Nothing But the Sea

At three in the morning, Mary's Ark unmoored herself from the New River and drifted eastward on the outgoing tide through the Port Everglades channel. From there, she slipped quietly into the Atlantic. Nobody noticed.

Clay Strauss awoke hungover in the cabin six hours later. Sunlight filtered through the shades of the sole porthole to paint yellow stripes across the floorboards. The familiar scent of damp oak filled his lungs. Rolling waves, muted by the thick wooden hull of the houseboat, had rocked him out of slumber. Waves. For a few seconds, the motion barely registered. Then it hit him, all at once. He sat bolt upright.

An empty liquor bottle clattered and rolled across the floor.

He didn't bother dressing himself over the boxer shorts he'd slept in. Clay staggered across the deck and sank into a pink plastic chair beneath the canopy. A briny breeze peppered his unshaven face with spray. The urge to empty his stomach contents into the sea came and passed. He sifted through hazy memories of the night before. A couple of drinks at Sixes—four? Five. A phone call he shouldn't have made. Stumbling home alone through the darkness. Arriving at the houseboat. A pill swallowed down with the last of his favorite bottle. And then, nothing. The sickness returned.

Somehow, all four lines had worked themselves free of their cleats. Even if somebody had untied them, he should be drifting through the swampy suburbs of Fort Lauderdale. It didn't make any sense. Furthermore, the Ark was nowhere close to seaworthy: The VHF radio had never worked. No flares. No horn. The air conditioner only ran when the boat was connected to shore power. The bilge pump rattled. The generator sounded worse, and whatever fuel was in the tank wouldn't last long.

"Shit," he said.

Back to the cabin.

The space was cramped. All wood paneling, scuffed boards, barely twenty feet across. It was enough room for him. A single berth, a galley kitchen, a mahogany table that doubled as a desk, a tall stool before it. Here and there, nautical knick-knacks: an antique spyglass on the shelf above the sink, a map of the Intracoastal Waterway tacked above the table, a carved wooden wheel hanging above the porthole.

They came along with the Ark three months ago, save the wheel. Against the advice of family and his few friends, Clay had quit his job. He'd sold everything of value, sublet the condo. Never mind the hurricane season and the unfinished business. This was his slice of paradise, free from his worldly concerns. All in the name of going nowhere.

Now he was going somewhere.

Clay scoured the interior of the cabin for the keys to the ignition, discovering only that his cell phone and wallet had also vanished. Dread pooled in his gut. If someone had set out to strand him, they'd done a marvelous job.

At the helm of the boat, he mulled over his options. They were few. Hotwiring the ignition might work, but he had no idea how to do that. He could hope the current would carry him home with the tide. Surely, somebody would come along eventually. The coast guard. A fishing boat. They'd see Mary's Ark out there where she didn't belong, hear his shouts over the steady roar of the waves. They'd rescue him. He'd buy them a beer.

There was a sort of relief that came with the realization that the situation was out of his hands. He was a passenger. The destination remained to be seen. Perhaps he'd untied the ropes himself. He expected some great revelation at the possibility. Instead, it was no more consequential than his memory of yesterday's breakfast.

He looked out over the water as the sun inched ever closer to the horizon—red sky at night. So he floated west. This was a good thing, in theory. He couldn't possibly be that far from shore. As best as Clay could figure, the houseboat might reach the Florida Keys sometime overnight, if he didn't drift too far north or south. How far could he possibly have drifted over such a short period of time?

The sky turned purple, then a deep navy blue, and finally black. The moon's reflection shimmered in a sea of ink. The water lapped gently at the hull. Nightfall. The battery lights inside the cabin cast uncertain shadows on the walls. A granola bar and a box of stale crackers made for a meal. He washed it down with a bottle of lukewarm water. The air inside the cabin had grown hot and stale. At worst, he'd spend another day in the sun before a passing ship came to his rescue. He clung to this thought, even as the Ark rocked him in his bed.

Dawn broke in shades of gray. Clay peered out the porthole and saw nothing, no horizon. The houseboat had been plucked from existence and set adrift in a void. In dead calm waters, the ground was steady beneath his feet.

Another granola bar. A trip to the deck. When he inhaled, he could taste the saline humidity in the air. It clung to his skin and chilled his lungs, dampened his t-shirt and clumped his hair.

"Hello?" he called from the bow.

The boat creaked.

An hour passed. Two. Four.

By the end of the sixth, nothing had changed, not even the daylight. Not the slightest gust of wind. At some indistinguishable point, Clay began to wonder if he was dead. He didn't recall dying; not that he'd remember if he had. Maybe it had been the drink. He was at the bar in Fort Lauderdale one second and now he was here, his own personal purgatory.

Purgatory. That word had meaning. He couldn't recall the specifics, but the gist was easy: a place to shed the sins holding him back from salvation. Or so he figured from his time in church as a child. The way out was through.

He started with the booze.

Bourbon. Rum. All of it offered to the sea, each bottle plunging into the water with a satisfying plunk. He moved on.

Pornography magazines. Prescription medications. Vanity items, half-used soaps.

Fog.

The engagement ring. The court papers. The unsent letter.

Everything overboard, back and forth.

By the time Clay got to the wood-carved wheel, the fog showed first signs of thinning. He held the object in two hands, turning it over. It would be a shame to get rid of it. The wheel had a nice weight to it, the grain smooth to the touch. He'd paid twenty dollars for it at an estate sale. Aside from the wheel, his cabin was barren. The wall hangings were all in the ocean. The kitchen cabinets were empty.

The wheel, too, met the water with a gentle splash.

He waited for the end at the bow of the boat. Hands on the railing, he stared into the thinning mist until he was sure he'd float away at any moment. The gray took on a shimmer as the breeze rolled the fog backward—until the sun broke through the haze to beam down on him. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the same sea gazed back.

"What else?" he pleaded to the heavens. "I did everything. What else is there?"

He stomped back to the cabin and stopped short.

In the center of the floor, his phone. Wallet. Keys. All things missing, now returned. The bobber on the keyring rolled in tandem with the boat's steady sway. Somebody had left them there for him to find. His hand hovered above the keys, then paused.

He'd done the right thing. He must have. The sky was clear, his burdens cast off and lost to the depths. A final trial.

Clay took a deep breath, pushed away the doubt that he'd been horribly mistaken. Too late to turn back now. He collected his things with shaking hands and climbed back up to the deck. His phone had never weighed so heavy in his palm. The photos in his wallet would drown. At the bow of the boat, he took one last look at the keys. At the decision he was about to make.

Then he closed his eyes, and tossed them all away.

They vanished without a sound.

The fog lingered like smoke on the water, and then it was gone. Blue sea and blue sky.

In the distance, the image of white sand and palm trees waited on the horizon. No buildings in sight. It wasn't Fort Lauderdale, nor the Keys. But it was exactly where he belonged. His shoulders relaxed. Here, the sea spray was warm on his skin. It didn't matter that he was alone.

He settled into his pink chair and waited.