Story XXIV: Stay
A man falls off his sailboat.
Dylan crouched at the bow and paid out the anchor chain from the Beneteau. While the chain rattled out, he stared back at his girlfriend lying on the foredeck, face up, tanning beside a black pug. She reached into the folds of a makeshift tent she’d fashioned from a beach towel and scratched the small dog’s head.
“How deep is it here?” Raquel asked. She did not open her eyes.
“Fifty, sixty feet.”
She raised herself to her elbows and looked back at a hazy Tampa skyline. The boat rocked gently in the wake of a passing power boat.
The rattling in the anchor locker shifted to the hiss of nylon rode. The soft clattering of the rigging intermittently broke the silence.
Raquel turned over, repositioned the wriggling dog in front of her.
At the bow, the anchor set, stretching taut at a long, gradual diagonal. Dylan stood watching the anchor, then leaned down to reset it.
“I’ll fish, Dylan. I can hear your voice. Alto y claro, gracias.”
Dylan looked back at her. She’d turned onto her stomach, facing away. He shut the anchor hatch sharply, headed to the stern, and wiped his forehead on a faded grey t-shirt. The pug raised its head to follow him.
The dog’s owner, Tammy, had dressed him in a pink collar with miniature bulldog spikes.
*
The rode cycled back vertically before they spoke again.
Raquel was laying out the pug’s yellow towel on the galley floor at the foot of the companionway. Dylan stared down after her.
“I can’t worry he’s going to fall in the whole time.” Raquel looked up at him. “You need to relax, Dylan. He’s not going to ruin your boat in one night.”
“You shouldn’t have snuck him on.”
When Raquel returned, she took a paint-speckled portable speaker from the cockpit and played a Spanish-speaking radio station through it. In small bursts, lying face down on her towel, she lifted her head up from time to time to sing in Spanish loudly enough for him to hear.
Dylan turned down her speaker.
“Check on your dog. He’s spinning in circles down there.”
“No te escucho, Capitán,” Raquel repeated, tapping hard on her ear.
A quarter of an hour later, a power boat pulled up. Raquel and one of her brothers, the older, transitioning from English to Spanish and back. After a long stretch in Spanish, he used Tammy’s name without accent.
Dylan interrupted. “Where’s Tammy? She needs her dog.”
There was another exchange between Raquel and her brothers.
“I should be back in thirty, D.”
“You’re pinning me down,” Dylan said. “Take her dog.”
“Not the way these drunks drive. He’ll freak out. You’ll be okay with him. Leave him downstairs.”
Her brother gunned the engine. She boarded.
Raquel formed a heart with her hands. As the boat sped away, she had to reach for balance. She did not look back again.
*
Dylan kneeled, raised the swim ladder, and secured it on two pegs with elastic rubber straps.
At the bottom of the companionway, the pug rose when he appeared and stared up at him. He had kicked Raquel’s towels into a pile. The dog stood directly on the varnished sole.
Dylan stowed the towels below the seating cushions.
Before returning the speaker to the instrument shelf, Dylan switched to a pop station out of St. Petersburg.
A traffic announcer called out the bottom of the hour.
3:30.
A half mile off port, in haze, a second boat joined Raquel’s. Dylan watched both boats skim back and forth across the horizon, making long arcs, turning sharply, rolling up to one side.
Twenty minutes later, there was a third boat.
Even over the volume of the radio, they were close enough for the faint sound of engines to carry over.
Dylan stretched the line on his rod in a steady arc, worked it, and let it drop back.
The fish weren’t biting.
At the bottom of the hour, the traffic announcer had bad news for the party people stuck on the 275.
They were coming up on 4:30.
Eastward, a haze that had hovered all day had cleared from the Tampa skyline.
Breeze was light.
Dylan descended to the galley. The pug looked straight up at him, his nails clattering on the galley floor. While Dylan leaned down and checked the floor for urine, the dog came to his side and snuffled audibly. Its eyes fixed on him, then it backed away.
The dog’s muzzle had silvered.
“You’ve got an ugly old dog, Tammy. Yeah, you, Capitán.”
Dylan retrieved two additional towels and situated them around the base of the companionway and straightened them at right angles. While the dog stood on one of them, Dylan pulled the dog and the towel into position on the floor. The dog did not object.
“She better not be pulling a Raquel. Don’t pee in my galley.”
On the deck, a different traffic reporter called 5:00. The announcers had changed shifts.
Dylan headed quickly to the wheel. He tapped out a text.
“is the dog with you? haven’t seen him”
He stared at his screen before tossing it back down by the speaker.
He didn’t send it or delete it.
*
Dylan was picking at a jammed halyard at the mast with a marlinspike when he stepped backwards onto the side deck.
The pug appeared at his feet.
Dylan narrowly avoided stepping on him, hopped unsteadily to one side, reached backwards towards the lifelines, caught his thumb momentarily on one of them, but missed grasping a handhold. His right arm slipped freely between them.
As his weight carried him backward, he fell sideways. His right shoulder slammed against the stanchion post. He went overboard.
… cold…
***
It took fifteen seconds to work through the first spike of pain in his shoulder.
He could tread water with the injured arm, but barely. He floated onto his back, breathing through pursed lips.
From the starboard side of the boat, there was nowhere to hoist himself.
Dylan looked to the bow at the anchor rode. It had moved into a vertical line. He might get a partial grip, but it would be too slick to hoist himself.
He began a sidestroke towards the stern, bracing his right arm against his stomach. Twice he stopped to feel his shoulder, attempting a full rotation.
As he navigated along the hull, six feet above him, the pug moved in parallel, first around the stanchion Dylan had struck, then threading his way by the lines. Even at the slow pace of the sidestroke, the dog lagged.
Dylan stopped swimming, the dog caught up and stared down at him.
“You should never have been on the boat, you fucking ugly, little dog.”
His voice echoed off the side of the Beneteau.
A light chop splashed against the hull.
He looked back at Tampa. “Fucking Raquel. Fuck.”
As he rounded the stern in a backstroke, the sea flushed into his mouth. The water at the stern was rougher than where he’d fallen leeward, where the chop was exposed, and he had to angle his head where he was more exposed to the wind.
Fishing line caught in his fingers.
He stopped swimming and considered it, first wrapping the line around his good hand, then tugging. Even slack, the line bit into his hand. The tugging briefly submerged him.
He had released roughly fifty yards earlier. No bob. Swaying with the rock of the boat above him, the rod tip stretched and released.
Fifteen feet.
He swam tight to the hull to get leverage, and again tugged, scaling the side of the boat. The smooth soles of his worn boat shoes slipped against the surface, and when he went under water this time, he banged against his bad shoulder.
… you’re panicking… settle down… S.T.O.P…
He stopped for two minutes before continuing leeward fully exposed to the stern. From his new angle, the powerboats were visible, not audible. Two were anchored, one made a wide U-turn.
The water sparkled.
… if I don’t die, and I’m here hanging out, they’re never going to let me forget it…
He laughed.
The air was warm.
The dog looked down.
“How did you get up those steps?”
Even with the chop splashing over his face, the late-afternoon sun burned.
When he arrived at the swim ladder, it was as he’d stowed it, secured with two black rubber straps several feet above the waterline.
He turned back in the direction of the power boats.
The transom dipped up and down over the surface of the water. The letters for the name of the boat were out of reach.
When he timed it, he still could reach only a foot and a half short of the bottom rung.
… in four hours, the boat will be “bow on” no swell under the swim ladder…
His feet were heavy.
He reached down, felt the smooth soles of the shoes. He did not remove them.
He floated on his back and looked up. The dog stared down at him. He looked a second time at the powerboats.
“Think, Dylan.”
When he looked up a second time the dog wasn’t there.
He called out to the dog. “Hey, do I need shoes? Want to go for a walk?”
The dog reappeared. The sun glowed directly behind its head.
Dylan took the first shoe off, flicked it over the head of the dog into the boat, startling it. The sound of the shoe landing could not be heard over the music.
“Fetch,” Dylan said.
The pug turned to look after the shoe but didn’t retrieve it.
“Tammy bred the dog out of you.”
Dylan threw the second shoe, this time teasing the dog with his arm movements.
When he let it go, the shoe hit a line, bounced back directly towards him. Dylan tried to catch it, fumbled, missed it, and the shoe drifted down and out of sight.
With the angle of the sun’s light, the bottom wasn’t visible. The shoe disappeared into a reflective, white haze.
An advertisement for a Tampa nightclub played on the radio.
“Capitán, you have one job. Tell me how you got up the companionway. If you can do it...”
He was distracted and trailed off.
… the propeller...
He positioned himself by the boat, took a fast series of breaths, then went under head-first, diving down towards the propeller.
When he reached it, he felt for the hub where the blades met the shaft. It was raw blade with a narrow margin of shaft to push against.
Crouched on the balls of his toes, he tried to find the best angle on the smooth section of the blade. With a burst, he thrust off a foot and a half higher from the surface.
He came close to getting a handhold.
The second attempt he got his good arm to the bottom of the rung.
He felt the raised edge of a screw.
… he knew that screw… he’d worried it would cut Raquel’s foot…
Underwater again, he timed the swells against the anti-fouling paint on the hull, letting it slide against his fingertips.
This worked.
He made progress.
The shoes would have given him extra height.
He continued in a steady rhythm, gaining a feel for the boat’s movement and the timing.
He began to touch the rung consistently. At the same time, his pauses for rest between attempts were lengthening.
He cut the ball of his foot and cried out. The dog leaned down at him, possibly anxious.
“Fetch my shoe, Capitán.”
He turned onto his back, groping at his foot in the water before yelling into the air. “Right now, killer dog. Fetch.”
Before resuming, he waited two minutes.
Now he pushed off from his heel.
He got a grip on the lowest rung. In fast succession, he grabbed the rung with his weak arm, raised his good arm up to the second, rested, then again pulled his weak arm even and braced the rung to his chest.
With each movement, he yelled, “Go.”
He needed to rest.
His arm shook as his weight moved in and out of the water, but, tight to his chest, it held.
His face was pressed against the metal.
He saw the raised screw below him.
He clawed to the third rung and clamped.
His blue-green shorts were out of the water.
The dog was a foot over him now. It had no expression, then its eyes rolled.
Dylan gave a burst of effort for the last rung.
When he called out “go,” it came out as a scream.
He was parallel to the dog. The pug jumped away from him, stumbling and falling into the cockpit momentarily out of sight.
It reappeared. It was fine.
Dylan stared at the dog. The dog’s eyes fixed on him.
As he held onto the fourth and final rung, he groped towards the handle of an ice chest.
Something popped in his right shoulder.
It was audible.
He screamed.
Water got in his mouth as he went under.
When he surfaced, he coughed from the salt water.
For the first time, he went into a survival float.
He looked down into the water. The bottom cleared. He stared at it. Coral. Dylan snapped his head up.
“Don’t look down, dog.”
The dog’s tongue flicked.
“How do I do it, Capitán? Tell me how I do it. I have no idea.”
When he returned to his survival float, he kept his eyes closed.
Two boats were there. He scanned. Not three.
It was not possible to tell if Raquel’s was one of them.
During his survival floats, he remained face down for ten to twenty second stretches.
His hands were cold.
… you got back in Richard’s dad’s boat… you lost the bet, but you did it…
Dylan kicked off from the side of the Beneteau and returned to his back, staring up at clear sky.
***
The daylight was fading.
He noticed the early outline of a three-quarter moon. Plane trails from the flight path to Tampa International spread out over his head. He closed his eyes and floated. The radio played.
The water splashed in his ears without rhythm.
He found a rhythm.
Survival float with eyes closed, up to scan for the boats, back to check for the pug on the stern.
It would have been more efficient away from the exposed chop. This required the most energy, but from that angle, he could see the power boats.
The DJ called a listener a ‘Jelly Baby.’ There was an advertisement for a Jeep dealership he used to pass on the way to his previous job.
He could not remember if he worked there when he met Raquel.
Dylan put his arms inside his t-shirt and curled his legs to his chest.
Saturday night. Bottom of the hour.
He looked to the sky. He spoke softly, clearly.
“I’m begging you.”
6:30.
6:45.
The boats had stopped racing.
He did not swim towards them now.
… if you’d swum out right away, you would have made it… you could have dangled the shoes from the propeller… fucking swim ladder… mistakes everywhere…
His feet were cold.
When he raised his head, the dog had disappeared.
“Capitán!”
The pug reappeared.
“You don’t move. You sit there and stare. That’s your only job ever in your entire life…”
Before 7:30, a guy proposed over the radio on a live line. The DJs called her at her job. She said yes and began crying audibly. They played her song. It had played twice since Dylan had been in the water.
… had it played twice?... he had no idea suddenly… had it played at all?...
His body began to shake when he remained in his survival rhythm for too long.
He felt the outlines of a half-eaten granola bar in a second, deeper pocket of his shorts.
He opened the bar’s metallic wrapping with his teeth. His hand trembled as he moved the food to his mouth.
The pug saw the food.
It paced.
Dylan held the bar up to him slowly enough that the pug leaned over the ledge to get it. Then he snatched it back so he couldn’t reach it.
Tears rose.
He looked away as he spoke to the pug.
“Here’s how it is going to go. Drop that ladder and I feed you…”
He balled the power bar wrapper in his hand. There were a few bits left. He tried to throw it into the boat, but it drifted on the breeze.
They both watched it bob.
“Here’s how it is going to go. I’m going to drown, and you’re going to starve to death.”
“We’re coming up on the top of the hour,” the radio announced.
“Which top of the hour?” he yelled.
His eyes shifted back to the boats. Passengers were moving from one to the other.
The second boat left.
The last remained.
There were lights on in the back.
The pug wasn’t in his last spot.
“Capitán, get over here. Now.”
The dog returned.
The last boat was crossing the horizon; its bow inclined, moving eastward towards Tampa, angling away from him. There were lights strung in the stern, Christmas lights.
He yelled until his voice cracked. He splashed with his good arm.
The splashes were small.
They were at an angle where they wouldn’t stand out from the Beneteau’s white hull.
The last powerboat.
He began to swim in the direction of the boat. When he gave up, he found himself one hundred yards from the Beneteau.
He cried.
The radio station drifted over, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Lights on the Tampa skyline had turned on. The moon was now over the city. The boat was no longer visible
… you’ll die in the Bay and they’ll never find you… fucking dead somewhere… bubbling up…
When he reached the boat, the pug was shaking.
“Relax, I’m not going to leave you in the boat alone.”
He laughed.
“Truthfully, though, tough guy to tough guy, I could absolutely leave you in the boat alone.”
“Thruthfully.”
He groaned and turned to the dog. “She’s trying to kill me, Capitán.”
He looked away from the dog. “You’re probably alright.”
The dog’s silver muzzle darkened in the early evening light.
There were ads for clubs, and songs he knew, and songs he did not know.
“I would never have put you in a pink collar.”
With early evening, the Beneteau had swung. When he faced the stern, Tampa was behind him now. Skyscraper lights started to appear.
“Cápithan,” he lisped.
***
It was smooth on the Selmon and overnight lane closures on the Howard Frankland Bridge. He should stick with the Gandy Bridge. Clear skies tonight, lows in the mid-60s, with a light breeze off the bay. It’s 9:30. Mix 100.7 down at Sparkman Wharf.
The boat was in silhouette. The air was still warm. Tampa sparkled.
Dylan headed around towards the bow. It was the furthest he’d moved in an hour. He swam alternating between his side and his back. He looked up at the deck.
The dog followed him.
There were moonlit shadows of the mast leeward.
“I’m taking you for a walk, Capitán. I want to show you something.”
“Thow you soothing.”
… it’s into your mouth…
Dylan stopped in the water and repeated himself, lisping. On the third try, he slowed and articulated clearly.
A fourth try was again successful.
He did not test his speech afterwards.
By the time he reached the bow, he could no longer make out the radio’s song.
The pug appeared.
… there you are Capitán… one job...
At the bow, Dylan removed his t-shirt.
He returned to the anchor rode and positioned himself beneath it, several feet above where it reached the water.
He folded his shirt over on itself, wrapped it around the rode, and tested it for traction.
It held.
Gradually, the rode drifted and stretched out at a long diagonal. As it rose, he wrapped his legs over the rode, and the diagonal lifted, clearing him from the water. His feet were now in warm air.
He shouted into the air. The pug startled at the volume.
With his good arm, he made progress, pulled against the line and monkey-climbed towards the bow.
Ten small pulls, a brief halt, then repeat.
As he warmed, his shivering increased.
The radio grew louder as he rose more level with the deck. The pug relocated to the bow pulpit and stared down at him.
“I get out of this, you’re mine, Capitán. My mighty little dog. Plan on it.”
Inch by inch, ten pulls at a time, legs wrapped around the slick nylon, he worked up the line. Where he did slip back, it was marginal. The rode’s angle held.
He closed the gap with the deck, reaching for it with his hand. He flailed at the wooden surface of the foredeck, stopping for a moment to feel the seams on the deck.
With another burst, he reached the cleat, gripped it.
… you’re in…
“Jesus.”
The pug pushed its head against his hand, breathing on him, driving his soft muzzle between his thumb and forefinger knuckles. He felt the dog collar spikes on the back of his hand.
Dylan looked at the dog, facing him directly, then closed his eyes. His lips appeared to speak but he made no sound.
… don’t let go, Dylan…
When his forearm was secure against the deck below the cleat, he saw the plump underside of the dog’s body, then its short tail.
“Capitán, here we go.”
He pulled himself eye level of the dog, his chin over the bow, then the line. The dog’s face was in silhouette. Then it pressed against his temple, then his mouth, snuffling, licking him.
“Oh, my god. There you are, Capitán.”
He gathered his energy.
The flattening of the diagonal was gradual. As the boat shifted, the rode dropped vertically. When the line reached 45 degrees, he lost his grip on the cleat. His fingers peeled off slowly, then released. He plunged back into the water.
He looked up for the dog. “I’m okay, Capitán. I’m okay.”
… I don’t need to get in … I only need to stay hang and stay warm…
He smiled face down.
He opened his eyes towards the dark bottom.
He held his gaze.
He looked up.
The moon was starboard.
The dog’s silhouette was gone.
The radio played.
His t-shirt dangled from the top of the rode.
***
He did not attempt anything for two hours. He settled into an area protected from the chop. The waves splashed against the hull, echoing when he was directly next to it.
He hadn’t spoken to the dog for an hour.
The warmth had bought him time, but after the fall his shivering set in more quickly. He could grasp with his bad hand, but the range of motion in his shoulder was negligible. Several times, his legs cramped while swimming, but after midnight his arms began to cramp.
… he was with Richard at Seal Bay… in the water looking up at the sailboat… then they were in the middle of the ocean… they were late for a party at the Wharf…
Dylan’s head shot out of the water.
He began to call “Capitán.”
He remained wide awake for another thirty minutes
At midnight, the radio crew said goodbye from the Wharf.
There were no longer traffic announcements.
At 12:30, fishing line brushed against his torso. With his eyes still closed, he unwound it from beneath his bad arm and released it to float in the water.
Abruptly, he began to flail in the water, pulling the slack of the line in and wrapping it around his thigh and calf.
He tugged at the line with his leg, pulling his knee in, then resting.
This process continued for fifteen minutes.
He found a new rhythm.
At the end of each survival cycle, he gave three sharp tugs on the line.
He was fishing with his leg.
The dog was not visible from the water.
*
The fish struck like a rocket.
The line raced through his hand, unspooled from his calf but held on the coiling around his thigh. He pulled his thigh into his chest.
He began to slowly pull away from the boat.
The rod zipped behind him. Line was playing out.
… don’t snap… please God, I’m begging you… don’t snap… tugging on and off… a mackerel.
The line cut into his thighs. He let go of the line and reached for his thigh.
The tension on the line disappeared. He bobbed on the surface and took deep breaths.
It struck again. This time he was dragged under.
He jerked his leg hard now.
There was a pop.
The fish had torn himself off the hook.
When he surfaced, the boat was seventy yards away.
He had enough line to hold his weight.
… one knot… boat…
He unwound the line from his leg.
The moon shone through the rigging.
He had come about.
He heard the radio.
He did not see the pug’s silhouette until he was a boat length away from the stern.
When he did, he shouted and splashed in the water.
“I got it, Capitán,” he screamed. “Make a loop,” he yelled. “A knot. A step.”
He was alive.
He thrashed and whooped.
Loops could support his weight.
The silhouette of the pug leaned, froze, tilted, and jumped into the water.
***
It took him over a minute to reach the boat.
The pug struggled by the side of the hull, drifting below the surface. His paws churned, his head submerging and bobbing up again. The pug saw him. Its eyes were wide.
Dylan clutched it with his bad arm, struggling to get to the swim ladder. The dog tore at his chest with its claws. He pulled it in tighter, which forced the dog down into the water.
… he’s warm…
The line dangled after him and tangled on his foot. He did not try to untangle it. It was secure.
When he reached the stern, he gripped the dog securely before descending to reach for the propeller. The dog went below the surface. He gripped it by its chest and front legs. He was squeezing hard.
… you’re hurting him… he’s small…
With the dog still submerged, he groped to position his toes against the propeller.
He took a moment. Below the surface, he shook his face in the water.
The push took him a foot above the surface. Still gripping the pug around its small frame, he watched the dog rise through the air before falling under.
When Dylan surfaced, he wasn’t sure if the dog had cleared the edge. He did not see it in the water.
The pug must have reached the edge of the last rung, then scrambled from his sight.
He did not know.
Dylan floated in the water for two cycles.
He was spitting in the water.
He stopped.
He circled to find the line. It would still be connected to the rod. He fought to clear his head above the water.
The pug was above him.
It was alive.
The dog’s tongue flicked. The color of its tongue was not visible in the light. The dog was smaller with its fur wet.
The man and the dog stared at each other.
“Never seen anyone so alive.”
Dylan’s face and lips moved mutely. He was spitting.
He began to cry and flail for help.
The dog leaned forward, froze, then jumped in a second time.
He could not find the dog. The stern was in heavy shadow.
He spun sidearm reaching out.
The dog’s claws tore against the back of his neck.
It took two tries this time to get the dog in the boat. He no longer positioned his heel for the inside of the blade. He stood directly on the blade. The propeller gashed his foot.
The dog moved in his hand.
When he thrust upwards, the fishing line popped.
Dylan stared at the dog struggling.
The dog was on the fourth rung. It paused.
In a burst of effort, the pug scrambled the top two rungs and out of sight.
He heard the clatter of the ice chest top.
The dog reappeared a third time.
“Stay,” Dylan breathed.
His death would kill the dog.
The dog would follow him.
He looked up at the dog.
He had no strength.
… it’s over…
*
Loose fishing line still wrapped around his thigh.
Not enough.
Water entered his mouth continually.
He swatted at his mouth with his hand.
He looked up.
Tampa.
Dylan stayed close to the hull as he rounded the boat.
His direction was inconsistent, moving towards and away from the hull. His paddling arm reached more slowly and for less distance.
The dog followed above him.
The radio announced the time.
… you’ll die at 2:30 in the morning…
He no longer looked up for the dog.
At midship, the radio quieted.
It took ten minutes to reach the overhang of the bow.
“I’m right here. I’m fine.”
He did not speak out loud.
He kept a close distance to the hull under the bow pulpit and out of the dog’s sight.
The rode drifted vertical.
He felt the hull, slowly closing and opening his eyes, checking his location.
He was underneath the lip of the overhang.
His face was expressionless.
He lifted his head.
He saw the bow.
The dog could not see him.
He fumbled with the fishing line in his fingers.
He wrapped one end of the line around the rode, the other around his wrist.
He looped his wrist and the line again.
His eyes were closed.
He worked by touch, fumbling, making the knot of a small child.
When he finished, his wrist was handcuffed to the rode.
He pulled at it.
It slid.
It would guide him out of sight.
His bad arm pulled at the shoulder.
He moved even with the paint line on the hull.
The water lapped between the hull and his head.
He began to pant.
He emptied his lungs as water entered his mouth.
The pug was either watching or had wandered.
… someone tell the dog stay...
The last of the Gulf air stirred on his forehead.
He was moaning.
He raised his arms like he was taking off a shirt.
His body slipped along the loop of the knot, incrementally descending the rode, his dead weight releasing him to the bottom in tugs and bursts.
His bad arm rose over his head and out of his sight.
He did not feel pain in it.
It was someone else’s arm.
There had been a problem.
Chain.
He was sure there had been a problem.
***
The Beneteau was in the deep end next to the diving board.
The bottom of the swimming pool was sharp and sandy.
Richard leaned over and looked down at him from the boat.
He was holding a dog.
Raquel was on the foredeck wearing sunglasses.
She was tanning.
She had the dog now.
You can stand in the deep end.
… it’s okay… stay, Capitán… you can breathe at the bottom.
I couldn't visualise all of the boaty bits because not familiar and I was rushing to get to the next line and stop the stress. Incredible writing though. I need to lie down.