Becalmed
by Michael Smith

 

 

I’ve established already that moving my head is out of the question; too painful. An eyelid, maybe? I should be able to manage that. Here goes; left eye first.

Oh, that’s bright; definitely a mistake. I return to the dark safety behind my eyelids, and I return to sleep.

 

Time passes as I float through that sliver of existence between unconsciousness and what I hope is reality. I awake again.

Even without opening my eyes, I know my location is flooded with light. Tentatively, I try again to open an eyelid. Just a fraction this time. I can focus, but my surroundings are too bright to discern anything with clarity. With frustrated disappointment, I retreat once more inside my head.

So, what do I know? I’m horizontal. I’m lying on something soft. My body is actually quite comfortable; but my head! If I’m not getting any assistance from my eyes at the moment, what about my ears? Listen…

I can comprehend only the general background hum of life. This confirms I’m not deaf. It’s just that there’s nothing distinguishable for me to hear.

I’m exhausted; but why?

I return to sleep.

 

Time has passed again; how much, I know not. My surroundings are just as bright, and just as quiet.

Comfortable though it is, lying here is not a long-term option. I know I have to achieve something. If only my head would cooperate.

Be proactive. Be positive. Life doesn’t come to you.

Something from my past, or my character, is beginning the slow process of motivating me.

I decide against opening my eyes. I’m going to try to move my head again. Is this bravery or stupidity? Last time I passed out. This time, just one centimeter at a time.

No; make that one millimeter at a time.

I struggle to overcome the multidimensional rotations from the massive gyroscope seemingly lodged inside my brain. The involuntary, disorienting feeling is not unpleasant; is this why people enjoy roller-coasters?

I think I’m upright now. I’ll stop and wait.

Yes, that’s better.

My hands confirm that I am currently sat on a mattress. My fingertips inspect the sheets, finding them to be linen. My surroundings are still so bright, though.

What is going on?

Now, I’m faced with choices. Do I try opening an eyelid again? Do I just sit and listen, hoping the spinning in my head will somehow slow down; stop even? Or, do I try to stand?

 

Time moves on without me. Why is this so difficult?

Focus!

Standing would be folly. Sitting still, while it’s my preferred option, doesn’t help answer any questions. So, gingerly I open my left eye; just a little.

Light floods in, but I fight the instinct to close my eye. Gradually, I become accustomed to the brightness. I choose to open the eyelid further. By these small increments I eventually gain partial access to my sight.

Next the right eye.

Success.

I have now a horizon on which to focus. Admittedly, that horizon is only about a meter away, but it helps to slow down the gyroscope-mode pervading the room.

Now I’ll just sit for a while, and let my body, mind and environment synchronise.

The next faculty I want to resuscitate is my memory. How did I get here; wherever ‘here’ is?

 

Time well spent, just sitting on the edge of this bed, rounding up the scattered, disparate thoughts wandering aimlessly through my head.

Is this a hangover? It’s just, I thought the room was supposed to spin while you were drunk, not afterwards.

Memories slowly come into range, like distant ships viewed from a desert island, only to disappear again over the horizon. I can’t grasp anything. But I know there is something there; just out of range.

Reconnecting with my body, I am increasingly aware of matters that need addressing. My muscles ache. My mouth is so dry. I need a drink. Water; definitely water. But that means leaving the edge of the bed. It means standing. No, I’ll crawl; that should be safer.

I sink to my knees, and place my hands on the floor in front of me. Carpet. Good quality carpet. But white; far too white for my eyes. I make my first tentative motion away from the bed. My hands explore the immediate environment until I discover what I hope will prove to be a door. Further exploration reveals a door handle. I’m suddenly aware of a new fear; what if this door is locked? I turn the handle, and it yields smoothly under the pressure of my hand. The door opens away from me, and I half collapse, half crawl into another, even smaller room.

I decide to lie on the floor and wait. But, what is that vile smell?

Still prone, I explore this new room with my hands; an easy task given its diminutive dimensions. I think I recognise this room. To confirm my suspicions, I roll gently to lie on my back. Still shielding my eyes, I look around. Yes, this is a bathroom. But, that smell?

The toilet is to my immediate left. I use its sturdy structure to raise myself into an upright position. A generous portion of ageing vomit lies in the toilet bowl. The source of the foul smell is now obvious. The moment I hit the flush, I regret it. It’s so loud! I feel like I’m trapped inside a waterfall.

I cover my ears and wait for precious silence to return.

I lower the toilet seat. Clambering up, I sit down and realise I’ve adopted the classic ‘morning after’ pose; I’m sat on a toilet, with my aching head in my hands, in an unfamiliar location, desperately trying to remember what happened.

What a mess!

My self-pity is joined by an overwhelming thirst. I still need to find a drink of water. My lips are dry to the point of cracking. To my right is the wash bowl. I grab the tap and turn. Nothing happens. I tighten my grasp and try again. Still nothing.

A voice in my head encourages me.

Don’t turn the tap, dummy! Press it!

I press the tap and hear another vast waterfall. In reality, it is a slow trickle. But it is the water I crave. I feel the water run through my fingers. Cupping my right hand, I capture a little, and raise it slowly to my parched mouth. The water is cool. I repeat the action, swallowing with cautious greed. Next, I run some water through my hair and over my face. I’m reviving; slightly. But I know I’ve still a long way to go.

What is that faint noise?

Feeling slightly more alive, I decide to stand. Using the bathroom attachments I slowly raise my aching body. As I’m contemplating the possibility of there being a mirror in this bathroom, and tackling the decision about whether I should open my eyes and look myself in the face, I hit my head on the ceiling. This must be a small bathroom. Brief recollections of Gulliver travel through my mind.

I recognise that sound. Well, not recognise; yet. But I know I’ve heard it before.

I steal a glance in the mirror. Nothing too horrific. I look again; longer this time. No external signs of damage; unlike the internal aches and pains.

I make a very cautious half turn and, supported by the door frame, re-enter the bedroom. It is still in gyroscope-mode. In a stooped position, I manage to reach the bed and sit.

My eyes have become accustomed to the light, and I can now survey my surroundings. It is indeed a small bedroom. Like the bathroom, it is low ceilinged. And, slightly familiar.

The small amount of water I drank in the bathroom has not satisfied my thirst. I need to find a better source. On the wall opposite the bathroom door is a second door. I edge my way round the room until I can reach the handle. I turn it. Once again, I am relieved that I’m not locked in.

I lean on the door frame and familiarise myself with the new room that lies beyond. It appears to be some form of living quarters. A three-seater cushioned bank runs along one wall. In front of this is a small table. Above the seating is a row of small windows. Outside is bright sunlight. I squint. The room contains plenty of cupboards. Moving with caution, I start to explore their contents.

I find a cupboard containing a refrigerator; bottles only; no food. The bottles all contain booze. No, wait, there’s a small plastic bottle of water. I grab it and twist open the cap. The cool water soothes my mouth and cleanses my throat. This feels like the first victory I’ve had since regaining consciousness.

Why is it so bright in here? Surely my eyes have recovered sufficiently by now?

What is that familiar sound? It’s not unpleasant; quite soothing, really.

And, why is the room still moving? My head is no longer spinning but …

As I slowly revive, thanks to the water, I notice more about this room. It is quite long and narrow, and at the far end I see the foot of a set of steps leading upwards. This becomes my next objective.

A thick rope acts as a banister, and I use this to haul myself up the steps. I need to stoop once more to avoid the low ceiling.

If the room was bright, the top of the steps is blinding. I shield my eyes with my arm and wait until I dare open my eyes.

What is that smell? A new smell; a pleasant smell; a smell I recognise from my childhood.

I open my eyes with care, and my sense of sight confirms my sense of smell.

I am at sea.

 

The salty sea air wafts directly in my face. Is this why I’ve been so thirsty?

I lean on the rail that surrounds the edge of the deck. I wish I had a pair of sunglasses. I scan the horizon through the thin slits my eyelids allow when faced with such brightness. Slowly turning my head, I observe only sea. Where am I?

I decide to explore my more immediate surroundings. Surveying locally, I realise I am on a yacht. It seems fairly modern. A tall mast points directly to the intense sun overhead. But, something doesn't look right. I soon realise the mast is bare. Nowhere is there any sail to be seen.

Once more I lean back on the rail. I close my eyes.

Tacky Japanese restaurant; ‘The Ramen Empire’. Sushi. Saki. Laughter. Blank.

I look around once more at my surroundings, trying to piece together what’s happening. I’m on a yacht without sails. But even with sails I couldn’t move; there’s no wind. There’s no land in sight. The sea is calm; almost too calm; ripples rather than waves. I’m aching. And, I’m alone. What can it all mean?

I return to the cabin to look for clues. My head is clearing and I can sense clarity of thought returning. Communication; that’s my next objective.

In the cabin I find a radio set. I flick the power button. Nothing happens. I try again; same result. I check the machinery, finding eventually that the power line has been removed. Is this some form of sabotage?

She’s all smiles; all charm; warm sweet-smelling breath close to my cheek. Blank.

Another strange, brief recollection. I don’t understand these images; what do they mean?

Searching the cabin proves fruitless so I return to the bedroom. I find my jacket and search the pockets. My phone!

As it turns on, I’m heartened to see a healthy battery charge; but… But, no signal. I move quickly back on deck and foolishly hold the phone up to the vast sky in the vain hope that the extra few meters will miraculously connect me to the signal from a distant satellite. I feel I’m offering up a small gift to the god of communication. Nothing. I slump down on the deck. Alone.

It’s so cramped in here and pitch black. Why am I being bounced around? Blank.

I’m brought back to the here and now by sounds of fish leaping out of the calm waters. My thirst remains. I return to the cabin and search for more drink, preferably non-alcoholic.

Adjacent to the living quarters I find a galley, and, searching the cupboards, I discover sufficient bottled water and other supplies to last me a few days, until … until what? The water revives me further and I am able to refocus my search. But for what should I be looking? Suddenly I’m struck by the thought that I have no experience of being alone. What does one do in such situations?

I decide that my best course of action will be to search everywhere, looking for anything that might be of use. Or a clue. I want to fully understand these unfamiliar surroundings.

I start by completing the search of my jacket. My wallet is still here and ID card. It looks like nothing has been taken; but then I can’t be sure. My memory is still fuzzy.

But I don’t understand Japanese. Even so they sound pleased with their work. Blank.

I even find my Rolex in a jacket pocket. Why there? Why not on my wrist? I slip it back on.

My thoughts remain disjointed, lacking focus. I flit from one activity to another, unable to settle. This is frustrating. I know I am not normally like this. So why now? What’s changed?

Focus! Concentrate! Try to complete something, anything.

I choose to focus on drink; one of mankind’s basic requirements. I decide to take an inventory of all the liquid on board. I know I don’t really need the inventory; but I do need the focus; and the challenge.

I find the task calming. It feels like I am achieving something. Regaining control, that’s it. I need to be in control of my surroundings. Am I a controlling person? I find bread; not the freshest, but edible. I find coffee and brew myself some. Returning to the living quarters, I sit on the bench and take stock. I have food. I have drink. My body is recovering. These are the positives. On the other hand, I am totally lost; adrift in a yacht on an unknown ocean. No wind. No waves. Becalmed.

Becalmed. Ha! I feel anything but calm.

No! No! Don’t do that! No! Please, no! Blank.

Becalmed. Yes, I need to be calmed. But how?

I sit, trying to ‘be calm’. Opposite I notice a small bookshelf.

In addition to some trashy novels and old magazines, I see nautical charts. A clue to my whereabouts, perhaps? A break, at last? Inspection of the charts reveals the majority are of the Caribbean. Is that where I’m currently drifting?

As I sip my coffee a thought washes through my mind. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Does this yacht have a motor?

I make my way on deck again, and look for some sort of engine room. Lifting a canopy, I discover a large engine located underneath the deck. At last I can get out of here! After searching further I discover a starter mechanism near the wheel. It appears to be a simple button to press; so I press it.

The only thing that happens is I hear a quiet, persistent clicking noise. I assume this to be the starter motor ticking over. I curse my lack of technical knowledge as I make an amateurish attempt to inspect the motor. Amateur or not, it is soon clear why the motor won’t start. Several wires have been either cut or removed; just like the radio. Is this sabotage? It is all becoming increasingly sinister.

I can’t move. My hands are tied behind my back. Blank.

The small victories of food, drink and charts are lost as I sink into depression. I lean on the yacht’s rail, my feet dangling over the edge. I stare out across the listless sea.

I realise I can’t go anywhere without the external influences of wind and tide. I’m unable to move from this unknown point in an unknown ocean.

I’m increasingly aware that this episode will form, when viewed retrospectively, a key moment in my life. But how; and why? I have little idea how long I have been out here, or how it all happened. And the flashbacks are not really helping; they seem so negative. What I would really like, are a few positive recollections.

I’m tired. I look at my watch; around 3pm. Despite being only mid-afternoon, I think I should sleep. I return to the cabin to collect another water bottle before moving to the bedroom to sleep.

 

Time has passed yet again; how much, I know not. Wait; I have my watch. I glance and see that it is 3pm. But … it was 3pm when I started resting. I hold the watch to my ear. It is as silent as the sea outside the porthole.

On the positive side, I do feel refreshed. And my aching head and body are recovering. The effects of whatever incapacitated me are wearing off. My memory is much clearer. I still don’t have any answers, but I definitely have questions.

I’ve been drunk and hungover before; it was never like this. So, have I been drugged?

I’ve been having violent flashbacks; associated with some Japanese. I know I’ve been working with the Japanese in my business. Are they responsible?

I know my business, import and export, was doing very well. Is that connected to this?

I have unsettling memories of working too hard; burnout. Am I here as a result of that?

I know I had recollections of the bedroom and bathroom when I awoke. Is this my yacht?

If it is my yacht, why are there no sails? Why has the engine been disabled?

And, if this is my yacht, is it a symbol of my business success?

There’s a gag in my mouth. Blank.

I have memories of a family; a wife; a son and daughter; our house. I am a little concerned that my recollections of family are secondary to the recollections of business. Is this a reflection of my priorities? It’s all so confusing. I have partial memories, like trying to work out the whole movie from a few short, advertising trailers.

Remembering the becalmed ocean, I asked myself, when does a ripple become a wave? Should I have noticed those ripples in my business life, knowing that they could grow into waves; waves of discontent, the prelude to a storm? And is the same true of my family life?

This is not helping my head. I decide to remain on the bed, and try to relax. Try to relax? What a stupid notion; if you have to try, then you’re not relaxing.

It’s no use. Thirst returns. I move from the bed and enter the main cabin area, collecting another water bottle from the galley. As I sip, I look around once more.

I’m struck by a strange thought. If I’m suffering from a hangover, where are all the empty bottles of booze? There are bottles, but they are all full and sealed. Surely such a monumental hangover as today’s would have left behind some debris, evidence of a wild night. And who were my drinking companions; and, more importantly, where are they now? Suddenly the drugging scenario becomes more believable; but leads to more questions. Unpleasant questions. Questions I’d rather not consider; but, being alone, I know I’ll have to face them.

I sit back, sipping the cooling water, and focus.

Gradually, partial memories return; similar in nature to the flashbacks, but somehow more solid, more real. I do have a successful business; I’m sure I do. And I do work hard. And I do indulge in the trappings of financial success. Yes, this is my yacht.

But who has put me here, and why?

I recline and close my eyes. Thoughts drift slowly through my mind; random in nature, and directionless. I float.

 

Time has passed once more. I awake, still reclining on the cushioned bank. I consume the remainder of the bottled water.

Dreams have been revealing to me the nature of my life. Disturbing is the glimpse of me walking out of the family home; a cacophony of shouting and sobbing. The conflict was about money or time or, more likely, the lack of balance between the two. All my associates had these domestic battles; but I think mine were among the more spectacular. I recall a common mantra, ‘Time is money’. I used to live by that. Now, I am becalmed. Time slips by me. And so must the money. I am shocked at the effect this has on me. I need air.

I rise slowly, move to the stairwell and climb on deck. The sun is now lower in the sky. The sea, however, remains docile. Despite the absence of walls, despite being able to see for vast distances in every direction, I feel trapped.

I am trapped.

Out of habit, I look at my Rolex. It’s still 3pm.

The next few seconds are a blur of blind fury. Recovering, I follow the path of my watch as it arcs from my hand into the sea.

Be calm, I tell myself. Frustration won’t help.

The Rolex hits the water, which ripples. The ripples spread. I watch the concentric circles grow across the benign waters.

A breeze caresses my face. A breeze!

I keep my eyes on the sea. The breeze adds to the ripples. Wavelets lap gently against the hull of my yacht.

The anger of a few seconds ago turns to relief, which turns to a belief that there might be hope.

The yacht moves. My excitement is out of all proportion to the minute movement, but I want to believe the weather is changing. I look for currents. I don’t care where the currents lead. I crave motion. I am not disappointed.

Within a few minutes the wind is brisk, and the sea boisterous. Clouds are assembling on the horizon.

Confident I am moving, I go below and enjoy the next bottle of water. My appetite returns and I break off a chunk of loaf. Bread and water rations never tasted so good.

I sit on the cushioned bank again and revel in my newfound optimism. Caution councils me to remain calm. I know I could be moving to something far worse. But, at least, I am moving.

I sit back and, this time, I can relax, without trying. The yacht is now moving with the swelling waves. I find this comforting. I return to my contemplations and speculations.

How I reached this predicament is still unclear, but I am convinced I am closer to a solution.

Rough hands grip my limbs tightly. I struggle. Blank.

There it is again; a glimpse, but only a fleeting notion of a past event.

Unable to settle, I return on deck.

The yacht is definitely moving now. The ripples have become small waves. I asked myself again, when does a ripple become a wave?  And should I have noticed those ripples in my business life and my family life, knowing that they could grow into waves; waves of discontent, the prelude to a storm?

I fall briefly onto a soft mattress. I am untied. The gag is removed. A feel a needle prick in my upper arm. Blank.

Is that how I got here?

But why?

I decide I am not going to move from my position on deck until I have properly thought this through, and reached at least one firm conclusion.

The yacht bobs gently with a soothing rhythm as I enjoy an uninterrupted view of dusk at sea. Those clouds on the horizon change their hue has the sun sinks inexorably towards the black-blue sea. I lose track of time once more, focusing only on explanations for my predicament.

I form three theories.

Number one. I passed out on board my yacht after some self-inflicted overdose and these flashbacks are the consequences of mixing an over-active mind with an unhealthy cocktail of alcohol and tablets. This theory I like. It is simple and requires little of me, other than telling myself I need to take more care with my intake. And, it is without consequences; unlike my other two theories. However, this one is too simple. I choose to dismiss it; which leaves the two remaining, and far more uncomfortable, ones.

Number two. My business rivals in Japan have arranged for my disappearance so they can interfere in my business without my influence. Maybe I was set against their wishes and they simply wanted me out of the way?

Worse would be if this is a take-over bid. This could be a storyline from the movies, but surely such actions don’t happen in real life. Do they? If this is the reason, there’ll be hell to play when I finally reach land (Or should that be, if I reach land?). This seems such an extreme length to go to just to get me out of the way; on the other hand, it’s bound to be a multi-million dollar deal, and hence worth the risk. This scenario would account for those flashbacks including Japanese, either language or faces. Again, however, this could be the result of an over-active mind mixed with the plot of some second-rate movie I may have seen years ago, and since forgotten.

Number three (and this one is even harder to contemplate). My family, frustrated at my money-oriented life and lack of commitment to them, have arranged for me to be kidnapped and placed on board the yacht in order to teach me a lesson.

If this really is true, it may have worked. Being alone forces one to face up to oneself. There is no one else around to distract one’s thoughts; no one else to blame. For a truly self-assured person, solitude can be an affirming experience; but for someone trying hard to bury their self-doubt behind a veneer of outward confidence and success, solitude can be a bitter, painful experience. This I see now. However painful, this is my favourite theory. It is the one that offers hope. But it also demands consequences.

As the sun begins to dip tentatively into the horizon, and the skies darken further, I see land in the distance. The current is carrying me towards this land.

I return to the bedroom, hopefully to sleep. Maybe tomorrow, as I near land, I will discover which one of my theories is correct?

 

I awake to the sound of seagulls. And cutting through their shrieks is the sound of a loudhailer. Is that my name being called? I scramble out of bed and head directly on deck. Close by I see a vessel marked clearly as belonging to the Coast Guard. They call my name again. I wave.

I am commanded to follow them. I point at the lack of sail on my yacht. They understand. Their loudhailer commands me again; this time to try my motor. The dead engine situation proves more difficult to relay to them, but a brisk shaking of my head and the forming of a cross with my arms seems to do the trick. Finally I am instructed to make ready to receive a line. There is nothing to make ready so I wait until they move closer. I see a flash from what I initially mistook as a harpoon gun. A line lands on deck. Managing to grasp it before it runs overboard, I haul at the thin line until the attached thicker rope appears. This I tie to my yacht, and wait.

Under grey clouds, and through waters choppier than yesterday, my yacht is towed towards land.

It isn’t long before the coastline reveals its details. Judging by the size of the buildings coming into view, we are heading towards a large port. As we slow, I realised we will soon reach a marina.

Minutes later further details appear, and there, on the quay, I see clearly my reception committee. A confused mixture of delight and horror sweep over me.

There, all waving with great enthusiasm, are both my family and a knot of Japanese businessmen.

The actions of tethering the yacht and making safe are done in a perplexing dream. I try to imagine what sequence of events has led to this. There can be only one solution - collusion.

I finally admit to the suspicions I have been suppressing. Suspicions certainly suppressed since I awoke on the yacht, and probably suppressed for years.

With optimistic apprehension, I climb the ladder from my yacht to the quay observed by the smiling oriental faces of my business rivals, or partners, and, more importantly, straight into the arms of my family.

 

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