Ten Days at Sea

"The whole ship was pretty destroyed. It was just barely staying afloat, to be honest. There were some canvas scraps rigged up to catch water, so obviously the water containers on board were broached. The whole thing just smacked of desperation. We were yelling and firing the horn on the skiff as we approached, and there was no motion, so we were imagining the worst. Obviously someone had survived the storm, since there were those canvas water catchers, but it was possible that they hadn't made it past that. After all, you only survive a few days with no clean water.

"I was first aboard, since I was the one with what little medical training is required for container ships. I found your mother in the main cabin, on a makeshift hammock. She was weak, and not even completely conscious. The entire room was mostly flooded, stuff sloshing around our feet. We just grabbed her and bundled her up and carried her into the skiff. We put the boat on a tow, and dropped a small pump into the cabin to pump out the water. We figured there might be something in the boat she might want later, so easier to just take it with us.

"She was moaning and groaning as I carried her -- she was wearing a very torn set of pants and white top, which she'd torn the arms off, to make a head scarf. She was obviously suffering from dehydration, and her tongue was enlarged, and lips chapped. Thankfully, no sign of sun exposure -- she'd kept below deck when the sun was up to avoid that, which was smart.

"It took us about two hours to get back to the container ship. Dragging the smashed boat with us wasn't doing us any favors, and the pump was working overtime throwing water over the side, as more seeped in, from the dragging we were doing. It was clear when we tied up next to the container that it wasn't going to be long for this world. As I carried our bedraggled victim up to what constitutes the medical bay, our chief engineer jumped down into the boat, and started grabbing stuff from inside and passing it back, as fast as he could. The pump just wasn't keeping up, and it was clear it was going to sink pretty soon.

"We got a lot of stuff out of it -- all the personal stuff we could find, plus some other waterlogged supplies. There was no point in trying to salvage any of the electronics, since we had all that kind of stuff aboard, plus it was all mostly destroyed anyway. We got some charts, some clothes, a couple of books, as many sealed containers as we could find, stuff like that. It took the boat about three quarters of an hour to sink completely. We all watched it go down, slowly, solemnly staring. No mariner enjoys watching another ship go down. It's not only bad luck, it's the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is out a boat and probably a home. Davy Jones has a lot to answer for, at times.

"I'd got our passenger settled, put an IV into her to put some fluids in, with a sedative. She needed proper sleep. I'd checked her over -- as much as was decent -- and while there was a large bruise on her left hip and on the left side of her head, plus a deep cut down one forearm, from just below the elbow to just above the wrist, she seemed to not be injured further. While we do have a medical bay on the ship, it's not really a hospital room. It has a small bed like appliance in it, but that's more for things like basic dentistry, or sewing up of wounds. It's not a bedroom in itself, although there was a spare berth next to that bay itself, which is where I ended up manhandling her into.

"The reality was that she was slightly delirious, and mostly out of it. She was aware we'd got her, and that she wasn't on her little yacht any more, and that she'd been rescued, but beyond that, she wasn't making much sense. She needed fluids, protein and most of, uninterrupted sleep.

"When I talked to the Captain, to give him an update on her condition, he grumbled a bit and then ordered the engines full ahead. I could tell he was intent of making up that time and, more importantly, making up his bonus. He'd been with the company for over seventeen years, and he was only four more off full retirement, and I knew he was looking forward to it. He'd shown everyone pictures of the cabin he had picked out, on the Norwegian coast, for when it came. It was clear that his love affair with the sea had cooled considerably, and like a shitty marriage, he was tolerating being there until he could dump it unceremoniously, and be where he wanted to be.

"He informed me that he'd radioed in the find, her condition, and been told that unless she had life threatening injuries, which he now knew she didn't, that he was to go full ahead and try and make the port facilities at Hong Kong as soon as he could. She'd be put ashore there, hopefully fully restored."

Brett stopped to take a drink -- thirsty work, all this talking. He wasn't used to it, since Caroline had died. He mostly just listened these days -- the radio, pod casts, the TV, whatever. Anything to make the house seemed lived in. One thing Caroline has been great about was always having things in motion. There was always something happening, something to talk about or discuss and life felt very much lived. With her gone, it just...didn't.

He glanced at Amelia and Bradly, and they were intent on his every word, eyes shining. This was a story that had been hinted at but never really told, at least not to them. They just wanted to know...

So, he continued, shifting his view to the placid sea, outside the window.

"She slept for the next twelve hours. I moved my berth from my normal cabin to the one next to hers, at least temporarily. We actually had six passenger cabins on the ship -- sometimes the company would ask us to carry someone or some company officers would be aboard, so we'd need somewhere to put them, so we had these six cabins, all with en-suite bathrooms. They were small, and didn't have balconies or most of the amenities you get on a cruise ship, but they did have a small TV and VCR installed, ship board phone and radio. The ship itself had a small tape library in the mess, something like thirty or forty movies and TV shows, some of them English based and some not. People took and brought as they came on board, so it was constantly changing. Remember, this is twenty-five years ago -- no DVDs or Wifi at that time. It was all strictly video tape or physical books. We had a lending library for that too, with as many current magazines as we could find when we docked, plus a healthy bunch of thrillers and spy novels and the like.

"So, I grabbed a book and settled in next door. The captain had made it plain that she was my problem to deal with, and although a fair number of the rest of the crew had some interest in her, popping in to ask her condition, most of them had work to do. It doesn't seem like there would be much to do on a ship that's taking containers to another port, but you'd be wrong. Ships like that need a lot of preventative maintenance, to keep them running and to be sure that the emergency equipment would work if required. There's a lot of work on a working container transporter, just like there is on an oil tanker, or a cruise ship, or any working vessel.

"Like I said, your mother slept for twelve hours straight, just dead to the world. I had left her door open a crack, so I could hear if she moved around or called out, and I managed to get seven hours in myself, which I was surprised at. But, I did hear calling out, with that posh voice she has. She was calling, 'Hello? Anyone there?' and sounding a lot more composed, so I hustled from my cabin and into hers.

"I can tell you right now, kids, I was smitten the moment I walked into that room. I'd had my fair share of instant infatuations in the past, but this... this was the real deal. I mean, you know what your mother looks like, but right then, she was in the flush of youth. Beautiful porcelain flawless skin, the deep auburn hair, the flashing eyes, those perfect eyebrows, the small mouth with the full lips. Just... wow."

He glanced at the kids, and could see the expression on their faces, and then suddenly realized who he was talking to. This was their mother he was describing, probably in ways they'd never heard before, and in ways that were almost certainly making them uncomfortable. No child ever wants to hear of their parent what a hottie they were in their youth. For the first time, it dawned on him the story he was about to tell them. Did they really want to hear about their mother being unfaithful to the man they called "Father"? Would it change their opinion of her?

He had to ask.

"Hey, look, what I'm telling you... this can't be easy to hear, yeah? I mean, this may change how you view your mom, and I don't want that. You sure you want to hear this?" he challenged them, shifting a little uncomfortably in his chair.

Amelia snorted derisively, and Bradly smirked.

"Yeah, the only thing this is going to do is improve our image of her. She's not been the most...passionate of people growing up, Dad. The most animated we've seen her was when she finally came clean about our parentage. Hearing this makes her far more alive than she tends to be most of the time, honestly. So please, continue," Amelia said, matter of factly.

"Does she still look the same? I try and not search her out on the internet. It would hurt too much," he admitted.

"Well, the hair has a fair bit of grey in it now -- mother is not one for putting on airs and graces, unless she absolutely has to, for some public event, so she doesn't dye it most of the time. And there's a few more crow's feet around the eyes and probably the lips -- it's hard for me to really tell since she's always looked the same to me. But yes, I don't think she's really changed that much over the years," Amelia commented.

"Yes, no tattoos that we are aware of," laughed Bradly. "Not unless they are really hidden!"

"Bradly, that is Mummy you are talking about. Have some respect," chided Amelia, hotly. Brett could see Bradly was more than a chip off the old block, whereas Amelia was definitely a carbon copy of her mother. Ramrod posture, clipped elocution, and absolutely zero pretense. When you are related to the Queen of England by birth, no matter how remotely, what's the point in being a poser?

Bradly smirked back, and yet again, he knew he'd seen that expression before. Where though? Was it in the mirror?

He smiled. He had all sorts of conflicting feelings -- being kept apart from these children for so many years, not even really believing they were his He'd missed out on so much of their life, and that was very upsetting. But... they were here now, and they wanted to know him. And that's something. That's very definitely something.

He looked from Bradly, to Amelia's gaze, now directed back at Brett, eyes shining, with that pleased and expectant expression on her face, so similar to her mothers. That same wide smile, inviting expression, where she made it feel like you were the only person in the world and she was paying you all of the attention she could. Glancing back at Bradly, he could see him sitting back, trying to affect a cooler and more casual pose. But he could see the posture. He could see the eagerness in his body language. This was as important to him as it was to his sister, he just didn't want it to appear that way.

He gave that one chuckle you do when you make a realization, one that makes you smile internally.

And, looking back at Amelia's face, he was transported back twenty years, back to that dirty container ship -- The Lady Grey -, to the point where Fiona had just reawakened.

"Um. Hello. I'm assuming I was rescued?" the lady on the bed asked, expectantly. She was holding her bed clothes up, to cover whatever modesty she felt she had to, after Brett had knocked and entered the little cabin.

"Yes, indeed," he answered, coming over to the bed. "I'm Brett. I'm the...well, as much of a medic as we have on this bag of bolts. Brett Bell. Able Seaman."

"American, then? Is this an American ship?" she said, more as a statement than a question. She had a very clipped British accent. He didn't know much about accents, but it seemed quite upper class to him.

"Actually, registered in Honduras. At least, the company is. Why, I don't know. We are part of a container fleet, out from Buenos Aires, bound for Hong Kong. Due in about ten days or so, weather permitting." For some reason, Brett found himself adopting her method of speech. Direct, to the point, with clarity. No unnecessary words.

"Ah. Well, you came along just in the nick of time, didn't you? Quite manna from heaven, and no question." She smiled uncertainly. "Did Peppermint Joy make it?" she asked, suddenly.

"Your ship? I'm afraid not. It was filling with water -- the towing we put it under to bring you to the main ship just loaded it up. We got all we could out of it, but it went down about two hours after we got you on board. I'm sorry." Brett added the last, because he knew the lone sailors got very attached to their ships.

"Oh well. I guess it was going to at some point. She had quite a battering in that last storm, much more than she was rated for. There were winds of over a hundred miles per hour, at least, before my little weather station gave out. The hurricane -- was it a hurricane? Or a typhoon? Or a cyclone? I think it was a cyclone, because we were in the south pacific? Is that right? You'd know, wouldn't you?" This was all delivered very fast, with her running her hand through her chestnut hair, in the most attractive and unselfconscious way. It was incredibly attractive to Brett.

Brett was to discover this was a prime Fiona trait -- delivering information very fast and veering off into a side bar equally fast.

"Does it really matter?" Brett asked, mainly because he wasn't that sure either. They were in the south pacific -- barely -- but most of the crew referred to them as typhoons.

"No, I suppose not," answered the lady, not breaking her train of thought. "Yes, so big storm. Typhoon. Whatever. It came up behind me. I knew about it, of course, but I was trying to out run it -- use its own force against it. When it became clear that wasn't going to work, I reversed direction. The storm -- did it have a name, by the way? I never got one -- was heading north west, so I started heading south west, trying to get out of its path. That didn't work out so well either. I got caught on the middle edge, as best I can judge. There was nothing for it but to batten down the hatches, as they say, and try and ride it out. I tied myself to the tiller, and held on for dear life. It was... quite the battering, I have to say. I've not experienced anything like it."

She stopped for a second, and looked at the bandage I'd put on her arm. "I got this as the mast went over. When it did, it took the small radar dish with it, and the radio mast, and that's when this happened. Sliced my arm open. I did the best I could with some old clothes to bind it up. About the only thing that didn't get crushed or lost was the medical kit."

Brett had noticed she'd at least tried to deal with the gash -- it was at least clean and wrapped when they'd found her, something that had no doubt saved her life. Infection would have been almost impossible for her to deal with in the deep ocean.

"It took almost seven hours before the waves stopped being so high. I did my best to steer through them, but I knew once it calmed, I was in trouble. The boat did spring some leaks, and salt water got into the batteries, and once that happened, solar panels or not, my radio was kaput. I did trigger the emergency beacon, but I don't think it was working either. Hard to really tell, to be honest. I tried the flares too, that first night, once I'd done inventory -- which didn't take long, let me tell you -- and nothing was doing from that. So, I took stock, realized my fresh water supplies were mostly gone, and had to deal. As you do, you know?" She delivered this so matter of factly that it was impressive. Brett was astonished at her resilience.

"I did all the things I'd seen on television, the survival stuff. You know, fashioned a water catch from what was left of my canvas sails, built myself a little fishing pole. All the do it yourself stuff." Fiona was almost excited about retelling the things she'd done, justifiably proud of herself for surviving, and not panicking.

"I did have some food left that wasn't spoiled, and some cans of pop, and the like. A few bottles of water, that sort of thing. Enough that I could survive a while, but I had nothing else to do, so I tried to learn how to fish. Can I tell you a secret? It's incredibly boring. I mean, I don't know how those fellas do it every weekend? Their wives must be something terrible to drive those men to sit on a river bank all day and just stare at water. It almost drove me batty, I have to say."

Fiona was like a school girl, confiding about which boy she had a crush on. Brett tried to get a word in edgeways.

"I'd like to..."

"And, I'll never be able to look a plate of cod and chips in the face again, either," she added to herself, interrupting him.

"Anyway, I ran out of water about three or four days ago, and I have to say, I started to feel a little less than tip top, if you know what I mean. With no way to contact anybody, or any method of propelling the boat, well... I just tried to keep busy and not let myself get too down. And then you must have showed up, like my knight in shining armour! And here I am!" she said, brightly, as though this was an everyday occurrence.

How she managed to speak the word armor with an audible U, Brett wasn't quite sure, but she managed it. She was so indescribably... British. And Radiant, and full of life, and Brett was utterly captivated.

"Okay. Well, you appear to have come through your ordeal relatively unscathed, as far as I can tell. The arm gash I did put some stitches in, since it needed them. Sorry about the needle work. You were dehydrated, and a little malnourished, and mostly needed sleep. Well done staying out of the sun, by the way. Not having to deal with sunburn is really good," he said, getting up off the chair he was sitting on while Fiona was telling her story.

"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand for hers.

Shyly, she gave him her hand, and he grabbed it, looking at his watch to check her pulse. Eighty beats per minute, which was fine.

"I'd like to..." and sitting on the side of the bed, he grabbed her head and looked into her eyes, moving her head around and watching her eyes focus on him. "Doesn't look like there's any concussion, so whatever generated that bump didn't hit your head, I don't think."

"No," she said, still looking him in the eyes, unblinking. "That was me getting thrown against the tiller. Painfully, but as Daddy says 'Pain is weakness leaving the body.' Which is sooooo incredibly stupid -- I mean, someone who's been shot must be so fit, according to that logic, but whatever. Daddy says a lot of things like that. Still love him though. You have to. Don't you find?"

"Follow my finger," he said, holding up his forefinger and moving it back and forth.

She complied and he nodded. "Yeah, you are fine. Just needed some liquids and some stress-free rest. Speaking of that..."

He grabbed her hand, and quickly yanked out the feed.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed, rubbing the back of her hand. "Where did you go to school, doctor? Auschwitz?"

"Sorry. Getting it over quickly is the best way," he replied, rolling up the tubes and bag.

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she said, smiling lopsidedly.

"Look, you need to get something on. We put the clothes we could salvage in the closet over there. They are still in the suitcases and stuff we could get out, so you'll have to sort through them, I'm afraid."