This Place Off the Coast of America

Matthew Joseph Misetich

November 2005

At 5:00 sharp, they dined on truffles, Gouda cheese and crackers, and downed the leftover champagne and chardonnay. No sense letting everything go to waste, Mr. Hollis thought.

Afterward, both agreed that they had never consumed a more satisfying meal.

They talked.

"Son," Mr. Hollis said, pointing his furrowed chin toward the aide. "Where is it you'd like to live? If you could live anywhere."

"Anywhere . . . I dunno, Crestwood Harbor's nice–"

"No, no, no. Besides the obvious."

The assistant wiped his forehead and propped his legs out of the watery mess. Not even the most able seamen could stop the bleeding.

"I'd like to live off the mainland," the assistant said. "My own personal, private island. You know what I mean? Maybe get aides for myself."

He exhaled and tilted his body against the cabin's window, where the intruding Pacific chill had fogged the glass.

"There's a place just like that, too," he continued, his eyes trained on Mr. Hollis. He could see his reflection in his employer's bifocals. "This little island up north, way past Santa Rosa and the Channels[1]. Nice weather, no one around for miles . . . just you and God in this place off the coast of America." He laughed to himself. "Ain't that somethin', Mr. Hollis? That something like that could stick around all this time?"

Perhaps moved by the aide's honesty, Mr. Hollis nodded, solemn and fully conscious of his surroundings.

"How about you, Mr. Hollis? If you had gotten into the senate way back when."

The old man forced a grin and patted the side of The Capricornia, just as she began to roll to her side.

They couldn't help but notice this new perspective, and the assistant prayed.

The late winter's haze finally rolled in, making the odds of rescue that night invariably worse. Mr. Hollis hung on to the railing of the cruiser, which in seconds would reach a perfect 90-degree angle.

"Will it be cold?" Mr. Hollis asked.

His assistant nodded.

"How long can we last in there without . . . ?"

"A while, sir. I wouldn't worry too much about that. Stayin' afloat's the problem."

Mr. Hollis shifted his grip. He could see what was left of the yacht's flag–a shredded red, white, and blue cloth that no longer resembled what it once was–lying atop the sea. He knew it would never sink. It was weightless, and he wished he was weightless, too.

"Don't you worry. Someone'll come in the morning and find us. We'll be wet and maybe beaten up a little. Hungry as a dog, too, I'll bet. But it'll be just fine."

The yacht pointed up to the ivory sky, and the two men, pulled down by the mass below, slipped simultaneously and dropped into the water. Ripples gave the surface a temporary wrinkle, and then all was silent. And peaceful.

The aide swam to the top first, followed by Mr. Hollis.

"I–I can't stay up, boy."

"Just tread water. You know how to tread water. Like when you were a kid in your pool. You had a pool, I'm sure."

Mr. Hollis took a mouthful of water and lost his glasses. He searched for some kind of physical support, but found nothing except the blurry image of his assistant.

And he realized.

"I didn't tell her why I went," he said, pronounced, dipping beneath the surface and up again. "She'll never know why I went."

"Don't you go and talk like that now, Mr. Hollis–"

"Please . . . . This is no time for formalities, Micah."

And for a moment, Micah believed him.

"Yes, sir, Kenneth."

For a fleeting moment–

The storm ravished the Pacific. Rain fell, and then more rain, so much that it was like two oceans stacked atop one another.

Kenneth refused to fight the affliction. He had fought long enough. The storm burned his pale skin, and he imagined the water would soothe him. Seconds after The Capricornia disappeared in the void, Kenneth would lose his battle.

"Kenneth!" Micah pleaded.

Unable to physically suspend himself, Micah, a dark, obscure shadow in a rampant gale, dove headfirst into blackness.

Underneath, in an even murkier ocean, Micah witnessed Kenneth plunge faster than the yacht, which hung above them, deteriorating miserably. The steel strongbox tore through the bottom of the derelict ship and descended, life preserver included, atop Kenneth's head, knocking him into a state of lethargy and ejecting his last lungful of air. A dull veil of blood streamed to the surface. In haste, he thrashed about to catch up, but lost his sense of direction.

Micah, realizing Kenneth's final few moments of distress, willingly accepted the inevitable and embraced his former employer, a mass of weightlessness, in his arms. Their fingers interlocked–closed tight, tight together–and their lips met to share a tepid breath that was one in the same. And then, with refracted sunlight shimmering through the flag above, they surrendered to the supremacy of the sea.

Matt Misetich lives his life adrift in a sea of unsold manuscripts, working for the Great and Terrible Hollywood machine as a script reader, writer, and development consultant.

One | Two