Uncharted(63)

Chapter Eighteen





S A V E D





The sailboat is abandoned.

There are no footprints in the sand around the hull, no signs of life at all. Whatever poor souls once dwelled aboard are long gone, likely victims of the typhoon. As we approach, picking our way across the coral bed with care, I notice the life ring is missing from the stern — not a good sign. Someone went overboard, a rescue was attempted.

Clearly, that attempt failed.

There’s a snapped harness tether dangling from the steering wheel, as if the sailor at the helm was simply torn away and tossed into the waves. Guilt and sorrow spiral through my chest. I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.

The boat is canted at an angle, but with a slight boost from Beck I’m able to scramble aboard. It’s not a particularly large vessel — only around forty feet — but it’s equipped for blue water sailing. The impressive panel of navigational instruments by the helm is a dead giveaway, as are the solar panels affixed to the tattered dodger that covers the cockpit.

Beck moves behind me like a shadow as we make our way down three steep, ladder-like steps into the cabin. The space is so disheveled it looks as if a tornado has picked up the boat and used it as a cocktail shaker. Then again, remembering the waterspouts I saw, I’m not fully confident saying one hasn’t.

Every cushion is overturned, every item scattered across the floor. We sort through piles of clothing, foul weather gear and spare rope. A solar-powered camping lantern. Countless boxes of unopened matches. Bottles of water. Rolls of plush toilet paper. A full stockpile of canned food.

So many things we could’ve used to survive.

So many things I would’ve killed to get my hands on.

I nearly lose it when I spot the perfect fishing lures, manufactured by an assembly line, glinting at me from a clear tackle box. My heart aches when I stumble across an orange pill bottle full of emergency antibiotics, months too late to do Ian any good.

If only, if only, if only.

I know I should be celebrating. Doing cartwheels at our good fortune. The wreck has provided an unexpected windfall. These items will make survival far easier than it’s ever been. We’ll have a supply of food and plenty of warm clothing. A bona fide tool kit with hammers and wrenches and a handsaw. There’s even a miniature charcoal grill.

Yet… there’s a strange, inexplicable heaviness inside my chest I cannot shake off. Instead of a triumphant conquest, this feels like a pyrrhic victory — the first rotation of a crash course about to spin entirely out of my control.

“Violet. Look at this.”

My eyes swing to Beck. His eyes are on his hands, and his hands are shaking.

He’s holding a portable VHF radio.

I don’t think either of us breathe as he lifts his fingers to twist the power button into the ON position. With a beep and a quick buzz of static, the screen lights up and the antenna begins searching for a signal.

Suddenly, something that once seemed desperately out of reach solidifies into a firm reality beneath our feet.

We can call for help.

The thought has barely entered my mind when Beck lifts the radio to his mouth and presses down on the transmit button.

“Can anyone hear me?” he says into the speaker. “Is anyone out there? If you’re listening… this is an emergency SOS call…”



Wrapped in a warm wool blanket, I sit on my favorite driftwood tree trunk tracing the many tallies I’ve carved into its surface over the past few months. There’s a can of half-eaten peaches by my side, steaming in the sun. A freshly-applied coat of red polish glitters on my toenails. My body has been scrubbed head to toe with an unfamiliar body wash that reeks of roses. A stranger’s t-shirt drapes me like a dress.

I am a princess on her throne, reveling in the spoils of war.

It’s been five days since the sailboat washed ashore.

Five days of waiting.

Five days of watching Beck pace ever-deepening trenches in the sand before bed each night, calling for help into the damn radio on every channel imaginable. He allows himself only fifteen minutes per day, terrified the batteries are going to run out at any given moment.

I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he realizes this obsession is going to drive him insane. I would, if I thought he’d listen.

To me, the sailboat is nothing but a twist of fate. Seems that spiteful bitch had one final game in store for us — dangling the tantalizing hook of rescue, only to snatch it out of reach at the last moment.

I’ve begun the slow process of sorting through the wreckage, taking stock of the damage to the hull. There’s a pretty serious hole in the fiberglass after being bashed repeatedly against the reef. Water has flooded the entire bilge. I doubt, even if we could repair the engines or re-rig the mast, she’d make it more than the length of a football field before filling with water and plummeting to the bottom of the Pacific.

When I reveal this news to Beck, his nightly radio calls become even more frenzied.

Every time he catches me carrying something from the boat to the site of our former camp, I see a bit more despair creep into his eyes. He’s delayed his efforts to rebuild, convinced someone will hear our distress calls and charge full-throttle to our rescue.

Over a dinner of saltine crackers and cold tomato soup, I broach the topic.