With all the leverage she could manage, Christine pushed him up as the stern fell. He stood on the ladder and rose with the next upward swing. The wave crested, and at the high-point he wobbled for a moment, like a child’s top losing its spin, then tumbled forward into Windsom’s cockpit. “Yes!” she shrieked, right before getting slapped in the face by a breaker.
Putting a leg on the ladder, she came out with the next swell and crumpled to the floor of the cockpit next to him, frozen and completely out of breath. She could only imagine how he must feel. The man lay still as Christine collected herself. She knelt next to him, checking his pulse. It was weak, too slow for all the exertion. His skin was deathly pale, almost white. Then she noticed the blood stain on his shirt. She unbuttoned it far enough to reveal a four-inch gash running between the bottom two left ribs. He’d obviously lost some blood. Christine wondered how long he’d been out here. With that kind of injury, and with the water so cold, it couldn’t have been long.
The man stirred and looked around blankly, a dazed expression on his face. He tried to sit up, but Windsom took a wave broadside and the jolt sent him back down to the deck, grimacing. Adding insult, both were doused with a sheet of salty spray.
Christine looked across the water and wondered if there could be any others. If so, would he even know?
“Do you speak English?” she asked.
The man didn’t respond. His eyes drifted shut, and Christine knew what had to be next. She pulled her best drill sergeant’s tone — he might not understand the words but at least she’d get his attention. “We’ve got to get you down below, into a bunk!” His eyes cracked open and she motioned to the cabin. He seemed to comprehend.
She helped him stand, and he leaned on her heavily, in obvious pain. They made their way to the steps, which he negotiated with the wobbling precision of a drunkard, Christine doing her best to stabilize his wandering inertia. Once in Windsom’s main cabin, he collapsed onto the bunk. She propped his head on a pillow and figured the wet clothes were next. Gently, she pulled off the tattered shirt. His upper body was lean and muscular, and judging by the number of scars, Christine decided he must have found himself in the company of strange doctors on a regular basis. There was one particularly nasty-looking scar near the fresh wound on his ribcage. She took a good look at the new damage, hoping it was superficial.
“Any pain when you breathe?”
Again, no response. His eyes were closed and he was still pale, but at least the man’s respiration had slowed now that he was lying down. To top it all off, he had what looked like a terrible sunburn, his face and arms blistered from exposure to the elements. She dug out her first-aid kit and dressed the wound, then checked for other injuries — any cuts, swelling or bruises. Christine gently palpated his rib cage and abdomen, finding no obvious complications. He wore no shoes, but she noticed when she took off his wet socks that the bottom cuffs of his pants were bound tightly around the ankles, tied with shoelaces. How strange, she thought. Christine untied them and removed his sodden trousers, leaving the man in his briefs. Next she got a towel, dried him off, and finally covered her patient with two heavy blankets. He stirred for a moment and his eyes opened, but they were void any semblance of coherence.
Christine went to the galley and poured a glass of water. She pressed it gently to his lips, “Try to drink. You must be dehydrated.”
He managed a few swallows, but then coughed roughly.
“Take your time.”
His eyes focused more clearly and he scanned the cabin, obviously trying to comprehend his surroundings. He finished the water, then drifted off again.
Christine was weighing what else she could do for the man when it dawned on her. Damn! She had never checked Windsom for damage. She wouldn’t be much help to anyone if the boat was sinking.
Christine hurried up the stairs, refastened her harness, and went to the bow. There, she leaned over and saw where the big timber had first struck. The paint was gouged, and there was a noticeable scrape back along the port waterline. She looked closely, but didn’t see any structural damage. Thank God for the resiliency of fiberglass, she thought. Just to be sure, Christine decided to check the hull from the inside. She looked over the railing and tried to gauge just how far down the damage was from deck level. That picture in mind, Christine headed back aft. She was approaching the companionway when she heard the crash from below.
She rushed down to find her stranger sprawled across the map table, an empty water glass in hand. Then she saw the smoke, billowing from a wet, buzzing rack of radios. Christine whipped around and opened up the fuse box on the bulkhead behind her. She tripped the breaker labeled nav/com and a couple of others for good measure. The equipment powered down, and seconds later the smoke began to taper off.
“That’s all I need!” she said with a scowl. “An electrical fire to top off my morning.” She picked the man up and guided him back to the bunk. He seemed weaker than ever.
“If you need more water, ask!” she chided. Her admonishing tone was sure to circumvent any language barrier. “You shouldn’t get up for anything!”
He raised the palm of one hand, an obvious apology.
Christine sighed. “All right, all right,” she softened, “just let me do the work.”
She refilled his glass and gave him another drink. This time he took half, then settled back and closed his eyes.
Turning to the radio rack, she eyed it dejectedly. Later she’d have to dismantle everything and dry off the components. Questions began to turn in her mind. Were any others still in the water? How could she summon help with all communications temporarily out? Christine wiped the table dry and spread out a map. They were at least two day’s sail from the Madeira Islands. Lisbon was slightly farther in the other direction. Even if she could reach someone by radio in the next few hours, Christine doubted a real search could be mounted before tomorrow morning. By then it would be pointless. Nobody could live for two days in water so cold. Within these constraints, Christine set her plan.
She would search all day for any other survivors. After dark, she’d set course for Lisbon and try to get the radios working. Lisbon was slightly farther, but the course would take her right across the shipping lanes that led to the Straits of Gibraltar — there was a chance she could flag down help along the way. She took a good look at her patient. He was resting quietly now and seemed stable, but very weak. She’d have to watch him closely. If there was any turn for the worse, she’d abandon her search and get him straight to a proper hospital.
Christine went forward in the cabin, finished her damage check, then moved up top and planned the search in her mind. Once established in a pattern, she picked up the binoculars again and began to scour an endless expanse of blue. Early this morning, the Atlantic had been her own private refuge. Now, she thought, it just seemed big.
Chapter Two
Benjamin Jacobs was nearing the end of his tether. He’d been elected Prime Minister of Israel nearly two years ago. His platform for regional peace was the bastion of a winning campaign, but forging promise into reality, as is so often the case in politics, was another matter altogether. It had taken twenty months — twenty months of painful, partisan negotiations — to be finally perched on this brink of success. Unfortunately, the accord he would sign in Greenwich, England, was still two weeks off, and in this part of the world two weeks could be an eternity. Jacobs’ economic stimulus package had long ago been put on the back burner, hostage to the peace process. But that would be next in line. No peace would ever stand against fourteen percent unemployment, higher in the Palestinian areas. Too many idle hands and minds on both sides.