The Stranger in the Lifeboat(5)

ANCHOR: Wow. That’s impressive.

REPORTER: It is. And once they are finished, there’s—

(Loud noise. The image shakes.)



ANCHOR: Valerie, what was that?

REPORTER: I don’t know! Hold on—

(Another loud noise. She falls.)



REPORTER: Oh my god! … Does anybody know what that—

ANCHOR: Valerie?

REPORTER: Something just hit … (static) … sounded … (static) … see where …

(Another loud noise, then the picture is lost.)



ANCHOR: Valerie? Valerie, can you still hear us? … Valerie? … We seem to have lost the connection. There was a loud noise, several, as you heard. We don’t want to speculate. But for the moment, we are unable to … Hello? … Valerie? … Are you there? …





Land





When his jeep reached the lookout point, LeFleur killed the engine. He had requested the area be marked off by the local authorities, and was relieved to see yellow tape by the walking path.

“All right,” LeFleur said to Rom. “Let’s see what you found.”

They stepped over the tape and started down the path. Marguerita Bay was a stretch of rocky green hills that dropped off in craggy white walls, framing the shore and the narrow, sandy beach. There were several ways to get down, but not in a car. You went by foot.

As they reached the flat ground and approached the discovery site, Rom slowed his pace, leaving LeFleur to draw near on his own. He felt the sand give way to his work shoes. A few more steps around a low rock formation and …

There it was: a large, half-inflated, dirty orange raft, drying in the midday sun.

LeFleur felt a shiver. Wreckage of any vessel—ships, boats, rafts, yachts—meant another losing battle between man and sea. There were stories in their remains. Ghost stories. LeFleur had enough of those in his life already.

He leaned in to examine the raft’s edges. Gashes had deflated the lower tubing. Sharks could have done that. The canopy had been ripped away, leaving only frayed pieces where it once attached to the frame. The faded words CAPACITY 15 PERSONS were etched on the orange skin. The inner floor was wide, maybe fourteen feet by sixteen feet. Sand and seaweed filled it now. Tiny crabs moved about the tangle.

LeFleur followed one crab as it moved past the etched words PROPERTY OF THE GALAXY and up to what appeared to be a sealed pouch along the front edge. A small lump was pushing the pouch outward. He touched the raft skin then pulled his hand back.

There was something inside.

LeFleur felt his pulse quicken. He knew the protocol: owners of a vessel are to be notified before any lifeboat contents are disturbed. But that could take a long time. And hadn’t the owner died in the explosion? Hadn’t everyone died?

He looked back at Rom, who stood a good forty feet away, staring at the clouds. What the hell, LeFleur thought, his Sunday was already ruined.

He opened the flap and pulled the contents out a few inches. He blinked twice to make sure he was seeing correctly. There, sealed inside a plastic bag, were the remains of a notebook.





Sea





It is just after noon now. Our fourth day in this lifeboat. We have witnessed something highly unusual, Annabelle. It concerns the new arrival who claims to be the Lord. Perhaps I was wrong. There may be more to him than meets the eye.

Earlier this morning, Yannis was leaning on the raft’s edge, singing a Greek song. (He’s from Greece, an ambassador, I believe, even though he’s quite young.) Geri was doing her navigation charts. Mrs. Laghari was rubbing her temples, trying to relieve her constant headaches. Alice, the little girl, was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was staring at the new man, as she has done much of the time since his arrival.

Suddenly he rose and moved across the raft to Jean Philippe, who was praying over his wife, Bernadette. Both are Haitian. Good people. Upbeat. I met them that first morning in Cape Verde, when the crew boarded the Galaxy to await the guests. They told me they’d been cooking on big boats for years.

“We make the food too good, Benji!” Bernadette said, patting her belly. “We get fat!”

“Why did you leave Haiti?” I asked.

“Oh, hard life there, Benji, hard life,” she said.

“And you?” Jean Philippe asked me. “From where did you come?”

“Ireland, then America,” I said.

“Why did you leave?” Bernadette said.

“Oh, hard life there, Bernadette, hard life.”

We all laughed. Bernadette was often laughing. Her eyes made you feel welcome, and she would nod her head like a bobbing doll if you said something she agreed with. “Oh, cherie!” she’d intone. “You speak true!” But now she was unresponsive. She’d been badly injured escaping the yacht Friday night. Jean Philippe said she fell on the deck when the ship listed, and a large table crashed into her head and shoulders. She’s been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last twenty-four hours.

Were we at home, she’d be in a hospital for sure. But out here, adrift, you realize how often we take our placement on this Earth for granted.

The new man leaned over Bernadette. Jean Philippe watched, his eyes widening.

“Are you truly the Lord?”