Deliverance
By John Danenbarger

Here, along the coast of New England, the seafarers who have survived the dark ocean’s treachery have derisively baptized coastal islands with names like Misery, The Graves, and Coffin Rock. The ocean’s impenetrable currents of madness are part of me, I think, because my brother got locked away.

Jim, a retired freighter captain, and I pretty much run this marina on the tip of New Hampshire for the hotel owners up the road. Most regulars don’t know my real name, because…I think Jim started it…no, maybe I called him “Jiminy” first, so he called me “Cricket,” it doesn’t matter; the two of us are known as Jiminy and Cricket.

He handles the money stuff; I handle the people stuff. I have summer boaters, fall sailors, beer socializers, and sometimes occasional daughters of the yacht owners, who without much competition, gravitate to me, discard their inhibitions by the romantic sea, and love my poetry describing my darkest thoughts… letting me escape them.

Mostly, I go out of my way to deal with people and their sailing vessels within the tight quarters of the docks and, out to sea, within the tighter quarters of their boats and their minds. This studied, purposeful extroversion outside of my head puts a lid on what’s in it…until Mom texts me a link to Sunday’s obituary for my grandmother.
--
The ice pick held under Dan Lodovico's chin was drawing blood, dripping on his best shirt.  He tipped his head back as far as he could to try to stop the pain. And he actually felt fear, an emotion he had never experienced, as he had always been in control. 
He sat parked in his Daewoo that evening outside his house in Salem, Massachusetts, listening to the news of planes crashing into the World Trade Center. The streets were empty as people huddled at home to get more news.

A black-clothed, masked figure slipped in the passenger side and immediately jabbed the point of an ice pick into his chin.

Click!

A mechanical male voice said, “Sit very still or I will jam this ice pick so deep into your skull, if you are not dead, you will wish you were. Get it?”

He thought about nodding, but it was the last move he should make. He smelled something, but his mind couldn’t think just what it was right then.

Click!

The voice went on. “Since you cannot seem to understand, I am here to explain to you how you need to act with your son and your ex for the future. If you do not follow my instructions, you will again wish you were dead.”

A silence except for a faint mechanical hum.

“Number one. You are to stop seeing your son.

"Second. You will pay support of $2,500 per month to your ex’s bank account to support him and her until your ex writes a note that she does not need the money anymore.

"Have you understood?”

Click!

He tightened his body to avoid nodding his head. He smelled moth balls.

Click!

“Any failure to follow this will have consequences. Do not ever try to contact your ex again.”

The hum.

“Do not try to call the police. They will only laugh at you.”

With the final click of some mechanism, the figure left the car, leaving the door open, and disappeared…or, at least, disappeared from his sight as he didn't want to move for some time.

How long? Long enough to get blood on every piece of clothing, the car seat, and the floor. Long enough to wonder who it might have been.

The ex-cunt herself didn't have it in her.
--
It is not perfect weather today…not for sailors, I mean. Hot, cloudy. Super humid. Not a wisp of wind…even the clouds are motionless…a smooth ocean, which, of course, makes it easy for the docking process which most power boaters’ flub.

Last week Jiminy mentioned something that I had missed. That, on his way up to Penobscot Bay past Portland, it has become a habit the last three weeks for someone named Dan Lodovico to stop at our marina in Wentworth to gas up his yacht…a British made Fairline Targa 52-foot thing with two inboard 615 horsepower Volvo engines.

It’s Thursday and normally I’m on, but I told Jiminy that I had arranged to hitch a ride on this yacht up to Portland and that I would take care of the docking and fueling procedure for Mr. Lodovico today, then return this evening.

I emphasized Portland so Jiminy would swear that’s what I said.

The stifling, early morning is so quiet that I think I can hear the yacht’s low rumble coming an hour away. But then, of course, Jiminy has warned me of the arrival because Lodovico always makes sure that he follows protocol by reporting his vessel's whereabouts.

As he pulls up to the fuel dock, I stand ready expecting him to look toadish…a picture I guess I had built through time. Actually, he is quite handsome…or maybe on second look…self-important looking…standing like he has back problems, rigid in his East Coast sailing outfit…tan slacks, white shirt with flap-pockets, two-tone leather boat shoes, and obligatory yellow sweater, which he surely, in New England fashion, ties around his neck when at the bar. But then again I think he’s too old to be hanging around bars.

Being the day it is, he isn’t wearing sunglasses, and thus, the kind-looking old gentleman image...that might have been...disappears when I see his eyes. His hair is unknowable since he is wearing a Red Sox baseball cap, which I hate, because, regrettably, so am I.

He’s definitely organized. He has the fenders out and, having the midline ready, he tosses it to me. After I cleat it to the dock, I see that he has both a bow- and a stern-line ready within reach. I use the stern-line.

He shuts down the motors, lifting the oppressing, growling sound blanket.
“Welcome, Mr. Lodovico. Fill ‘er up?”

“You know who I am?” He frowns…sort of. The eyes are black holes.

Careful, Cricket, what you say. I start the tank filling since he doesn’t stop me. “Of course. You are a regular here.”

“I don’t think I’m that regular.”

I say, “Hey ’Deliverance.’ That’s quite a name for a motor yacht. Usually a guy names the lady after his lady.”

No response.

“Tell you what.” I say. “I’d like to go below to check your filters. Permission to board?” I put my hand on the stern rail ready to pull myself aboard via the swim platform.

”What are you going to do?” He presents the faint frown again.

“Like I said, check your filters.”

He seems doubtful. “Yeah, okay.”

As he glowers at me, I feel like a lab rat working my way from the aft swim platform, up steps, through the sun deck, to the center cockpit, and like that rat, scurrying down the companionway steps using the handrails.

I survey the impeccably clean, orderly…or better said…cold white fiberglass salon, teak floor, red plastic cabinet doors, a teak door to the aft cabin and, by the steps, the door I enter to the engine room. I play solitaire on my phone for about five minutes, and come back up.

“Mr. Lodovico,” I say. “You had junk in your fuel lines.” I hold up a picture I had prepared on my phone.  “I’ve cleaned your filters, but something’s probably in your tanks. Dirty diesel maybe. It could be no problem, but I have a suggestion.”

“Oh?” He avoids looking straight at me…more like focuses on my T-shirt…inspecting the NOAA logo? Or wondering…correctly…if I slept in it?

“Yeah, I need to get up to Portland and you might need my service. I know these Volvo engines frontwards and backwards. I’ll do a trade-off. You take me with you and I will service your boat for nothing if something happens along the way.”

He is silent for a moment. With a hint of a facial expression, he says, “But I'm not going to Portland.”
“You're headed for Penobscot, right?”

“Penobscot. How'd you know I was going to Penobscot?” His glaring intensity is disturbing.
"We hear your reports. You are a careful, responsible captain, Mr. Lodovico."

“I don’t have time to detour into Portland, sorry.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” I say. “You can drop me off anywhere in the bay or up the river. My girl said she would rather pick me up there than drive all the way down here. And, importantly, for you, I can check on your engines.”

“I’ve never had a problem before.”

“Lucky you,” I say. I wait.

“I don’t think so.”

Don’t look desperate, Cricket. “Okay, do what you want. I would appreciate your help, though.” Again I wait.

The rat now has a bird-of-prey scrutinizing him in silence. “Okay.” He stretches out the doubt in the word.
“I’ll bring us some beer and snacks,” I say, as calmly as my exhilaration will allow me.

As I climb back onto the dock, he says “I’m in a hurry, and I don’t drink while I’m sailing.”

“Well, that’s proper and correct of you, Mr. Lodovico. I prepared some stuff just in case. I got my backpack right here…and I’m ready to go when you are, as soon as you're all tanked up.”

I drop my backpack on his deck, idiotically hoping it will keep him from running off without me. I have the thought that I was ready a little too fast…too enthusiastic. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s hot, huh?” I say.

He doesn’t smile. His eyes are practically the only clue that he has emotions. “Yeah, it’s cooler out a bit.”

“So why the trip up to Maine?”

"Business."

The pinging of the diesel pump punctuates the awkward silence.

“What’s your name again?” he asks me.

“Cricket. Everybody calls me Cricket.” What’s with this again bit?

“What’s your real name?”

“Eric.”

“And your last name?”

“Larsen,” I lie. “Norwegian background, three generations ago they came over to America…hungry.”

The pinging stops. "Okay. Your tanks are full.” I screw on the cap and inspect the meter. “That'll be $1430."

He has wandered down to the lower deck prepared to hand me his Visa card and I run the fifty-some feet over to Jiminy in the office shed. Luckily the card reader works. Later, I realize Jiminy greets me, but my brain’s too full of crap to hear. I still have this irrational fear that Lodovico will change his mind or run off without me even if I have his card and he is tied to the fuel dock. Sticking the card in my back pocket, I trot back sweating like a Banjee in the damp heat. I will not be smelling like flowers.

He’s back in the cockpit. I untie the center line and throw it on board. To let the bow drift out for easier exit, I pull the stern line a bit before climbing aboard. He turns the key and the twin engines’ grumbling roar shocks the nature out of the air.

I give him a grin as I hand back his credit card, then immediately hold up my backpack and point below to show I need to put the pack down in the cabin. As he begins swinging the brute away from the fuel dock, his head nods permission while the eyes don’t.

While I’m below, I recheck what I need, pulling all the items out, one by one, placing them on the galley’s red Formica counter top, making sure I forgot nothing…two plastic grocery bags to wrap my pants and socks, sea socks, swim trunks, Ziploc, a small glass jar with scallops, and one can of Heineken.

In about one and a half hours, I will need to begin. Timing is everything, but I think I have it figured pretty well.  The harbor is 110 nautical miles up the coast. We will average 20 to 30 knots. So we have little over a three-hour trip.

I place everything back into the bag in the right order. God, when have I ever kept order in anything? But this time…this once…yes. I need to stay cool; no distractions.

I control the galley dish situation, check how the microwave works, and go up on deck, neaten up the stern line, and sit in the social area behind the cockpit to wait…away from him. Even if he has his autopilot programed and could, thus, be free to socialize, I have understood that any communication between us has to squeak through a narrow hole.

Once he feels that the yacht’s speed and direction are set, he wanders below to use the head or whatever he thinks he needs to do. I sit as calm as a leopard, looking out over the glassy water, the receding shoreline, and the grey sky…as if it were all interesting.
--
Forward little shit…this kid has pushed his way on board…no doubt about that.

Eric Larsen, a brown-eyed, sneaky-looking young man…tall, lanky, with no way of looking him up on the Internet with such a common name.

The cap doesn’t hide the kid’s hair, un-kept, dark greasy, and worse was the beard. What kind of kid has a beard these days? Probably gay.

Unemployable. Okay on the docks. Marina workers were always short-of-lazy left-overs…into drugs probably.

The biggest hesitation about letting this kid on board is his obvious sloppiness. He could dirty up things fast…maybe even try to smoke something…burn a hole somewhere. Look how he just dropped his backpack on the floor, but not much else out of order below except the remnants of his repulsive body odor. Probably why he’s called a dirty bug.

Climbing back up, the more he thought about it, the more he regretted saying yes to the little bug. But, done was done. He sat down in the cockpit and looked for the game section on his iPad.
--
He is right about the air being cooler out to sea a bit. Once we get away from the land, the summer heat wall ends abruptly and the cold northern sea air takes over. I use the folded blanket he has on the seats to keep warm. I put my mind on hold by looking for the dogfish that feed and breed on the glassy surface. The air seems cooler and the clouds thicker as we travel north.

Speaking for the first time in one and a half hours, I say, “I think I should check those filters.”
“What?” He is on the cockpit side-bench reading something on his iPad, or pretending to. He doesn’t want to look up from the screen.

It has been ninety minutes. “I think I should check those filters.”

I make a slow-down motion with my hand to get him to cut the throttle.  He injects me with a bothered glare, gets up, and pulls back the throttle handle. The sound of no motors is shocking.

“And what is it you want to do?” he says. Again, the assassin eyes.

“Remember you had dirty fuel. It's time to check if things are okay. It seems your engines are running a little warm,” I say…bluffing…vaguely pointing at his dash. “You need to cut the motors completely.  We’re okay out here. There’s no wind.”

To keep him from coming down to check on my work, I say, “If you can keep an eye on our drift from the current, I will be back in a jiffy.” He kills the engines and I go below.

The first thing I do is dump the jar of bacon-wrapped scallops on a plate and stick it in the microwave for about 60 seconds while I open the Heineken.
--
All of a sudden? What’s the emergency? What the hell is this kid doing down there. Smoking? It’s time to check.
--
"I made us a snack," I say as I hand him the plate and the beer through the companionway door. My hands are shaking…please don’t notice. He’s standing right at the door as if he were planning on coming down. Good timing. "Enjoy yourself while I check out the situation."

Unable to emote, he says the flattest thanks I have ever heard, but to my great satisfaction, he takes both things with the intent seemingly to imbibe.

I duck back down below before he can re-decide. I bang around the engine room making working sounds for about 10 minutes, half expecting him to call me up on deck to tell me that we’re drifting into danger towards some island. One more game of solitaire and I climb back up on deck.

A quick scan tells me that he even drank the beer. Now I can only wait and see. I say, “The filters needed a little help, but weren't too bad. Let me take the dish down to the galley and let's get out of here. Start the engines, Pops."

I don't try to see his facial expression at my insolence. I dash down the steps, place the plate and the can quietly on the floor, text my mother, and take my time coming back. Hold your excitement, Cricket. Once again, it is time to sit and wait.
--
"’Pops?’ What was that about? Is he mocking me? The kid didn’t even fold the blanket back up. Sam...Cockroach, or whatever his gross nickname was, has something strange about him. Strange snack, too. Good though. Even got me drinking a beer.”

He admonished himself for not staying calm when he left Salem. He had forgotten to stock the fridge and had actually needed something to eat. And he knew why: The hurry-up to get away from the damn witch. Losing his cool, he could lose a lot more; she was progressing.

He smiled. “Deliverance” was the perfect name...from one cunt to another.
--
Just seconds after he gets us moving and the autopilot set, he begins wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and with increasing frequency. I try not to grin. I need to be sure.

When he begins shaking his hand in the air like his hand is falling asleep, I know I have him. It has not even been five minutes.

"Are you okay?" I yell. I don't know why I am yelling. Too excited.

Not turning toward me nor speaking, he continues shaking his hand, but harder and more often. When he begins stamping his feet, I stand up to get closer to him.

This particular yacht has a pair of captain chairs beside each other which allows me to slip into the seat to his right. I say, "You're not looking so great. I’m glad you are sitting down."

"Deliverance!" he yells.

"You're losing it, Pops. I think it's time to tell you that paralytic shellfish poisoning is caused by eating shellfish contaminated with dinoflagellate algae which produce toxins a thousand times more potent than cyanide. Unfortunately…I’m happy to tell you…there is no antidote for these toxins.

"I was able to secure perfectly poisonous specimens from the NOAA labs in Woods Hole where I now work...where I do a little night watch. Okay, why am I making up this NOAA story? So, hey, my mother works there…your old ex."

I try to see his facial expressions to be able to tell if he is comprehending what I am telling him. It is hard to tell, but I think I see a glimpse of fear. He is past controlling his body or he would surely attack me.
"I don't want you to die. Just yet. I have so much to tell you."

I stand up to check on our position, but mostly to let him stew a bit about his situation. Then back to the chair.

"In the half hour before we get to Penobscot, I’ll tell you a story, Pops. You want to hear a story? It's about you, so you probably want to hear it. People love to hear stories about themselves.

"You want to know why I call you ‘Pops’? You guessed it, right? Or did you? You are my dad, I am extremely sorry to say that. It makes me sick.

"Okay, you haven't seen me for twelve years, but that's not your fault. Mom kindly asked you not to, as she held an ice pick under your chin. I can see the scars." I bend in front of him pointing at the scars and watching carefully for any flicker of reaction. "Right there."

His body is shaking…from anger or poison, I don’t know, but his eyes are blank, like a blind man? . I snatch off his baseball cap and throw it overboard. His appearance changes from marauder to a half-bald pitiful geezer with a fringe of grey hair.

"You sent my brother to the mental ward. He couldn't grasp that you cannot love...that you couldn't love him. Mom said that you would never hold him…not even touch him as a baby or small child. You took away his toys so he wouldn’t ruin them by playing with them…playing with his own toys! You would never visit him if he were sick or in the hospital. You sent him away when you decided it was too difficult to be a parent. Or you just disappeared. Zap! Gone! It literally drove him nuts. You, and you alone, drove him into the loony bin.

“You couldn’t do more than just manipulate Mom. She, the beautiful woman that she is, wanted to love you but love is something you can’t recognize. You simply dumped her after stealing everything that was hers…leaving her destitute…and desperate. I wish she had stuck the ice pick deep into your pretext of a heart.

“You paid for a while, but then the payments stopped. I don’t know when; she wouldn’t tell me.

“Mom worked, studied…tutored me. She got her doctorate and was hired at the Woods Hole NOAA, and she never complained…except to wish you were dead. In her dark moments through the years, that is all she would ever say…she wished you were dead. Even so, when I discovered you were dropping by to visit the marina, it still took me a while to convince her to help, because she is too forgiving… because she was afraid for me.

"You are a terrible excuse for a human being. You are a predator...on humankind, so much so that even your own mother was afraid of you. Your mother, my poor, not-so-bright grandmother, went to her lonely death defending your abuse and neglect. I came to the conclusion that the only cure for you and your destructive nature is to make sure you no longer exist...that you are dead. And the earth will be better for it."

Although the boat is finding its way with the autopilot, I need to get there before he dies...before the weather gets worse...before, I don't know...as soon as possible.

I push the throttle to full. Pop's neck is no longer supporting his head, and I smell that his underpants have taken a horrible beating, so I push him off the chair. What a mistake that is. He falls to the deck and throws up. As he lies on the floor with fucking vomit everywhere, I can see he is still breathing…and twitching.

At high speed, the churning water, the wind flogging my ears, and the motors all seem so loud. I shout. “You were a lowly bank teller. No way did you earn the money to afford the gas for this thing…let alone for this million-dollar yacht. You either stole the money from the bank or, more probably, from women like my mother…and your own mother.”

I lean to starboard and demonstratively throw my cap overboard, both because it will be in the way and because now I hate it. While there is time, I lift myself over and around him and go below to change my clothes, shoes, Ziploc my phone, wrap my pants in the bags.

The scallop plate is still on the floor where I put it. The beer can has rolled somewhere. They’ll say, poor guy, he got poisoned.

I use a rag I find in the engine room to wipe out my fingerprints…not sure why. Hell, why shouldn’t my prints be here? Stay rational, Cricket. The jar...I need to dump now out on the ocean; I don’t want to poison the harbor by any chance. That harbor is a treasure trove of lobsters.

As I climb the steps, the thought of Pop’s vomit polluting the bay flickers through my mind, but what am I going to do?
--
As we near the magnificent bay, I slow the boat down to 2 or 3 knots. It’s one PM. The sun is still hidden in the summer sky. With the dark water and the shoreline in shadows, the whole bay seems darker than I remember it.

The water’s beautifully still…the air surprisingly cool so near land. The mirror reflection of the Maine shoreline rocks and conifers on the water’s surface is disturbed intermittently by a few creatures, both over and under the water, nabbing bugs off the surface.

The thought of this machine disrupting the bay’s serenity seems like rape. With the slowing of the boat, I can smell green…the moss and trees…but with a tinge of vomit. “Goddamn it, Pops, you are ruining this place already, and I now the flies are arriving.”

According to my research, the least populated shoreline on the bay is just before Fort Point Light, even if it has always seemed to me that there is no population anywhere along the shore. But the state park location, I hope, will help reduce the probability of witnesses to a maximum.

“You know, Pops, I have no way of knowing if you have any official bank account for me to inherit. I think not. But if there is any, I'm giving it back to Mom. If there’s a lot, then we will have to look up people you stole it from to try to give it back. I imagine you were on your way up here to screw another woman out of her life.”

The GPS reads we are just outside Fort Point ledge. A lone red marker buoy warns us to stay away.
“Right now, though, I need to throw you down the steps.”

I pull the throttle back a click to neutral. This bay is so enormous and quiet that I’m not afraid of drifting into trouble while I work on getting Pops into position, but out of habit I check the lone buoy to control our movement.

"I loathe even the thought of the idea that there could be part of you in me. I want you to drown. I am dumping you down the stairs to drown when I break open this boat, and I’m hoping falling down the steps gives you pain.”

Swatting futilely in the air, I say, “Hey, Pops, we slow down and the mosquitoes start swarming. You have the flies; I got the mosquitoes. Up here the bugs are just murder.” Do crickets laugh? “Wow! My humor surpasses me.”

I study his twitching half-fetal posture on the cockpit floor, tipping my head to see how I can best handle his weight and to avoid the crap he has regurgitated. I decide to turn him on his back and to pull his legs around toward the companionway.

As I pull on his legs, he begins making sounds which are not recognizable for a man…or even a human. Dog sounds maybe. A dog wanting attention? A dog in pain, I think. I hope.

Once I get his feet to hang over the edge of the companionway, I step over him, bend over his head to lift him under his shoulders. The stink is unbearable. I have to back off to take a deep breath and to try not to breathe while I lift and push him.

Then I vomit. It all hits me. The smell…his uncontrolled bowels and bladder stains. The flies. The splotchy colored urp on his yellow sweater. The cockpit’s exaggerated rocking of the boat. The pale light-green color of his skin…mostly, the idea of a dead or dying man in front of me.

The only food I had in me is now on and around him. Traces of me are everywhere…another mess. But I don't have time to even think to clean it up. It won’t do any good now. My DNA is on his clothes to mark my presence if anyone cares. Hopefully the local yokels will just think it's his retch.

I feel like a used condom, but I still have to move his puke-coated carcass. Luckily, it turns out to be fairly easy. He is either not dead or rigamortis has not set in. His frame is still pliable and smaller than what I expect. With a couple of new inhales, pushing, and breath holding, I’m able to let go and watch him slide down the steps to the lower deck floor.

Happily, he seems to crack his head several times on the steps, and as his feet hit the floor, the weight of his head folds him like a melting marshmallow, and then slowly tips him to the right, finally thumping on the floor…landing him on his side, curled on the floor like a soft turd…and the piece of shit that he is. I hope to see that he is still breathing, but it’s hard to tell.

As I kick his lost shoe down the steps, I yell, “My mother was ashamed for even letting you touch her. I hope you are still breathing. I want you to suffer…slowly, you bastard.

“Fuck!” I yell as I forget and step back into the slippery goop on the floor. “I hate you for everything!”

I should feel happy right now, shouldn’t I? Later maybe…maybe later. Keep the lid on, Cricket. Now I have a job ahead…finding the edge of the hidden underwater rock ledge which, by its mere invisibility, strikes fear in most sailors who enter this bay. I have to find it, feel it, and not get stuck on it too soon.

I am not at all sure just how deep the rock shelf is in certain areas. I’m not sure if this craft will float with a hole in the hull long enough for me to get off, or even how exactly to get off the boat without injuring or killing myself. Now suddenly, I’m not so sure about my plan. Is it fear or regret clawing at my gut…offering me no options?

This fancy boat might have a forward-looking sonar, but I’m not able to find it. The depth meter is not much use since the edge of the underwater rock shelf drops so sharply that it can’t be seen until I hit it. I am going to have to feel my way.

There is a subtle current caused by the Penobscot River. I test how to set the throttle to move the boat just a knot or two faster than the current. Once I’m satisfied, I circle around and take a very slight angle toward the shore.

I’m moving so slowly that it seems I’m never going to hit anything. I am far past the red danger marker. Distances on water are deceptive.

Out in the open at this speed the motors sound like a muffled laundromat, quiet enough that I can hear the water rippling on the hull between the screeches of the gulls, who seem to be complaining that I’m breaching their territory…or maybe they’re just hoping for garbage.

“Do you know why they are not called seagulls, Pops? You don’t know, do you? Here they’re [John Dane1] not seagulls because they are flying over the bay. They are bay-gulls, Pops. Bagels. Get it? Oh shit…crunch!” I yell down the steps. “There it is, Pops. You hear that? That's your super yacht feeling death.”

Having found the rock ledge, I want to feel how the edge continues. Is it fairly straight or jagged or uneven depth?

I try to steer more parallel to the edge to scrape along it…listening and feeling the horrible grating and crunching sound tearing on the fiberglass hull, right up through my spine.

Sudden silence. A small gap in the rock? How big? Thud! I hit solid rock straight on. A turn to the right and then what? More scraping and tearing. Previously I had in my mind that the rock ledge is going to be like a knife's edge...just straight across solid like on the charts, but now here...in real life, there is no way of knowing just how the ledge is shaped.

Even the depth of the rock shelf seems to vary, but I feel good about it just here. This yacht model has a fraction over three-and-half-foot draft. I’m hitting higher on the port side somewhere, which means that the ledge is only two to three feet deep, right here anyway. I feel that I can wade ashore fairly easily, not having to swim too far with a backpack. Perfect…I hope...maybe.

But I can’t goof around. Someone can show up anytime, anywhere on the bay and, hugely open as it is, can see and hear what is happening. No doubt. I’ve been lucky so far...I think. Ramming the rocks and leaving the motors running in gear will echo like civil war out over the harbor, probably attracting the whole State of Maine...and Vermont. If I hit the rock too slowly, the boat will just bounce off and I’ll have to keep trying, wasting more time, and continue to making incessant noise.

But full throttle may cause the whole boat to skip up onto the ledge. Christ! And why is hatred making me so fucking stupid? If it doesn’t take on water the way I hope, he’s dead or dying anyway. He doesn’t have to drown.

Okay, dumbshit, somehow you have to get off this monster. I envision jumping from the deck into shallow water and breaking a leg or hitting a sharp edge or getting trapped between the hull and the rocks. Or even worse, landing in deep water and being too exhausted to get over the edge of the shelf.

Aloud, I say, “Fucking go!”

I mark the trees on the shoreline as guidance for the immediate return trip to the hidden ledge. I swing the boat to starboard slowly to be sure I don't get stuck by hitting something else in the water.

Once I’m out and away some hundred feet, swinging around, I turn on the autopilot, setting it for those trees. Grabbing my backpack, holding my breath, I throttle the engine to full, and rush to brace my back against the companionway wall.

It all happens much faster than I’m expecting. Trying to avoid the vomit, I have almost no time to sit before impact. I bang my head hard against the cockpit wall.

The sound of rock meeting fiberglass is not what a yacht owner wants to hear, even if the water muffles the screech of fiberglass hull crushing against sharp edges of rock. The whole boat jerks up and leans to the right. Then it lets go and moves again, twisting to starboard, and the bow rises whale-like out of the water. The roaring engines continue to push with all their horses, causing a continuous cacophony of plastic against solid rock, and swinging and wagging the boat like it is desperately hungry and angrily gnawing at the rock for nourishment.

It’s difficult to stand up. The angle of the boat. The least bit of rocking hull is exaggerated high in the cabin. The whack on the wall has made my head throb and hard to think. Dizzy, on my knees, bracing myself, it takes several attempts to put on my backpack.

Needing to silence the noise flooding the whole harbor, I struggle to stand, holding on to what grips are possible to reach the dash while trying not to slip on the stomach slime.

Now, thankfully, the engines, unable to find water to cool themselves, cough and choke simultaneously to a stop, opening the door to grateful calm and stopping the seismic movements. I switch off the autopilot, and, as I adjust the throttle for investigators to find a realistic speed setting, I try to see if water is filling the salon, but can’t tell.

One scan of my situation tells me my only real exit is off the swim platform, now mostly submerged in the water. I descend the deck’s slanting obstacle course and lower myself into the water...icy water…fucking icy. Dog paddling, I hide low in the water and move away from the boat to circle back toward the shore.

After I guess that I must have crossed over into the shallow water, I try touching the bottom with a foot. Weeds... slime...lobsters. Stuff on the bottom I can't see…stuff that’s never been stepped on.  It is a shallow never-never land.

And, Jesus, the water is cold. This is the brack water of a cold river from the Canadian mountains mixed with a northern ocean that, somehow, lobsters love. I hadn't thought about how much colder the water would be in Maine.

Keep moving, fuckhead. Swim.

The impenetrable dark water surface threatens. Bad things go through my mind. I still have so far to the shore. Rocks. Trees. Warmth. They seem oppressively distant.

With living things nipping at my legs protesting my presence, leeches maybe, I stop to stand for a moment to rest and try to warm myself in the air until I hear the shouting on the park shore. I squat.
It’s hard to see far, but I can hear the distant hum of boat motors. I'm already wasted. The shore seems remote and the longer it takes to get there, the greater the chance I’m fucked...the greater the threat of the water’s dominion.

Dog paddling…the only way to move quietly. But each time some underwater entity scrapes my body, I’m now sure it is some animal, an eel maybe, about to sink its teeth in me…to taste me and to start a feeding frenzy.

A small shift in the weather causes a breeze over the harbor, rippling the water ever so slightly, killing the shoreline reflection, and making its refuge seem more unreachable. I’m disturbing this place, and it is messing with me. The wrinkled water is hiding its primordial revenge from me. Humans don’t belong here; they have never been here; they aren’t welcome here.

My water-logged pack is heavy.

More and more often I drop to my knees into the bottom slime as the pitiless sea siphons off my energy. If I am discovered, what do I care? The whole thing is...I don't know…cold. I can't feel my legs.
I whisper to the sea. ”I didn’t mean to poison you…leave me alone…I don't want to be here either.” But just breathing is hard.

The shore is close now. On my knees, I peel off my backpack with immeasurable effort and throw it toward the shore as hard as I can, but it doesn’t reach.

In the middle of the rippling rings spreading from where it lands, my father’s head, rising from under the surface, staring and disparaging, says, “Call your mother, Eric. She is waiting to pick you up.”

It’s no longer clear to me why I had thought I had a brother.