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Authors: Michael Reisig
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on the line, sharp, two times, and you pull them up. Then we’ll do it again.”
The sensei nodded, tying the nylon rope to the bow rail. Just before Travis dropped into the water he turned back to the Japanese,
“Watch for my bubbles on the surface. It will give you an idea where I am—not that it’ll make much difference.”
The sensei nodded again. “I will watch for you, Travis-san.”
When Travis hit the water, he noticed that it too was reacting to the cooler weather, and had a bite well beyond cool and refreshing. He paused for a second, floating on the surface, and let his body adjust to the temperature while studying the bottom. Drifting directly above the store, he could see the bent and broken remains of the aisle shelves that had displayed food. There were canned goods scattered across the floor, their round bottoms looking like giant pieces-of-eight from a recently gutted Spanish galleon.
Travis treaded water and yelled to the sensei, “Throw me the rope. I’m going down here.”
Grabbing the rope with the catch bags as it was tossed to him, he dove for the bottom. He drifted silently downward, his eyes scanning the scattered ruins of what was, until recently, his world. Travis swam past an overturned car and observed a grisly reminder of the killer wave—an arm extended out of the passenger window, moving stiffly up and down in the current, almost as if beckoning him. He shivered and swam on until he came to a large overturned display rack. On either side were hundreds of cans. Settling onto the bottom he began sorting, then loading his bags. When the two bags were stuffed with corned beef, tuna fish, baked beans, etc., he hauled them closer to the boat and tugged on the rope. Up they went, as the sensei pulled from above. Two minutes later, the bags were back, and he began to fill them again.
That went on for the better part of an hour. In the process, they accumulated everything from fruit juices and jars of almonds, to peanut butter, canned fruit, peas, corn, and dog food. They had recovered sufficient supplies to last them at least a month. Travis surfaced with the last load and checked his pressure gauge. He still had eight hundred pounds left—enough time for a short dive on the other store. Handing his tank to the sensei, Travis pulled himself up over the stern. He put on some warm clothes they had found in one of the dressers on board, then they upped anchor and repositioned the boat about two hundred yards away, over the K-Mart. Travis, deciding to go below and warm up for half an hour, was greeted by an exuberant Carlos. The diminutive Cuban, an open can of beans in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other, praised Travis as he entered the cabin.
“Hey man, chu a pretty amazin’ son-a-bitchee. Most hombres , they go in the ocean, they catch a pescado , maybe a lobster. But chu man, chu catch peanut butter!”
The boy was awake, huddled in the corner of his bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest as he watched Travis and Carlos, but said nothing. Beside him sat an empty can of beans, a sign of a returning appetite, anyway.
Travis reached down and picked up a can of peaches from the pile of canned goods on the floor. He popped the pull-top, walked over to the boy, and knelt in front of him. “Hi, little buddy, how ya doin’?” he asked, extending the can of peaches. “How about splitting these with me?” The lad looked up at Travis for a few seconds, then nodded his head. Travis pulled a slice out for himself, then handed the can to the boy, who slowly reached out and took it. “You eat the rest.”
Travis got up and sat on the bunk next to the youngster, and a moment later Ra came over to him and nuzzled his hand affectionately. The lad watched with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Ra, who seemed to understand intrinsically that the rules had changed regarding his protection of the boat, raised his head and sniffed the newcomer.
Travis stroked the dog and said, “His
The sensei nodded, tying the nylon rope to the bow rail. Just before Travis dropped into the water he turned back to the Japanese,
“Watch for my bubbles on the surface. It will give you an idea where I am—not that it’ll make much difference.”
The sensei nodded again. “I will watch for you, Travis-san.”
When Travis hit the water, he noticed that it too was reacting to the cooler weather, and had a bite well beyond cool and refreshing. He paused for a second, floating on the surface, and let his body adjust to the temperature while studying the bottom. Drifting directly above the store, he could see the bent and broken remains of the aisle shelves that had displayed food. There were canned goods scattered across the floor, their round bottoms looking like giant pieces-of-eight from a recently gutted Spanish galleon.
Travis treaded water and yelled to the sensei, “Throw me the rope. I’m going down here.”
Grabbing the rope with the catch bags as it was tossed to him, he dove for the bottom. He drifted silently downward, his eyes scanning the scattered ruins of what was, until recently, his world. Travis swam past an overturned car and observed a grisly reminder of the killer wave—an arm extended out of the passenger window, moving stiffly up and down in the current, almost as if beckoning him. He shivered and swam on until he came to a large overturned display rack. On either side were hundreds of cans. Settling onto the bottom he began sorting, then loading his bags. When the two bags were stuffed with corned beef, tuna fish, baked beans, etc., he hauled them closer to the boat and tugged on the rope. Up they went, as the sensei pulled from above. Two minutes later, the bags were back, and he began to fill them again.
That went on for the better part of an hour. In the process, they accumulated everything from fruit juices and jars of almonds, to peanut butter, canned fruit, peas, corn, and dog food. They had recovered sufficient supplies to last them at least a month. Travis surfaced with the last load and checked his pressure gauge. He still had eight hundred pounds left—enough time for a short dive on the other store. Handing his tank to the sensei, Travis pulled himself up over the stern. He put on some warm clothes they had found in one of the dressers on board, then they upped anchor and repositioned the boat about two hundred yards away, over the K-Mart. Travis, deciding to go below and warm up for half an hour, was greeted by an exuberant Carlos. The diminutive Cuban, an open can of beans in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other, praised Travis as he entered the cabin.
“Hey man, chu a pretty amazin’ son-a-bitchee. Most hombres , they go in the ocean, they catch a pescado , maybe a lobster. But chu man, chu catch peanut butter!”
The boy was awake, huddled in the corner of his bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest as he watched Travis and Carlos, but said nothing. Beside him sat an empty can of beans, a sign of a returning appetite, anyway.
Travis reached down and picked up a can of peaches from the pile of canned goods on the floor. He popped the pull-top, walked over to the boy, and knelt in front of him. “Hi, little buddy, how ya doin’?” he asked, extending the can of peaches. “How about splitting these with me?” The lad looked up at Travis for a few seconds, then nodded his head. Travis pulled a slice out for himself, then handed the can to the boy, who slowly reached out and took it. “You eat the rest.”
Travis got up and sat on the bunk next to the youngster, and a moment later Ra came over to him and nuzzled his hand affectionately. The lad watched with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Ra, who seemed to understand intrinsically that the rules had changed regarding his protection of the boat, raised his head and sniffed the newcomer.
Travis stroked the dog and said, “His
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