Shipwreck
Jim Parks
December 2005
December 2005
At Princess Margaret Hospital, he was aware of lights passing over his head as the cot was rolled into the ward. He was asked his name, his social security number, if he had a passport, what was his address in the U.S. Was there anyone that they could contact?
He was aware of the smell of crisp starch and green soap, alcohol and the smells of human misery, body odor, infection, sweating sick people.
He answered between snores and was awakened by someone pressing with their knuckles on his breastbone. It hurt mightily and awakened him right away each time.
"I’m the doctor. I’m going to start an IV in your left hand with saline solution. You are very dehydrated. You would have lost consciousness in awhile. We are going to keep you under blankets until your body temperature returns to normal. Please try not to do anything too foolish while you are here, you bloody American."
He saw visions of people coming and going, people he knew, some that he didn’t.
He awakened once screaming Patricia’s name. He thought he had seen her disappear beneath the waves.
Another time, he awakened when someone punched him in the arm and told him to be quiet.
He was aware that he had been talking about the Houston waterfront.
"That’s what you call the Washburn Tunnel, man. It goes under the ship channel from Pasadena to Baytown. You got to use it to get over there from the refinery. Good place to get away from the fuckin’ traffic."
He was laughing bitterly.
"Huh? You don’t know about Houston traffic?"
He awakened all the way and saw the doctor for the first time, a spare man with a pencil thin moustache and coffee colored skin, his curly hair slicked back with pomade, wearing a crisply starched lab coat.
"You from Houston, mon?"
"Yes, sir."
"I have some colleagues that were trained at the Houston Medical Center. You know that place?"
"Yes, sir. Is that where you went to medical school?"
"No, mon, I got my diploma troo da’ mail."
There was laughter up and down the ward, a dozen sick Bahamians and the nurses, all giving him the business.
"I got my diploma da’ same place you got your ideas ‘bout how to sail da’ boat, mon. Hey, mon, you know, if banana come on banana boat, right, mon?"
"Yeah." He said it cautiously. He knew this was going to cost him something.
"And pineapple come on pineapple boat, right, mon?"
"Yes, sir."
"Den, what kinda boat AIDS come on?"
"I dunno."
"Ha ha ha. Coptin’s dinghy!"
There was an explosion of laughter.
"You better check your dinghy, mon! Or did you sink dat, too?"
There was another crescendo of laughter.
The next time he awakened, a nurse was poking his shoulder with her finger. The IV was gone.
"This is Miss McWhirter from the American Consul’s office, sir."
"Hello, Miss. What can I do for you?"
"You can leave the Bahamas."
"Why?"
"Because," she said from inside her exquisite helmet of brown hair and aviator glasses, tapping a pencil eraser against a manila folder, "the Bahamians don’t appreciate your wrecking an undocumented vessel in their waters. Not to worry. While you’ve been asleep, the investigation has cleared you. There is no foul play, no one was lost; according to the people on Andros, you left there alone. This has been ruled an accident caused by an error in judgment on your part. If you will sign here, you will be cleared of any liability, including your hospital fees."
"I’m very grateful, Miss."
"You will be needing this."
She handed him a crisp new passport.
"Have nice day, sir."
"Same to you, Miss McWhirter."
"Oh, and one more thing. Here’s a copy of the front page story about you in the newspaper.
Ooh, that stings, he thought.
Inside the manila folder she handed him was a Federal Express envelope. There was a short note from Patricia and an airplane ticket to Amsterdam.
"Come home, lover man. All is forgiven."
They gave him a crisp new suit of scrubs and called him a taxi.
On the ramp outside the door, the doctor hailed him.
"Well, now that you’ve had your ridiculous Huckleberry Finn adven-chuh, I guess you can brag about how you battled the mighty ocean sea to a stand still, eh?"
He grinned.
"Something like that."
"That’s about what I expected, mon. You silly American fuck."
The taxi driver smirked at him.
"You wreck dat boat, mon?"
"Yeah, mon."
"You oughta be shamed to look anybody’s eyes you meet, doddy. Dat was good boat, mon. I’m gonna tell da boys from Man O' War Cay on you."
"Okay."
"Where to, doddy?"
"Barnett’s Bank on Bay Street."
Inside, there was the smell of fresh ink and the cool authority of cash and electronic equipment. He withdrew all his cash and had it converted to traveler’s checks. Up the street, he bought a mackinaw at a yachting supply store and hailed another taxi to the airport.
When he walked aboard the American Airlines shuttle to Miami, he smiled at the flight attendant.
"Did you enjoy your trip to the Bahamas, sir?"
"It was some kind of ridiculous Huckleberry Finn adventure, honey. I haven’t quite made up my mind yet."
Jim Parks is a writer that lives in Texas. He cannot remember a time when he did not wish to tell his story in print.
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