We Float Upon a Painted Sea (13 page)

“I’m just trying to keep our spirits up and boost morale with some light banter, that’s all. Keep your hair on. I used to work in the Arctic so I know a thing or too about hypothermia. I was just testing you. I’m sorry, I meant nothing by it.”

Andrew regained his composure. He asked,

“What were you doing in the Arctic?”

Bull’s grin slid from his face. “It’s a long story for another time.”

“We’ve got time on our hands. That’s one thing we have plenty of.” Bull remained silent and pensive.

They spent what was left of the evening taking turns bailing, re-inflating the pontoons and checking on Malcolm’s condition. Bull opened the suitcase and changed his head attire. He picked out a white woollen bobble hat with ear flaps, and using Andrew’s multi-tool he made some adjustments, so it would fit over his large cranium. Andrew’s mood was sullen. He fidgeted awkwardly against the pontoon. Finally, he said,

“I need to get some sleep. Wake me if you see a ship.” Bull sat by the aperture scanning the horizon for ship. Later, he returned to reading the diary from the suitcase, occasionally emitting a little chortle, until the last of the light faded.

When Andrew woke, it was dark and Bull was asleep. He considered the uncertainty of their future and reflected on their fate, deciding that the only crumbs of comfort were that for the moment, they had drinking water, meagre food rations, clothing and shelter. He had read somewhere that it was possible, with a strong will, to survive up to six weeks without food. He shuddered at the thought of enduring the effects of muscle wasting. He decided that if they were going to survive he had to set his mind on catching fish. He took up his place at the aperture and spent most of the night looking for passing ships.

At first light Andrew got to work rigging up fishing tackle. From the side pocket of the suitcase he withdrew a chiffon nightdress. He unravelled the nylon stitching and spun it to make a leader, to which he attached a fish hook, fashioned from a drop earring. He embellished the hook a small piece of tinfoil wrapping from a piece of gum. Andrew considered the invaluable nature of women’s sundries and how useful they could prove to be in a survival situation. He contemplated that with all the contents of a woman’s cosmetics bag, one had a mirror for signalling, a nail file for sharpening hooks, scissors for cutting tasks and sanitary towels for field dressings. With a woman’s accessories, combined with his
know-how
, the perfect survival expert could be created. Perversely, an image of a transvestite clad in a short camouflage skirt and matching vest appeared in his mind. Andrew lips curled in disgust. He dispelled the manifestation immediately.

Andrew studied Bull’s sleeping form on the far side of the raft. He extracted the scissors from his multi-tool, leant over and cut a lock of Bull’s hair. Using tweezers and thread, he tied the human hair behind the eye of the fish hook. When he was finished, he held the lure aloft and satisfied with his mornings work, he chortled to himself, wondering how long it would take until Bull realized that a sizeable hank of his hair had been removed.

Chapter 10: The Curious Sharks

Later in the day, from the life-raft’s aperture, Bull scanned the horizon for land or passing ships. The sky and the sea were interchangeable shades of grey. He yearned for a visual stimulus – brown or green; colours of the land. Anything but grey, he thought. Occasionally, he would peel his eyes from the sea and allow them to settle on the orange canopy of the raft, for nothing more than a change of colour. Later, his heart fluttered with excitement as he watched the sun break through the grey blanket of cloud, and catching the suspended droplets of rain, a rainbow was formed. His eyes feasted on the optical ambrosia, savouring every colour of the light spectrum. He wanted to share the experience with Andrew, if only to break the monotony of the day, but the grey shadow returned and spoiled the display.

Keeping watch was mind numbing, he considered, and without the means to react, an unnecessary distraction from wrestling with his rampaging hunger pains and nicotine cravings. The flares are useless and if land was sighted, they had no paddles to row ashore. Andrew was fiddling with his fishing lure. Bull said,

“We’ve been floating for miles. Where the hell are we going?” Andrew looked up from his lure, viewing Bull with a disapproving eye. He scratched his beard thoughtfully and said,

“I suppose wherever the wind and current take us. Hopefully we will drift into a shipping lane, or even better, land.” Bull fidgeted agitatedly in his garments. The fabric of his homemade sarong was making his skin itch. The underside of his legs felt rough and tender and tiny blisters bubbled on his skin. He examined the white, wrinkled skin on his feet. Andrew handed him the hand-inflator.

“How many miles do you think we’ve floated?” Andrew sighed,

“I’m not sure, about sixty or so miles in a westerly direction.”

“How did you arrive at that figure?”

“Well earlier, when you were sleeping, I noticed the sun coming up over in the east. Later on, when you were sleeping again, I counted the seconds for us to drift, and using a buoy as a marker I calculated our average speed. I also made a sextant from three pencils, which I found in Mrs Formby’s luggage. I gauged the maximum height of the sun at mid day, when you were
still
sleeping, and then I used my wristwatch and the position of the sun to calculate our latitude.”

“I’m picking up on a recurring theme here.”

“What recurring theme?”

“That you have a problem with me catching a few hours sleep here and there.”

“You could hardly describe it as
here and there
. You’re sleeping for the best portion of the day.”

“It keeps my mind off the hunger. It keeps my mind off our hopeless plight and it keeps me from having to look at your miserable face.”

“That’s all well and good but while you’re getting your beauty sleep, I’m bailing water, inflating the pontoons, keeping watch, changing Malcolm’s bandages and devising tools like this to help answer your gormless questions.” Andrew held up his homemade sextant.

“Let me ask you this Sherlock. What's the point of making a sextant to find our latitude when we have no map to reference it with? It doesn’t make sense. You’re just as much in the dark as I am, aren’t you? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re keeping busy and maybe that’s how you handle the situation, but I handle it with sleep.”

“I’m just trying to get rescued.”

“What buoy did you see? How close?”

“What does it matter? It was a weather buoy. I think we drifted a few metres from it. I don’t understand, what’s so important.”

“Well Sherlock, if it was a transmitting buoy all we needed to do was board it, and disable the communicator and eventually they would send someone out to rescue us. You didn’t think of that did you?” Andrew’s face flushed with anger. He made a noise between squeal and laughter. He folded him arms tightly and said,

“Where were you at the time with this little gem of information? What were you doing? Sleeping! You’ve been sleeping on and off all day, that’s what. Sleep will not help us my friend.”

“You could wake me? Just don’t wake me to listen to another one of your pointless stories.”

Andrew passed Bull a slice of Bannock cake and a cup of water. Bull chewed the food slowly and wearily. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure I want to get rescued dressed like this.”

“On that we can agree.” Andrew threw a dried prune onto Bull’s lap instead of throwing it in the air for him to catch it in his mouth, which was becoming the normal practice. Momentarily Bull offered a look of disappointment. He sniffed the air and said,

“It stinks in here.”

“It’s Malcolm’s wound, its festering. I can’t stop the bleeding without a means to stitch it, and there’s a constant trickle of blood flowing down his back and collecting in the stagnant water at our feet. We need to get him proper medical attention or he’s going to die. This makes getting rescued sooner rather than later even more critical. We are at the mercy of the tides, the winds and the currents. Malcolm’s fate is in God’s hands now. All our fates are in God’s hands.” Bull nibbled on his prune and then said,

“Am I going to get a sermon now? What has God got to do with our predicament?”

“You do believe in God, don’t you?”

“What I believe in is none of your concern, but just because we are faced with a set of extraneous variables, doesn’t mean our fate is predetermined.”

“Well, you may not believe in predestination, but you must admit we are no longer masters of our own destiny.”

“If a found a piece of wood floating by and carved it with your multi-tool to make a paddle, would we be in control of our own destiny?”

“If God willed it I suppose so.” Bull yawned and resting his head against the inflated pontoon, he said, “There’s no point arguing with you is there?” Bull turned his back and returned to his lookout duties at the aperture. Andrew fell asleep and later woke to the sound of excited noises, and thinking Bull had spotted a ship, he got to his knees and fumbled for the flares. He stopped when Bull brought a dripping piece of wood into the raft. “What are you doing?” asked Andrew with a frustrated groan.

“Give me your multi-tool,” demanded Bull, “I’m going to carve this plank of wood into a paddle. You said we are no longer masters of our own destiny. It is time we regained control.” Andrew stopped himself from pouring cold water on Bull’s idea. He was about to say, he was wasting valuable energy and that he would blunt the knife on his multi-tool, but he decided that the task would focus Bull’s mind and tasks, even apparently fruitless ones, were essential for morale in survival situations.

That evening Andrew unzipped the aperture and thrust his head outside the raft and cast his fishing line into the ocean, retrieving it by winding the nylon line onto an empty plastic water bottle. After an hour he gave up and retreated back inside. He stretched out his legs and wished for a book to read, a crossword puzzle or even a pack of playing cards to pass the time. He allowed his mind to drift and he contemplated his life before his separation from his wife. He dwelt on the times he had spent playing with his children and his long walks over the Southern Upland hills, near his home in the Scottish Borders. This was a place where he always felt free and unshackled from the pressures of life – he yearned to be back there

Bull carved his paddle. The wood shavings drifted, like a flotilla of tiny boats, on the pond of stagnant water collecting in the middle of the life-raft. Andrew closed his eyes and slept. When he woke, Bull was grabbing his leg and staring at the floor. He had a catatonic look on his face. Andrew said,

“What’s got into you?” With his free hand, Bull gripped the multi-tool and then examined the blade. Finally, he said,

“There was a thud from under the raft. I thought we had hit land.”

“Have we?” said Andrew, part relieved but still stabbing cautious glances at Bull. Curiously, Andrew crept towards the aperture and looked out. Only the white tipped waves greeted him. Bull continued to clutch his leg, waiting for more thwacks on the plastic floor of the raft.  Andrew turned and said,

“Is this one of your jokes, because it’s not working?” Suddenly, a new bump came from under the raft and then another. Both men froze, gripped by a fear they hadn’t experienced since jumping from the floundering
Andrea Starlight
. They listened attentively for what seemed an age. For a prolonged moment there was nothing to experience apart from the unnerving pulse of the sea beating against the raft, and then the sustained period of calm was abruptly extinguished by two more attacks, followed by a multitude of thumps. Barely visible through the orange canopy, the silhouette of a large fin circled the raft. Andrew felt the blood drain from his head. He held out a trembling finger over Bull’s shoulder and muttered,

“There, to the starboard side…”

“What do you mean, starboard side,” replied Bull nervously. His eyes were still fixed to the floor, “it’s a hexagonal shaped raft. How can it have a
starboard side
?” Andrew ignored his question and crawled to the aperture. He returned to face Bull, his face ashen and hanging heavy on his skull. He said,

“I’m sure I saw something large close to the raft. It’s portside now!”

“Sorry Sherlock, all these sides look the same to me?

“Well they would wouldn’t they, as you’re most likely to know damn all about boats.” Andrew’s eyes darted from side to side. He shoved his head out the aperture. Bull appeared to be talking to his buttocks.

“And how do you deduce that notion Sherlock. Is this another one of your profound statements? Another hastily clumped together presumption? If you must know, I’ve probably spent more time on a boat in the last two years than you have in your whole life.” Andrew retreated to the far side of the raft. Only one half of his brain concentrated on the conversation with Bull. Staring at him venomously, he said,

“Good for you. Maybe we could catch up with this wee chat at another, more convenient time. How’s tomorrow looking for you, if there is indeed a tomorrow.” Bull growled back,