulch that my fingers sank into with ease. The fibres parted and split as if I’d made an incision, and was extracting a troublesome organ. I pulled my hand back and lay it on top, gripped, and pulled myself up and onto the tree. It hissed as water and trapped air escaped from the heart of the trunk, as if protesting my saddling. I righted myself and hugged on halfway along the Baobab, sighing as the water drained with a tickling suck from my suit. With my back turned towards to the sky I rested, taking breath that wasn’t hampered by the press of the ocean against my chest. I lifted my goggles from cutting into my cheeks and rested them on my forehead, blinking without the fear of getting any more of the assaulting seawater into my eyes.

  I’d found an island. It wasn’t much, but I was grateful for the shift it gave me in increasing my chances of surviving this ordeal.

  I loved that tree. I wanted to clone it and plant a million of them.

  I thanked whatever storm or landslip had unsettled this tree from its home roots and carried it this far out to me. I wanted to find my way back to the wherever this had grown and thank its people simply for being.

  I thanked the tree, nuzzled it. Embraced it for being a tree.

  I wondered how old the tree must have been to have deteriorated to this condition. Years for definite. I wondered if it was older than me. I considered the possibility that this tree fell from its place in the tight, packed earth and into some tributary the day I was born and had wandered the waters of this world, waiting for me. I tapped the soft blackness and considered kissing it. I didn’t. I rested for maybe ten minutes before I noticed that the tree had sagged in the middle
and I was sinking back into my rightful place in the water. I sat up and sank my fingers into the Baobab flesh to right myself. Compared to the waterlogged trunk I couldn’t have weighed much, but my fingers easily burrowed into the black bark as I shifted my weight. I dropped the bottle of Green Voodoo Tiger and gasped, yelping high in shock as my hands disappeared beneath the surface, and into the very heart of the tree. Elbows deep, my face smacked into the trunk with a comical splat. I chewed bitter tasting flakes, spluttering and coughing as I tried to breathe in and spit out at the same time. A wet crunch of a giant’s limb snapping exploded between my legs, and I fell forward through the trunk of the tree as it divided. I turned and grasped as I slid into the dark blue, through a galaxy of soft black splinters that flooded into my nose and my unprotected eyes. Twin behemoths bore down on me as their balance shifted and turned in the water. The root end upended and knocked me in the back with a thump that jolted my shoulder. I pushed away, deeper then left, then up to the surface in time to see what remained of the roots reaching for the sky, a rotting hand of some long dead sea god in a last ditch grip of the sun. It failed, and sunk back under the waves, lowering as a piston of nature. The two halves broke into pieces as a result of my touch. After an age of rot, the Baobab had retained structure against the pull and slam of the ocean, though this had paled against my presence within a few minutes of contact. I had destroyed this monument to survival. The only hope that I’d seen was nothing but a mirage made real that broke apart as soon as I laid my hand upon it. I’d had another taste of fate being cruel. I washed my face in the water, removing any black remnants of the dead Baobab. I blew out through my nose to clear the sinuses. I was hurt; my spirit a little more broken than before, if that was possible.

  Laugh it off, it wasn’t personal.

  I readjusted my goggles, placed them back over my eyes, and ducked under. Shreds of bark and fibre danced about in the current. Some sank immediately, other swirled with the tide, carried beyond my sight. The tree had split and broken up into pieces no larger than myself. It was compost for the ocean now. I half sighed, half marvelled at how something once so great and powerful had met such a fate at my hands. Trees should be mighty, felled only by axe, or destroyed by nature. Not the brief touch of a long distance swimmer.

  I looked around and found the familiar lime green bottle that I’d let go of during my unpredicted return to the water. I swam for it and begrudgingly plucked it from the tide. Reunited with my annoying, day-glow sidekick in this jolly fucking adventure that I’d found myself in.

  I considered taking a sip, only to console myself for my second loss of craft, but an inner warning told me not. I could survive for three days without water, close to a month without actual chunky sustenance. But unless I figured a way out of the water and onto dry land I was one hundred and ten percent sure that I’d become food long before I succumbed to starvation.

  My stomach growled at the mere thought of food, warning off or alerting any potential predators. I hungered for a protein bar. I wanted to feel the plastic foil on my tongue as I tore into it with my teeth.

  Bananas with black spots emerging, a definite indicator that the sugar content was at its prime.

  Beans on toast with a sprinkling of cayenne pepper and cheddar cheese.

  A tall glass of fresh milk with ice, accompanied by a cheese and onion omelette.

  Yum. Or Mega Nom-Noms, as the kids say nowadays.

  With my mind reeling with thoughts of steaming, sugary goodness, I wasn’t doing myself any favours. I endeavoured to carry on my cut of the ocean. If I didn’t push on, fine dining would remain a dream, and nothing more. I’d have to fight for my next calorie, or face becoming one myself.

  With the sun behind me, I swam. Grey clouds rolled in from the North to combat the light, one of my remaining allies. I saw another passenger plane high above and out of touch, crossing my diagonal from north-east to south-west. I tried again with my goggles, but it was useless. The light was fading. I couldn’t signal.

  I missed Celeste and her minty, constant zephyr on my neck as we drifted off in our shared bunk. I missed Tom’s ha ha haah pirate laugh, biting proud and gregarious into the morning air, and even the humour surrounding his penchant for nude swimming. My stomach contracted with the thought of Russell’s cooking. He was a master of sauces, and we were due to have Carbonara for our evening meal. Charles would have told us a story, no doubt, something about his travels, or maybe a fight he’d gotten into back in his navy days. Tamara was good for banter, you could always chat nothing with Tamara. She was good at nonsense. She was good at impressions as well. I recalled past laughter, recounting to myself memorable moments that would stick with me until my last gasp. It had all been pretty fun up until the moment I found out I was alone.

  I carried on this pining for nostalgia for a few uneventful hours, until I thought my eyes were failing me, then I realised it was the light going down to die for the night, not my eyesight. The charcoal grey billows were winning, robbing me of my last sunset. I shivered, more from loneliness than the cold. As pitiful as it sounded, I really wanted a cuddle. I didn’t think the tree hug would tide me over.

  I had no floatation aid, no food, and a scant amount of liquid to see me through this ordeal. All I had was hope, and that was fading fast. If any rescue were to arrive soon, I’d guess it would be via helicopter, though the distance between terra firma and me was vast. A ship would need to be sent where The Lord Burringham was last known, before a helicopter searched the immediate area. Any chance of that scenario unfolding would at least be a day or two. The other option would be planes, flying high up, to cover a greater area. I was a needle to the Atlantic’s haystack.

  This is my war story, I tell myself. I imagined me surrounded by grandchildren—nieces, and nephews—in a positive think forward. I’m telling this story, how I navigated my way home with little more than my wits, and a bottle of pop.

  I smiled, grinning madly as I wondered who I would end up settling down with. An old school friend, or would I meet someone new because of my new found fame?

  The questions I asked turned darker than the skies above as I considered the other side of the coin, and the flipped fate of, what if I don’t make it? What sort of man would I become staring death straight between the eyes? What would it be like? Would I get to see its face? Would I embrace it, or would I cry?

  The realisation was settling in that at some point, during the night ahead, I was going to die in the darkness of this enormous ocean. Then during, or not soon after my last breath, I would be eaten, by one creature, or perhaps many.

  Approaching the cusp of this twilight world, I was reminded to turn back on my Shark Shield, for the true black of night was on its way, bringing further unseen terrors. The light blinked on, a single green eye that signified that the Shark Shield now emitted its soundless defence with protective, invisible waves.

  What if I dropped it? That would pretty much sum my day up. I slipped it back into its pocket, and zipped it up safe.

  I’ve never been afraid of the water, not even at night. Any aquaphobic or nyctophobic tendencies would have shown up on the psychological test before I entered this competition, I assured myself. But this was different. We had all spent a fair few hours in sensory deprivation chambers to help us adjust to swimming at night. This was a non-stop mission, twenty-four/seven, and a few of us had never swum at night before. We had lamps onboard to light the way, but it still didn’t detract from the fact that at night, the ocean was a rolling black slab of terrifying, shifting points for the uninitiated. If the water got too choppy, we had a special harness with an aerial pointing up from the shoulders. A line was attached to this, to anchor us to the boat, and to stop the line hindering our progress. Bait on a hook. Fishing, no matter the weather.

  I wasn’t afraid of sharks per se, I’ve swam with them a few times (little ones), but the fear of potential gigantic movement below was very real. It could happen. I believe the fear of large creatures
is known as Megalophobia. Is it a fear if you’re pretty damn sure it’s going to happen? I’m starting accept the fact I’m going to die (and not panic about it. Panic solves nothing in situation like mine. You have to switch on survival mode and turn it up to twelve and a half). Either I’ll be saved, or I won’t. I’ve accepted this (as much as I can in my imagination) and controlled my fear to the best of my ability. I wasn’t looking forward to the pain, but it was the loneliness that scared me the most, because I had no idea what that would entail. The worst pains aren’t physical.

  I had no lamp and no line. It was darkening, and I floated adrift. I might as well have been on the moon. It was an excruciating pain not knowing where my crew was. I waited for a bus that would never come. The agony fought with my hunger to twist my bowels into tight, careful knots of anxiety. I hadn’t even been hungry half a day yet. I imagined the residents of certain starving African countries would laugh at my European problem of being a little bit hungry. But then again, I’d been burning calories for half a day trying to stay afloat, without replenishing solids, or liquids in any form.

  Before the voyage, my only fear in life was that I’d die alone, or slowly, and burning with pain. Aside from this I was pretty fearless. I reckon it must’ve come from one of my brothers locking me in the cellar when the light bulb had blown. I was only down there about fifteen minutes before my parents heard my banging, but it felt longer. The darkness seemed to possess the ability to slow time, treacle for the mind. I’d soon feel that old fear of not knowing yet again.

  Heights; fine (irony; I was floating in suspension about three odd miles or so above the planet’s nearest solid surface). I’d jumped out of planes before to parachute down to Earth in the name of charity. I’ve walked on hot coals for the same cause. But it seemed my worst fears could easily be realised tonight, between the approaching night sky, and whatever monstrosities lurked below me, I was alone. And that thought terrified me. But I couldn’t curl up into a ball or hide under a blanket. I couldn’t call the police, my parents, or Iron Man. I was in this by myself and would have to deal with anything that revealed itself with nothing but my own shit scared wits. I wasn’t looking forward to it. In all honesty, I wasn’t the seafaring type. But here I was, conscripted by the hungry chase of fame and glory. I had set any fears aside to defeat a beast I knew little of. I was used to pools scoured of life by a diet of chlorine and monitored temperatures. Aside from beach resorts whilst on holiday, I’d been true wild swimming once before all of this. Compared to the adventures of the others, I was a chicken.