Castle of Water: A Novel(56)

The variation, however—the reason those radio transmissions would vanish for months, even years, on end, only to reappear for a few short weeks—had to do not with the number of boats, but rather with the oscillating nature of the Equatorial Countercurrent’s position. For most of the year, the slender current of “upstream” water could be found slightly north of the equator, generally around three to five degrees up. Not a very long distance on a map, but still nearly a thousand miles away from Barry and Sophie’s island. Occasionally, however, toward the beginning and end of the rainy season, the countercurrent would shift its position and drift southward. And on even rarer occasions still—generally on the heels of the region’s larger storm systems—it could actually dip below the equator and take its armada of crisply trimmed sailboats and gleaming yachts right along with it. Which was precisely when the shortwave would begin picking up their transmissions and exactly how Barry had seen those three lights twinkling out at sea. It didn’t happen often, and it didn’t last long. But when it did, a much-traveled sea lane was no longer hundreds of miles away to the north, but only dozens. A mere two-day paddle on a raft or canoe.

It goes without saying that Barry didn’t grasp the full minutiae of oceanic currents and recreational sailing habits. But when he adjusted the tuning dial and heard not just the one, but multiple radio conversations come crackling through on the maritime band after a year of silence, he understood the momentous nature of what was transpiring and the fleeting opportunity that had been laid at their feet. Just to the north—and he was now absolutely sure of it—a fleet of ships was waiting to pick them up and carry them home. The boats probably wouldn’t be there for more than a week or two, if previous experience was anything to go by, but if they wasted no time, they just might make it.

“Baby, we’ve got to go. Now.”

He shouted it over his shoulder as he began gathering water bags and looking under their cot for whatever old coconuts he could find. And where the hell had he left the first-aid kit? The wind outside was picking up, creating a flurry of agitated notes from the bamboo wind chimes; the storm the newscaster in Tahiti had warned about was coming their way.

“Barry, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Sophie, we don’t have time to discuss this.” He found the first-aid kit and dumped it into the duffel bag, alongside the solar still and what remained of his fishing gear. “We need to get as much water as we can, get the canoe ready, and get our asses out there. This is it. This is our ticket home.”

“I think we should wait.”

“What?” Barry spun around, the waterproof duffel bag now fully packed and slung over his shoulder. “These things only last a few days, maybe a week or so tops. What, exactly, do you think we should wait for?”

He edged his way past her and ran out onto the beach, greeted by a sky that was already bruised at its base by a thick wall of thunderheads. A few spits of rain pecked at his skin.

“Barry, come back.”

“Baby, you need to grab whatever you can and come on. I told you, we don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not coming.”

She stood at the doorway of their home, her feet planted firmly in the sand. She gripped the bamboo doorjambs as a show of her determination. She had made her decision—she would not budge.

Barry dropped the duffel bag. He gripped his face in frustration and groaned aloud. “Sophie, what is your problem?”

“Just look at the sky, Barry. You really think going out now is a good idea? It’s too dangerous. We could die out there.”

“We could die here, too! I know it’s a risk, but what other choice do you think we have? There are at least a dozen ship signals coming through that radio—and they’re coming through clear, I don’t think they’re that far away. All we have to do is get in that canoe and start paddling north. We can do it, I know we can. We might not get another chance like this.” And he paused for emphasis. “Ever.”

The first peal of thunder growled from somewhere out at sea. A second pattering of raindrops skipped across the palm-thatched roof of their house. Sophie shook her head.

“Non.”

Barry struggled to maintain his composure. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Sophie, you were the one who was all for going out searching for islands, which is much crazier than this. May I ask why you suddenly think this is a bad idea?”

“Yes, you may,” she answered, unable to hide the tremolo of fear in her voice. “Because things are different now.”

“And why are they different?”

“Because I’m pregnant.”

Barry’s face screwed up into a look of profound confusion. He had heard the words, but they made no sense. “Wait. You mean with a baby?”

“No, with a cocker spaniel, you idiot.”

Then it all made sense—then the meaning at last hit home. Barry stammered for an awkward moment before stumbling back toward Sophie and clutching her in his arms. They stayed that way for several minutes, with the heavy rain at last coming down and the gongs of lightning beginning to crash, until Sophie took his hand and led him back inside, the radio still on, right where they had left it, a chorus of sea captains murmuring softly in the dark.

*

To say Barry reacted poorly to Sophie’s revelation would be a generous understatement. He sat on the edge of the cot for quite some time, in a stupefied state not entirely unlike Sophie’s when he had first found her in the raft. Not that he was upset or angry in any way—just terrified. Pure, raw, unadulterated terror, of the sort so many fathers-to-be no doubt experience upon encountering a fresh avalanche of responsibility. But his was compounded several thousand–fold by the risk inherent in their situation. A Stone Age island not much bigger than a football field did not strike him as the ideal place to birth a child, let alone raise one. The effort it took to fend off the quotidian specter of death had nearly driven both of them to the brink of madness on more than one occasion. While parents more securely moored to the modern world might worry about booster shots and playgroups and plastic Baggies full of Cheerios, they would have to contend with cyclones and shark fins and potentially lethal banana famines. Christ, lethal banana famines—patently absurd! a blindsided Barry thought to himself, oblivious to the storm that was howling outside, shaking the frame of their little bamboo house. He didn’t even know if you could raise a child on bananas, and he certainly wasn’t in any rush to find out.