Chapter Nine
We spend hours trying and failing to get the sailboat’s tiny motor to start.
It sputters once but doesn’t turn over. Jackson searches the interior for manuals or gas lines or anything that might tell him how to get this hunk of fiberglass moving to no avail.
The gauges on the dash are basically useless.
The only one that seems to be working is for the water temperature, and it doesn’t change our prospects to know the ocean is a balmy seventy-seven degrees.
The fuel gauge is equally unhelpful. The needle is on empty, but we have no way of knowing if it operates like a car and only rises to the right level once the engine is started.
We could be out of gas, the tank could have ruptured in the storm, or we might have plenty of fuel and there’s something wrong with the engine.
We have no idea. Regardless, the motor won’t be our salvation.
When that plan fails, we switch gears and attempt to drain some of the water from the boat.
The sun is well hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, but I track its movement as we stand in a line, passing buckets we found in storage.
Jackson scoops at the bottom of the stairs, passes up to me at the top, and I pass to Emmy, who dumps the water over the side of the boat.
Over and over, we pass the same three buckets until my hands are raw and my arms are shaking.
It doesn’t look like the water level drops more than a couple inches.
At least Ben’s stopped screeching through the bathroom door.
Emmy dumps the contents of what’s probably our two hundredth bucket over the side, then drops it onto the deck with a clatter instead of passing it back to me. “This is useless. I need a break.”
Jackson’s head pops out of the cabin, and he leans his forearms on the deck. “We can stop for a bit. I’m not sure it’s helping anyway. We’d probably have to keep this up for a week to see the floor again.”
I try not to look at him. He never put his shirt back on after we used it to sop up the blood from Keith’s broken nose, and I’ve done amazingly well at not staring at him.
The threat of death is an effective distraction.
But now that he’s helped lug gallons upon gallons of water out of the boat, he’s glistening in sweat.
He has no right to look so good when we’re downright miserable.
Thanks to the storm, it’s far more humid today than it was yesterday.
Every exposed inch of my skin is sticky.
My lips are chapped from the sun and my little dive in the ocean.
My shoulders are uncomfortably pink, even with the cloud cover, and every few minutes some mysterious banging comes from farther up the boat, making us flinch.
Emmy peeks down the stairs and frowns at the water. “Are we positive there isn’t a leak?”
This is the eighth time she’s asked this since we started.
Jackson hangs his head. “Positive, Emmy.”
“But how do you know? You’re not a boat expert.”
“I’m not, but I watched the waves come in through the hatch all night, and the water level is about the same as it was when that finally stopped. If the boat were leaking, the water would rise even without the waves. Logic strikes again.”
“Well, logically, I’d say this can’t be the first time waves have washed inside a sailboat. They must have something on board to pump the water back out. We should try asking Ben.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because that went so well last time.”
When we couldn’t get the motor started, Emmy asked for advice through the door.
Ben told her to fuck off.
“Yeah, well, if you two hadn’t locked him up, he probably would have been a lot more helpful,” she shoots back.
“Sure, sure. Maybe we’ll also give back his knife, so he can slit our throats in our sleep. It’ll be pretty difficult to worry about the water level when we’re fish food,” Jackson says, his voice dripping with disdain.
Emmy looks like she wants to throw something at him. “Whatever. I’m just saying that he probably knows an easier way to do this. Now move. I’m going to look for something to eat. I’m starving.”
At the mention of food, my stomach lets out a low grumble, and I press my hand against it. We haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. I didn’t notice until now. It’s hard to think of food when you’re puking your guts out all night long.
Emmy gives me a pained smile. “I’ll find something for everyone. Don’t worry.”
I nod, but I’m suddenly wondering what the chances are that Captain Keith kept enough food on board to feed himself for more than a day or so. He’d just arrived in Puerto Vallarta when Ben accosted him at the marina. It’s not like he had time to stock up.
Emmy climbs over her brother, purposely throwing a knee into his ribs as she goes and disappears below. Jackson turns to follow her, and I wonder if he’s planning to help or make sure she leaves Ben in his cage.
I sit at the top of the stairs while Emmy digs through the kitchen. I should help, but I don’t move. Instead I take the rare moment by myself and use it to panic.
If we could get that damn motor running, we could head straight east. It’s not exactly prime navigation, but even if Captain Keith’s compass is off, we could follow the direction of the sunrise and hit land of some kind.
Anything has to be better than the open ocean, and we could follow the coast until we reached a town or marina.
But how the hell are we supposed to do that with no working motor or sails?
We’re no better than a giant buoy floating aimlessly in the ocean.
How long can we stretch the food and water? Once we inventory everything, we’ll have a better idea, but best-case scenario…a couple days? A week? What happens after that? Will some unlucky sailor stumble on the Be-Yacht-Ch in a few weeks and discover four sets of rotten remains inside the cabin?
Or maybe they’ll never find us at all.
I can hear the true crime podcast now, picking apart the bloodstains on the deck while devising increasingly ridiculous theories about why one skeleton was found locked in the bathroom.
My hands start to sweat, and I rub them along the hem of my shorts.
I stare off at the darkest section of the sky to the west. The man at the marina said storms. Multiple. I hope to hell we’re back on land before the next one hits, because if it’s anything like the last one, I’m not sure how much more water this boat can take on before it starts sinking.
Emmy appears at the bottom of the stairs with a blue box. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“Good news.” I can’t take much more bad news at this point.
“He’s got a bunch of fruit snacks in here.”
She tosses me a couple little bags, and I tear into them. The tiny gummy fruits sink almost painfully into my hollow stomach. “And the bad news?”
“That’s about all he has. There’re a couple cans in the cabinets, but it’s…not a lot.”
I hang my head with a sigh. Okay, so this isn’t going to be one of those “survived three weeks at sea” types of adventures. We’re going to have to find a way to get to shore sooner rather than later.
“We should dig around and see how much food we have to split between us,” I suggest. “If we know what we’re working with, we can ration it.”
Emmy opens a cabinet that’s empty except for a container with a dusting of dry oats in the bottom. “That rescue boat better hurry up.”
I don’t say a damn thing, and when Jackson opens his mouth, I level him with a glare.
He snaps it shut again. There’s no downside to letting her stay blissfully unaware of how bad the situation is.
Once she accepts that nobody’s coming, it’s going to be significantly harder to figure out how to survive on this boat with her crying and carrying on.
Jackson pulls an orange from the water. “Do you think these are any good? Are orange peels waterproof?”
I shrug. “No idea. I guess we’ll find out when we bite into it.”
“Consuming more salt seems like a bad—” Something slams into the side of the boat again and he jumps. “What the hell is making that sound?”
That’s a good question. I climb to my feet, trailing my fingers along the lifelines for balance as I move up the left side of the boat. The waves are much smaller, but we’re still constantly in motion, rocking back and forth in a way that makes me miss standing still.
The broken mast cuts a line across my path.
When it fell, it smashed through a portion of the lifelines, leaving behind a tangle of metal.
I peek over the side of the boat and immediately clock the source of the sound.
What’s left of the boom is pressed against the side of the boat.
The fiberglass is frayed and scratched where the metal rubs, and as I watch, another wave catches the sail and shoves the whole mess into the boat with a sharp crack.
Jackson appears beside me, and I jump out of my skin.
He sighs. “That’s not good. If we don’t detach that metal, it’ll wear a hole in the boat.”
“I know,” I say, turning to study the broken mast and the dozens of ropes and snapped cables littering the deck. “But I don’t think we can move it with the sail still attached. It’s weighed down by the water. We’ll have to remove it first.”
“Okay, but how are we going to do that?”
I wiggle my fingers into my pocket and pull out Ben’s knife. “With this.”
He’s shaking his head before I even finish speaking. “No way. You’re not going back in the water.”
“I don’t see another option; do you?”
Jackson’s hands ball into fists. “That’s a terrible idea. The current is too rough.”
I blow out a breath. I don’t want to do this either, but I will if it means keeping this boat above water. “I’m the best swimmer. It should be me. Emmy can barely dog-paddle, so she’s out. And I’ll need you to pull me in if I get into trouble like last time.”
He scrubs a hand down his face as I grab at the ropes on the deck until I find one long enough to reach the far side of the mast in the water.
“Fine, but for the record, I don’t like this.”
That makes two of us.
Memories of yesterday’s panic in the water run through my mind, and I try to push them aside as best as I can.
The ocean’s not going to get any less deep the more I worry about what’s in there with me.
I can’t pull Jackson in if we switch places, and if I can’t get the mast detached, it’s only a matter of time before we sink with the metal slamming into the boat at the waterline.
Getting freaked out about the miles of water beneath me won’t save us. Detaching the sail might.
I kick off my shorts and tie the end of the rope around my waist again. Jackson pushes my hands aside to tighten the knot himself—like the control freak he is—and his fingers brush the side of my stomach. I look away so he doesn’t see the blush crawling up my face.
Now is not the time.
“Okay. Free the sail as quickly as you can, and the second they’re clear, wave, and I’ll pull you back in.”
I nod, doing everything in my power to not picture creatures coming up from the depths to drag me under. “Right. Got it.”
His mouth presses into a grim line. “Please be careful.”
I give him a two-fingered salute and try to smile. “I’ll think about it.”
His laugh sounds entirely against his will.
I throw my legs over the lifelines, tighten my death grip on Ben’s knife, and jump before I have a chance to talk myself out of this.
When I hit the water, it’s so warm I almost feel no difference between it and the air.
I kick my way to the surface and find Jackson anxiously watching me from the deck.
I flick the knife open and reach for the nearest section of sail, carefully cutting it away from the wires lashed to the broken mast one slice at a time.
I methodically move farther from the boat and higher up the mast with each cut.
As I go, Jackson keeps the fabric taut, giving me more tension to make it easier to cut.
Loose ropes twist and dance under the surface of the water, brushing my legs with every wave.
Shredded tendrils of the sail trail up my thigh, and my mind is once again conjuring images of sharks and tentacles coming up from the depths.
Last night’s dream joins the party in my head, and the imagined tentacles transform into Captain Keith’s puffy, waterlogged corpse grabbing at my ankles, my arms.
By the time I reach the farthest end of the mast, I’m damn near hyperventilating.
“You got this,” Jackson calls. “You’re almost done.”
I am. I’m almost done. A few more slices, and the sail will be free.
There’s nothing in the water. There’s nothing in the water. There’s nothing—
Something brushes my leg, and I clench my teeth to keep from screaming.
There’s nothing in the water.
I have to dive under to reach the next portion.
The top of the mast is at such a downward angle, it’s a good three feet beneath the surface.
Cutting through the fabric underwater is taking forever.
I surface and tuck the knife into the front of my bathing suit to free up both hands, then start yanking the last few feet of sail off the mast. Jackson’s braced on the boat, ready to pull me back the second I’m done.
A wave hits the opposite site of the boat.
With a loud groan, the Be-Yacht-Ch rocks toward me, pushing the mast deeper into the water.
Jackson almost goes overboard and barely windmills himself back onto his heels.
I watch, frozen in place, as the stretch of mast between me and him bends.
The base lets out a loud, grating creak as the boat rights itself, and the mast snaps off completely.
The whole mess slides off the boat and plows into me. I’m shoved beneath the water before I can take a breath.
Something tugs around my waist and drags me down. The wave folds a portion of sail up over my body, and I thrash around, trying to free myself. All I can see is the canvas cocooning me, taking me under with the mast.
I’m dragged…
Down.
Down.
Down.
Into the sea.