Lily and the Octopus(59)

Drowning


Fuck!” I spin around, grasping for a plan. One of us will regroup first, and I’d rather it be us than him. C’mon, focus. Focus! We cannot be so close to victory just to stagger backward into defeat. But the octopus has the home field advantage. We need a miracle. I look at the spot that held the ax and something bright catches my eye. Farther down the ship’s side wall is an orange case. I race for it and pry it free. My knuckles are cold and achy. My fingers tremble in fear and anticipation. I struggle to open the case, but when I do we are rewarded. Inside are two flare guns.

Lily barks portside. The sea erupts and an octopus arm emerges over the side, jerking the boat counterclockwise. I’m alarmed at the sheer size of it, at this monster’s ability to grow. Lily charges fearlessly at the arm, retreating only when a second arm emerges to pierce the windows of the cabin and send flames shooting over the deck. I grab the guns and charge the octopus as he rips a hole in the side of the yacht and we start taking on water.

We have only one chance—to make it back to our boat, where we at least have the advantage of the trawls. Fishful Thinking floats calmly a good thirty feet away, safely out of reach of the fire. We can’t jump. We can’t traverse a plank. The only way to get to her is to swim. We have to enter the water, and to do so we must distract the octopus.

I whistle for Lily and slap my hand against my thigh. She immediately comes running and I crouch, catching her as she leaps into my arms; she hasn’t moved this nimbly in years. I set the gun case down just long enough to untether Fishful Thinking from the sinking, burning yacht. Then I grasp Lily tight, grab one of the guns, and shout in the most pathetic and terrified voice I can muster. “Hey, octopus! I give up. You want her? You can have her. I don’t want to drown!”

The octopus has spent enough time with us now to wonder if, when truly pressed, I’m not just this selfish. He raises his eye into view to see if my offer is true. Instead of seeing Lily outstretched in offering, he’s staring down the barrel of my flare gun.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” I pull the trigger.

The octopus is already retreating into the water as the flare strikes him like a lightning bolt on the top of his head. He makes a sound like a pile of hissing, screaming snakes as he sinks below the surface. Flames shatter another window in the cabin and broken glass explodes against the deck.

“We have to go. Now!” I drop the gun and hug Lily tight and we dive off the starboard side toward Fishful Thinking. I kick hard and try to cover as much of the distance underwater as I can. When we surface, I paddle furiously with one arm as Lily kicks with her short little legs. We have maybe ten feet to go. Behind us there’s an explosion aboard the Owe Too, the flames having finally reached the engines.

The rope the octopus had tossed earlier inviting us aboard hangs off the side of our fishing boat. I give it a good tug. It’s still secured tightly to the cleat. I grab on and lift us as high as I can out of the water before boosting Lily the rest of the way. She scrambles over our boat’s wall just as the octopus wraps a tentacle around my neck.

“Li—lheeee,” I manage before he cuts off my airway. It’s enough for Lily to recognize her name and she ducks just out of the octopus’s reach as a second arm strikes Fishful Thinking’s deck.

Just as my fingers turn white and I can no longer hold on to the boat, Lily reappears brandishing the jagged filleting knife from our set in the deckhouse. She stabs it into the tentacle around my neck, severing just through to my skin; I can feel the knife’s craggy point at my jaw. The octopus lets go, giving me enough time to clamber aboard.

I run straight for the deckhouse to flip the trawler winches, and mercifully the squall has not robbed them of power. The side trawler whirs to life and I lower the net on the port side. The boom swings wide, and I worry about hitting Lily. I yell for her to stay low and close and she sidles up beside me. Instinctively, I turn on the echo sounder and watch breathlessly for any sign of life. After about thirty seconds, the octopus moves.

Blip.

“There!”

I turn over the engine.

Blip. Blip.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon . . .”

The engine sputters and coughs.

“Come on!”

Blip. Blip. Blip.

The octopus is upon us.

I pound my fists on the engine control panel and suddenly the engine wheezes to life. I pull the wheel hard to the left and Fishful Thinking starts her tight turn.

Blip. Blip.

We pass over the octopus, but the net sensors give no sign of a catch. Lily grabs the strap of our harpoon gun in her teeth and heads for the stern. She sets it down and stands with her hind legs on the transom.

Blip.

The octopus is getting farther away.

Silence.

Fishful Thinking completes her turn and we head into the surf. I scan the ocean in front of us, wiping the windows with my sleeve to clear the deckhouse of steam. The silence is thick and eerie.

I race for the stern and fasten the harpoon gun to the mount so it takes aim at the waters behind us. Lily can swivel the gun with her nose, and I show her how to do so. I tell her the few secrets I know about firing a gun—to put the butt square in her shoulder and weld her cheek to the stock—and how to hit a moving target, tips I’ve learned from my mother’s husband, who is himself an impressive shot. She listens and nods with determination.