Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

They floated in silence for a while. At the surface the water was warm and, even with the breeze and his exhaustion, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The swells had become gentle and lapped at the top of his head, where it was tipped back in the water. It reminded Tusker of summer nights swimming in the shallow lake at his family’s cabin in Michigan. But here, of course, the next landfall south of Sri Lanka is Antarctica.

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Tusker opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? Damn it! He bolted upright with a splash and swiveled around in the darkness. “Sam!” he called. No answer. “Sam!” Again, louder. In the distance, he saw a flicker. A pin prick of light danced at water level. Sam. He flipped onto his back and kicked hard, doing an awkward but effective backstroke in the direction of the light. Every now and then he stopped and sat up to make sure he was going the right way. The light was getting bigger now, and he could hear Sam calling his name and splashing towards him.

After 15 minutes of hard swimming, they came together in a clumsy, panting embrace. “Oh god, Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too, me too,” she replied. He buried his face in her wet hair and clutched her hard to him.

“We’ve got to stay together. We can sleep in shifts,” he said with newfound authority. He peered at the hands of his watch. 1:30. Four more hours until dawn. It would be light earlier than that.

The adrenaline from the swim had woken him up. He didn’t let go of Sam’s waist. He knew her face was directly in front of his, though he could only make out the silhouette of her head. On an impulse, he leaned in and kissed her hard, where he thought her mouth was.

“Owww!” she shouted as they knocked foreheads. They both burst out laughing. He let go of her waist and backed away but clutched her hand. They lay back on the water, still breathing hard. The clouds had cleared and the sky was a black canvas, pinned with bright stars.

“Do you know your constellations?” Tusker finally asked. “I know the usual suspects but this close to the equator, it gets a little more confusing. Or maybe we’ve even drifted into the Southern Hemisphere by now.”

“I know a few,” she replied. “My mother used to teach me…” Her voice trailed off.

“She was killed,” she said, before he could ask. Her voice was cold suddenly. “She was working at the World Trade Center in Colombo when a Tamil Tiger suicide bomber walked in and blew himself up.”

“Wow, I’m so… sorry.” Tusker’s reply felt feeble.

Sam continued. “She was a wonderful woman. I was only eleven when she died, but I remember how kind she was. Always told me I could do anything with my life. Thathi says I remind him of her.”

“I’m sure she’d be very proud of who you’ve become,” Tusker said. “Your father never remarried?”

“He never was the same after she died. She was the love of his life.”

Tusker gave her hand a squeeze. “Why don’t you sleep a bit,” he said. “I’m wide awake now and can keep an eye out.”

“We’re going to be OK, right?” Her voice sounded small, vulnerable.

“Of course,” he lied. “Come morning, I’m sure we’ll see we’re only a few hundred meters off of a perfect white sand beach.”

She didn’t laugh, or reply. But even in the dark, Tusker could tell she wasn’t asleep.

Strange Catch

Pottuvil, Sri Lanka. The next morning.

It was another bad haul, and now the motor was acting up. Chandin had been coaxing it along for months, cleaning the spark plugs and adding oil every night. It was only a matter of time before it would need an overhaul. But with the fishing so bad, it was all he could do to pay for his gas from the day’s catch. Every night, he sailed his 32-foot trawler further out, hoping to find a new reef or fishing ground that no one had discovered yet. One shark would feed his family for a month and pay for the motor’s repair, but he hadn’t caught one in years.

The anemic engine chugged along at half its usual rpms. It would be well past 8:00 when they’d get back to the beach and another hour before he’d have his small pile of kingfish, barracuda, and squid at the market. Ajith, his son, slept curled up in the bow on a heap of old nets, still with the peace of youth, unencumbered by the worry that plagued Chandin.

The boat wallowed over the lazy swells, and the sun rose over Chandin’s left shoulder. Seven miles ahead, the shoreline appeared in the morning haze of sea spray, wood smoke and diesel exhaust. Another fishing boat was on the horizon to the south, angling in towards Pottuvil. He recognized the gaily painted cabin as that of Mulan, and he wondered what kind of night he’d had. Looks like he went out far too, thought Chandin.

He heard a faint shout, barely audible above the chugging engine. He cut the rpms and listened. There it was again. It couldn’t have been Mulan. He was too far away, but he didn’t see another boat. He reduced to idle speed and came out on the front deck, stepping deftly over the fishing tackle with his bare feet. “Ajith!” He gave him a nudge and the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I heard something. Help me look.” He spoke in Tamil.

The sea was still grey in the morning light, with a few whitecaps rolling towards the distant coast. Fifty meters off the starboard bow he caught a flash of color. It disappeared below a roller, then reappeared. It was a bright orange tube, somehow floating vertically in the water. Then — yes! — a person. Two people, in fact, both waving their arms at him. What were they doing this far off shore, and this early in the morning? Had their