Hunting the Dragon (9 page)

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ears and anger gave way to thoughts of his impending death. After that, the desire to survive overcame his sense of hopelessness.

Billy thought, How far am I from land? We were a day and a half out of Samoa, maybe two hundred miles from the coast. Which way? Yeah, it has to be southwest. With water and food I could paddle twenty-five miles a day. That’s eight days of paddling. I can catch fish, maybe. But without water, I’m dead.

He took two strokes and sent the surfboard gliding ahead to retrieve his pack and getaway bag. He cursed Gandara and Santos for giving him the means to prolong his agony. And it’s going be agony, he thought. Am I kidding myself? I might as well end it now. How? Dive down a hundred feet and suck in a gallon of seawater? Hang myself with the surf leash?

Billy set his two packs on the deck of his surfboard and opened the larger one. He began tossing aside things he wouldn’t need. Into the water went Levi’s, T-shirts, shorts, jogging shoes, his leather shaving kit. He’d keep the nylon wind shirt surfers wore to help prevent paddling rash. Good-bye to all the rest. His earthly possessions drifted away and sank. He opened the getaway bag and began an inventory.

Here were treasures that would mean life or death, and he laid them on the surfboard’s deck. He picked up the compass and took a sight. The needle quivered and settled on its northerly magnetic point. He turned the bezel and hoped he had the right direction to Samoa. The fishhooks, line, and lures were critical, as were the sunscreen and nylon wind shirt. The twenty-foot length of stout nylon line would come in handy. He wiped a drop of water off his stainless-steel signal mirror and polished it. The mirror’s glint reflecting in the eyes of a sleepy lookout could save him.

There was also food, and he said aloud, “Ah, granola bars. Ten of ’em. I’ll catch fish and eat one granola bar a day. Ugh.” Then his fingers caressed the quart bottle of distilled water he used for his watercolors. He was thirsty already.
Two swallows a day, and chew some raw fish for extra moisture. Hey, I’m gonna make it.

He was tempted to discard his paints, brushes, pencils, and sketch pad. But his artist’s tools meant too much, and he stuffed them back into the waterproof bag. He still had his wallet, his passport, and the money from his first watercolor sale. He pulled the soggy billfold out of his shorts and packed it away with the rest.

The day’s last minutes of sun still gave a radiant warmth. He knew in the nights to come he’d suffer from the cold, and with daylight he would curse the endless, searing, body-blistering heat, but for now the sun was a comfort.

“I’ll make it!” he screamed at the fiery red ball as it touched the western horizon. “And I’ll see you in hell, Gandara!”

He began paddling. One hundred strokes, then a two-minute rest. He alternated between paddling prone and on his knees. He stroked on and on until total darkness and a million times a million stars shone overhead. The physical effort kept him sane and partly stilled the fear that surged in his guts. He was dancing on the edge of panic. One hundred strokes. Rest. Look at the stars. Ask how they got there. Then one hundred more. When the Southern Cross appeared he stopped and pulled on his tightly woven nylon wind shirt. Next he reached for the safety leash that surfers use to connect themselves to their boards. His was ten feet long, incredibly strong, and elastic. He had gone over the falls many times in twenty-foot waves and had seen the leash stretch to double its length. Each end had a loop of adhesive Velcro. The loops allowed one end of the urethane cord to be secured to a ring in the tail of the board. The other end was strapped around an ankle. He fixed the leash to the board and his leg. No matter what happened during the night he would stay connected. Without the board, he was dead.

Billy leaned forward and lay on the surfboard. Keeping movement to a minimum, he cradled his arms around the getaway bag and began taking deep, relaxing breaths. His body unconsciously adjusted to the tipping and tilting of the board, and the water that sloshed over his elbows and feet. In less than a minute he fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke at dawn and sensed that something off to his left was watching him. He sat up, stiff and sore, and moved his aching shoulders. His eyes roved across the sea. Nothing was out there except the tint of dawn rising in the east. Not a cloud in sight. No chance of a squall to drench him with rain. Not even a bird. He thought, One sip of water now, then I’ll try fishing.

Billy carefully broke the plastic bottle’s seal and unscrewed the cap. Taking great care not to spill a drop, he put the lid into a pocket. To lose the cap, and not be able to contain the quart of water, would be a disaster. He brought the bottle to his lips, and fighting to keep from draining it all, filled his mouth. He rinsed the liquid around, savoring it, and then slowly swallowed. He carefully replaced the cap and stowed it back in the bag. Next, he tied a wriggly plastic trolling lure, with its sharp barbed hook, to a length of fishing line and let it out a hundred feet. He secured the line to the loop at the end of the surfboard leash, figuring if he hooked a big fish the elastic cord would take the shock. Next he cut off two feet of nylon line, made a lanyard for his Swiss Army knife, and hung it around his neck. If he did catch a fish, he would have to kill it quickly or chance being thrown off his board. If the fish was really big, he’d have to cut the line or be yanked off his surfboard. That was his big fear. Losing his board meant it would all be over. He began paddling again and glanced back. The brightly colored lure skipped across the surface and Billy muttered, “If I were a fish, I’d sure take a bite at that.”

Then he saw a flick of movement far behind the lure. Something surfaced, and then disappeared below the water. Billy held his breath.
Let it be a small tuna. No more than twenty pounds. If a shark hits it, there goes my lure. Come on, tuna. Bite!

Nothing happened. He paddled on, towing the dancing plastic wiggly as the sun climbed higher. Billy stopped to rest, slathered lotion on his tender nose and reddened face, then coated the backs of his legs where he was already starting to burn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something dark move. He saw it again—the tip of a black dorsal fin. Then it was gone. Was it a great white, a mako, a tiger? It wasn’t after his lure. Was it after him? At noon, with the sun hammering down, he ripped open a granola bar and wished he’d packed canned pineapple instead. The dried fruit and abrasive grains didn’t produce the saliva he needed to swallow. He was forced to take a gulp of his precious water to get the concoction down. He capped the bottle and reached for the sunblock to put another layer on his nose. As Billy lifted the tube out the bag he saw a shadowy barrel-shaped form swim swiftly under his surfboard. Startled, Billy dropped the tube and yanked his legs out of the water. “What the hell was that?” he muttered fearfully.

He knew that whatever it was had been following him. Then he noticed that the tube of sunscreen had floated away during his moment of fright.

His eyes searched the water for the bright plastic container. Nothing. It must have sunk, he thought bitterly.

He was burning up and had to cool off. He stared underwater for several minutes. There was nothing but blueness fading to gray and he chanced sliding off the board. He hung there with his arms across the deck, allowing the water to ease the pain of his sunburned legs. He peered underwater again. It was as peaceful as before.

I’ll rest a few moments and then get going.

He laid his head on the surfboard and closed his eyes to shield them from the glare. With his body supported by the buoyancy of the salt water, Billy drifted into a momentary half-sleep, half-daydream of floating down a freshwater river in a bouncing inner tube. He saw himself scooping up the clear, chill mountain water and drinking his fill. His mind shifted to the day he had moved in with his Aunt Betty and her husband, Al. He had been ten years old, and from that day on, his life abruptly changed for the better.

Betty and Al owned a small but successful boatyard in a large Southern California marina. Along with the love they gave Billy, they put him to work, and he quickly learned how to maintain and operate pleasure boats. His newfound skills led to paid work around boats. School friends ignited his interest in surfing and competitive swimming. Billy remembered with pride passing the beach lifeguard one-mile rough water swim test and his promotion to deckhand on a rescue launch. After high school he spent his entire savings from his boatyard work for a plane ticket to Fiji and a monthlong stay at Bombora Surf Camp. His ability to run small boats and repair outboard motors landed him a surf taxi operator’s job. With a resigned shake of his head he remembered how he’d screwed up and lost the best job a surfer could have.

He began feeling sorry for himself and thought, Betty and Al, they gave me a lot of freedom and confidence. Maybe too much. Maybe I wouldn’t be floating out here now if they’d been more protective. Come on. Get real. It’s not because of them I was abandoned.

Fighting to stay awake, he tried to remember all the boats he had ever sailed on. There had been a lot, but they were a jumble in his mind. His thoughts were so scattered by a constant nagging thirst and painful sunburn that he couldn’t concentrate. What he did recall was that every boat he’d been aboard had an ice chest or refrigerator loaded with cold fruit juices and soft drinks. He imagined reaching for a bottle of chilled lemon-lime soda, twisting the cap off, and drinking it down until he burped.

Relaxing in a haze of good memories about Betty and Al and fun times surfing, he started to fall asleep. Then suddenly a nearby movement of something dark jolted him fully awake. Whatever it was came again, right for his legs, and then passed beneath him. He scrambled back onto the surfboard and looked wildly about. The sea was empty and he thought, It’s playing with me, like I’m its toy.

Something hit him on the head. Before he could cry out, the tube of sunscreen landed on the board. It had been punctured and was oozing lotion. “What the hell?”

He spun and saw a dolphin rise out of the water. A dab of white lotion by its mouth told him who had thrown the tube. As the small spinner chattered at Billy, his fear subsided and he called, “Look what you did to my sunscreen.”

The sound of his parched, gravelly voice startled him, as it did the small dolphin, who dove to swim under his board. He called after it, “Hey, come back.”

The dolphin surfaced again, closer now, almost within Billy’s reach. He didn’t dare make a motion that might frighten it away. He studied this curious mammal, with its anatomically fixed grin. It was a female, and she looked familiar. Her rapid clicks and high-pitched squeaks came again. Billy looked closer and saw abrasions where the dolphin’s beak projected from her head and thought, She’s the same one I freed from the net. And I got you out twice, didn’t I?

He chanced a soft whisper. “Hey, you know me. I saved you from Gandara.”

She chattered again, and Billy asked, “So what are you doing following me?”

The dolphin swam a few inches closer and sounded a new, slower vocalization that Billy guessed might mean she was more relaxed with him. He sank to his knees and began to paddle, hoping the dolphin would stay abreast of him. She swam alongside, and he continued the one-sided conversation. “Okay, I’ve heard the stories about dolphins pushing people lost at sea to shore. Your kind saved my life, so I’ll believe anything. But you’re playing with me, right? You’re all alone out here and you’re bored. And what about the guys you push the wrong way? We never hear from them, right? Well, I’m not going to be much fun for you.”

Then he realized the dolphin hadn’t joined him for fun and games. “Your pod, your whole family, they died in that net, didn’t they? You’re all alone like I am. Did you come to adopt me? Or have me adopt you? A lot of good I’ll do you. And I’m sorry for what happened; I want you to know I had nothing to do with it.”

He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand and thought, Talking to a dolphin like this—the sun’s getting to me.

The dolphin came closer, and he reached out to run his hand over the top of her head. She didn’t pull away, and he felt her energy flow into his fingertips. For the moment, his loneliness eased.

Right now, at his side, another living creature was sharing his pain. He desperately needed the dolphin’s companionship and had to hold himself back from hugging her. He remembered seeing the
Flipper
TV show as a kid and said aloud, “You’re not Flipper. Flipper always had a happy ending. He never died in a tuna net. Flipper used to save Bud and Sandy, and next week they’d save him. How about saving me?”

She nudged his surfboard and he asked, “What’s your name. Click-Click? Big Beak? Chatter? Hey, that’s good. Mind if I call you Chatter? Do you understand? I’m a mammal like you. I nursed at my mother’s breasts, and females of my species give live birth like your kind. But I have to have water without salt. And how about some raisin bread with almond butter and bananas? You know, health food stuff.”

With a cry of desperation he yelled at the dolphin, “But I’d settle for a gallon of fresh water. Can you do that?”

At the rising of his voice, the dolphin leaped over the surfboard and vanished into the depths. He told himself, My mind’s going, and I’ve only been out here one day. You’re supposed to be tough. So get with it, Billy. You’re not dead yet.

He looked for the dolphin, but she had gone, and he thought, My life’s going to end on this ocean feeding the sharks. And what did I ever do for anyone but myself?

To still his fears, Billy began paddling furiously, hoping the physical effort might bring back some sort of sanity. When his shoulders stiffened he came to his knees and kept on. An hour later, exhaustion forced him to stop, and he collapsed on the surfboard. He lay on the deck gasping, fully aware that the sun was blistering the backs of his legs and dehydrating his already parched body.

He rolled off the board to cool down. He heard her click-tick-clicking at him, and a second later she appeared at his side. He felt a surge of happiness. He wasn’t alone after all. As Billy climbed back on the board the dolphin surfaced next to him. He saw she was holding a limp and lifeless fish in her mouth and suppressed a shout of joy. He spoke to her calmly so she wouldn’t drop the small tuna.