The Drift

  Published by Serf Books Ltd in 2016.

  www.serfbooks.com

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9935439-0-6

  All rights reserved.

  The characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Design by www.golden-rivet.com

  © Text Chris Thrall 2016.

  For Harry

  - 1 -

  The man stirred, believing he was aboard the yacht. As he opened his eyes, orange gloom brought reality crashing home.

  No!

  What happened to his little girl? He lifted his head.

  Thank God . . .

  She lay at rest, an arm outside the sleeping bag, a damp lock stuck to her brow.

  The trip had seemed a good idea after what happened, a chance to bond and rebuild life after loss. Now, seeing her infant face, acquiescent and trusting, he felt guilty they ever set sail.

  The raft was awash, but it did not matter. The yacht sat on the bottom of the Atlantic, but he did not care so long as he had her.

  He fumbled with the zipper in the canopy’s thin fabric, needing light to check the ditch kit for the emergency radio and beacon. He’d searched for them last night, until shock and exhaustion overcame him.

  The seascape should have been something to behold. Ruffled by the breeze, the aqua-green plane spilled lazily to the horizon under a deep-blue sky touched with delicate sprays of white. A lone gull circled in the salt air, mewing in anticipation of any bounty this orange dot might bequeath. Something to behold from the safety of a yacht perhaps, but from the flimsy cocoon, not a sight any sailor wished to see.

  “Can we go back now?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Huh?”

  “Can we go back on Future?”

  “No. Not now.”

  “When?”

  “Not ever.”

  The man pulled the ditch kit toward him, an unwelcome wave of salt water accompanying it across the rippling rubber floor. He’d packed it himself, putting in all that is necessary to survive lost at sea. Most importantly, it contained a handheld radio and emergency beacon.

  He unzipped the bag and rummaging through its contents but found neither. He gave the girl a look. “Have you been playing with this?”

  She gave him a look back. It said everything but nothing.

  The man stared out across nature’s glassy face. They truly were adrift.

  Leaning out, he half expected to see the upturned hull of Future floating nearby. Perhaps he could lash the life raft to it, making a bigger target for search and rescue. Maybe he could dive below, holding his breath long enough to swim into the cabin and locate the lost equipment and other vital survival stores.

  Then there she was! Their beautiful yacht!

  Bursting to the surface like a submarine, looking as splendid as the day he bought her, sleek lines and powerful rigging, buoyant as a cork atop the shimmering ocean.

  Salvation!

  Then she vanished, a wet wilderness replacing her.

  - 2 -

  Three months earlier

  As the 747 climbed out of LaGuardia, the North Atlantic edged into view. Hans Larsson couldn’t quite believe that in a few days’ time he would begin sailing back across this vast gray tract. Stranger still, it would be in a boat he did not yet own and with seven-year-old Jessica by his side.

  The original plan had been to make a double crossing of the Pond, stopping at the Azores en route to England and returning via Cape Verde, the Caribbean and then north on to Maine. Jessica’s brother, JJ, would have been great company for her as they explored the open ocean as a family, and Mom could have taken turns at the helm and shared the schooling.

  Only now it was just two of them, Hans felt it inappropriate for Jessica to spend such a long time at sea. He was determined, though, to see at least a part of the Larsson dream through, opting to fly to England with his daughter, purchase a yacht and sail the southerly passage home. It would be their special time. One he would treasure forever.

  “Would you like a drink, sir?” whispered the female flight attendant, smiling at Jessica curled up asleep hugging her teddy. Since the incident, she and Bear had been inseparable, something which brought tears to Hans’ eyes if he dwelt too long on it.

  “A Budweiser please.” He smiled, settling into his seat to take in the great ocean below.

  Hans had not had the easiest of upbringings, which resulted in him being unable to concentrate in class. The one escape he had as a youth was the sea, his grandfather treating him to an aging wooden daysailer for his twelfth birthday. In the final year of high school, Hans would give his name for the morning register and then disappear to spend the day exploring the inlets around Misty Port.

  Local fishermen befriended him, giving advice on bait and tackle and the best locations to drop his line. He would reel in cod, bluefish and striped bass, selling them to fishmongers in the market and putting the money toward repairs to his boat. When fishing proved futile, he would anchor in a cove and get lost in books – anything to do with the sea or stories of adventure.

  Other times he would don a mask and snorkel and dive down holding his breath for minutes at a time, like the pearl divers in the South Pacific islands he read about, to hook lobster and crab from rocky hidey-holes with a homemade gaff. Grilling them on an oilcan barbeque was a real treat, particularly in the winter, when he would huddle close to the embers and rewarm his shivering self after a dip in the bitter Atlantic.

  One afternoon, as Hans cruised a mile offshore he saw a Cessna returning to the local airport with its wings rolling from side to side and its engine sputtering. Forced to accept fate, the pilot eased back the stick, flaring the aircraft into an attitude best suited for impact. Its undercarriage raked through the wave crests at speed before shunting into a roller. For a moment it looked as if the plane would flip forwards, like an ungainly seabird, before settling back onto its fuselage.

  Hans brought Bella sharp about and, tacking into a stiff headwind, fought to reach the downed plane’s occupants before it was too late. By the time he got there, the pilot and his wife were in shock, both with deep gashes to the head pumping out rivers of blood as they clung to the sinking airframe.

  Although hailed a hero by many in the community, Hans received a thrashing from his stepfather and a six-month grounding. The after-school detentions he could have dealt with. Foregoing his beloved sailing he could not. It came as no surprise when he joined the US Navy at seventeen, serving as a radar operator aboard USS Nimitz before a thirst for adventure saw him volunteer for “other” operations.

  From London Heathrow they took a black cab across town to Paddington Station. Hans pointed out the capital’s landmark edifices to Jessica – the short, squat Gherkin building, clad in iconic green-and-black-mirrored whorls; Canary Wharf’s metallic towers of commerce; and a gigantic space-age Ferris wheel, the London Eye. They boarded a southbound train to Plymouth, the English countryside prevailing as quaint red phone booths, roads not wide enough for golf karts, and aging stone farmhouses whizzed by. Hans felt he was doing a great job of keeping his little girl occupied, although in truth the Old Country fascinated him a lot more.

  In three short hours the carriages hugged the Devon coastline, carving around towering sandstone cliffs, the sea pounding against rocks just feet below the tracks. Further south the scenery morphed into a rich tapestry of agriculture, fringed by deciduous trees, before becoming slowly grayer as Plymouth’s urban spread took hold.

  “You okay, funny face?” Hans prodded Jessica.

  “I have not gotta funny face, Papa!”

  “You have. You gotta funny face, you gotta funny nose, and your ears look like smelly frogs!”

  “No, you have!
”

  “I have what?”

  “You have ears!”

  “Everybody’s got ears.”

  “No! Smelly froggy!”

  “Ha, you’re the froggy!”

  Hans chuckled and tickled Jessica’s tummy. He loved the fact his daughter could take a joke and her cute attempts at defense.

  “Come on, funny face. Let’s go grab a cab to our hotel.”

  The Trapthorn Plaza did not look as inviting up close as it did on its website – “Eastern Bloc” might better describe the weathered-concrete beast – but as Hans booked in at the front desk, he wasn’t bothered. Crossing the Atlantic occupied his mind.

  “So, Jessie. Now we’re unpacked, we need to have a crew briefing.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s where the people who are gonna be on this boat – that’s me and you – get told what they need to do. I think we should have a crew briefing over a Coca-Cola in the bar. What do you think?”

  “Yay!”

  “No, not yay. You gotta say, ‘Aye aye, skipper!’”

  “Aye aye, skippa!”

  “Aye aye, First Mate!” Hans threw up a comical salute. “See, I’m the skipper, because the skipper is the captain of the boat. You’re the first mate, because you’re the first person the captain asks for help when there’s a problem.”

  “I’m the first mate.”

  “Aye aye, honey. You’re the first mate.”

  The plan was simple. Hans had arranged to view some of the boats for sale in a local marina. Having bought one, he would sort out any repairs and upgrades and recruit an additional crew member to help with the sailing. He hoped that together with provisioning the yacht, this would take no more than a week, allowing them time to explore the historic port of Plymouth before departure.

  “So, do you think you can help me choose a boat, First Mate?”

  “Aye aye, skippa!”

  - 3 -

  Future.

  The name of the yacht appealed as much to Hans as her ability to engage open water. He knew there and then he would buy her.

  The Atlantic was not a new challenge for the teardrop-hulled cruiser, her previous owner making the crossing several times before the tumors took hold. A single mast, roller-furling mainsail and electric winch made for ease of handling, and a salon-style cockpit, modern galley and spacious lounge additional comfort – an important consideration with a seven-year-old aboard. To her builders – Marine Projects of Plymouth, England – Future represented the leading edge of sail power. To Hans Larsson, from Portland, USA, she meant a whole lot more.

  It had been a difficult time. Family and friends felt uncomfortable discussing the murders, preferring to ask, “Are you okay?” and “How’s Jessica doing?” Had he been young and single – he was single – he could have drowned the pain in alcohol and self-pity. But there wasn’t only him to consider. He’d never say it, but Jessica had always been the special child. Two years older than her brother, she exuded that innocence only a daughter can. He had to be strong now for her sake and put the horror behind them.

  “What do you think, Jessie?’ he asked, as Future bobbed beneath their feet in the marina. “Do you like this boat?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Would you like to go see some places in her?”

  “Can Bear come?”

  “Of course. Bear can help sail her.”

  “I like it!”

  “I’ll take her,” he told the agent.

  Afterwards, father and daughter sat dangling their legs over the dock, the emerald water lapping against the marina’s wooden posts. A school of mullet cruised by, torpedoes shimmering in the sunlight. With their blunt heads and prominent scales, they looked like the carp of the sea.

  Hans smiled and pointed. “Look!”

  “Fish, Papa!”

  “And you know what, sweet pea?”

  “What, Papa?”

  “We’re gonna catch a lot of fish on our trip!”

  “Yay!” She thrust her arms in the air awkwardly, as youngsters do, with palms upwards and fingers bent and splayed. “Will Mommy and JJ be coming with us, Pa—?”

  She fell silent, staring into the water.

  “Don’t you remember what we said, Jessie, when we sprinkled them in the sea?”

  “That the sea will always be around us.”

  “So who will always be around us?”

  “Mommy and JJ!” She grinned.

  “That’s right.”

  “I miss Mommy and JJ.”

  “Me too, sweetie. But do you know what I do?”

  “What, Papa?”

  “Sometimes, when I feel the sun on my face I close my eyes and imagine we are walking along a soft sandy beach by a beautiful blue sea – you, me, Mommy and JJ – and it’s sunny and warm . . . and the seagulls are squawking . . . and the air tastes fresh and salty . . . and we’re smiling, sweet pea . . . We’ll always be together . . . and we’re smiling, my darling. We’re smiling.”

  - 4 -

  “TV, Papa!” Jessica rushed into the yacht’s saloon.

  Hans smiled. The twelve-volt flat-screen with built-in DVD player wouldn’t place too much demand on the yacht’s batteries, and, seeing Jessica’s face light up, he knew it would serve a purpose in the coming weeks.

  Another item Hans was pleased to have aboard was a compressor for filling scuba tanks. Diving was in his blood and had played a central role in his military career. He had introduced Jessica to the sport at a young age – not that she needed encouragement. In their twelve-meter pool in Portland, she swam without aid by the age of two, paddling like fury facedown in the water and rolling on her back every few seconds to grab air. At three she could swim a length, often underwater on a single breath.

  With her aquatic ability, scuba diving came naturally to Jessica. Hans had introduced her to the equipment in the shallow end of the pool, and before her fifth birthday they were diving together in open water off Maine. Hans had altered the smallest buoyancy jacket available on the market to fit her, and she only needed two pounds of lead to submerge. He was glad they had brought their gear with them, including Jessica’s three-liter cylinder, though it cost a small fortune in extra baggage charges.

  When it came to sea survival, the previous owner had relied on Future’s inflatable tender for abandoning ship. Hans shook his head and sought directions for the nearest chandlery.

  Old Bill looked the sort to have sunk a few boats in his time – along with a good amount of grog. Standing amongst the dusty merchandise packing his dated premises, the archetypal sea dog was pleased to meet an American who put the safety of his crew first.

  “So, me hearty, you need a life raft?” He looked at Jessica, his weathered lines curling skyward.

  “Aye aye, skippa,” she replied to his delight.

  “Well, let’s just see what we’ve got then, ’ey?”

  The four-person OceanTech Emergency Pod catered for every sailor’s worst nightmare, the company’s smaller model far too cramped for even a minute adrift. At £2,700, Hans felt it was worth every penny. The instruction manual listed its onboard equipment but, leaving nothing to chance, Hans put together an accompanying ditch kit – a waterproof bag containing additional survival essentials. Most important of all, he bought a hand-cranked desalinator, handheld VHF radio and emergency position-indicating radio beacon, although where to place the latter item presented something of a problem.

  When activated by contact with water, the EPIRB would broadcast a global-positioning signal on frequencies monitored by commercial aircraft and satellite. Search and rescue services could then locate them should they have to board the life raft. The instructions said to protect the device from outside interferences, listing every hazard existing on a boat, and that it should be accessible at all times. The dilemma posed to Hans was, would they have time to retrieve the beacon as the boat sank beneath their feet? In the end he resorted to packing it in the ditch kit. He would make sure to grab the bag shou
ld the worst-case scenario unfold.

  - 5 -

  Despite the friendly nature of the Trapthorn Plaza’s staff, it was a relief for Hans to finally check out and move on board Future. The adventure suddenly seemed so real.

  After unpacking their gear, Hans and Jessica took the yacht for her first sea trial under their command. As they motored away from the dock, Hans pointed to a sea lion happily porpoising in the opposite direction.

  “Look, Jessie!”

  “Yeeeee!” She clenched her tiny teeth.

  Once clear of the marina, Hans showed Jessica how to cut the engine and unfurl the mainsail. Unlike the SAS – the Saturday and Sunday brigade – he never relied on auxiliary power longer than necessary.

  Under a cerulean sky they cruised into the picturesque bay. Behind them, crowning the city’s seafront cliffs, the historic esplanade of Plymouth Hoe grew distant and a small tree-crested island rose out of the inky depths ahead. Nestled in the island’s contours were a number of fortifications and outbuildings.

  “That’s Drake’s Island, sweet pea.” Hans had done his homework. “A long, long time ago a man called Sir Francis Drake was the queen of England’s favorite sailor. He sailed around the world and found out about people living in places like the jungle, and he discovered plants and animals that nobody knew about before.”

  “Did he live on the island, Papa?”

  “No, the people of Plymouth just named it after him because he was such a good sailor.”

  “Did he have a boat like Future?”

  “He had an even bigger boat, called a galleon. It had lots of guns, and he needed a hundred men to sail her.”

  “Why did it have guns, Papa?”

  “Because in those days the English were at war with a country called Spain, a long way over there.” Hans pointed to the horizon. “If the English sailors saw a Spanish ship, they would fire their guns and stop her. Then they would jump aboard and steal all the treasure.”

  Hans chose not to reveal the darker aspect of Drake’s career.