The Pirate Suitor
by
Matthew Dexter
Even
as a little girl,
Samantha Anderson
had always been
especially precocious.
But now she was
as well-known
for her beauty
as she had always
been to me for
her brilliance.
I watched with
awe as she sat
leisurely on the
wet deck of the
sailboat, peacefully
embracing the
lazy reflections
from the water
as they fluttered
across her angelic
sunburnt face.
She was gazing
toward the jagged
protruding shoreline,
while the setting
sun was hazily
painting the Mexican
ripples various
shades of red
and orange. Her
head was aimed
directly at the
waves breaking
upon the golden
sand.
As I approached,
I noticed the
Pacific Ocean
leaving its final
impression of
the day upon the
cluster of freckles
which covered
her shoulders,
like a constellation,
as the salty mist
collected on her
back for a few
lingering seconds
in transparent
speckles, before
evaporating in
the heat of the
Cabo San Lucas
summer. I was
immersed in my
silent observation
of her natural
youthful splendor,
now initiated
by my delayed
acknowledgement
of her seemingly
sudden transition
from childhood
to womanhood.
I only wanted
to protect her,
and had actually
been successfully
in this endeavor
most of her life.
I kept her away
from the steady
stream of teenage
boys who relentlessly
attempted to sneak
off with her all
week long during
our vacation onshore,
whether for benign
reasons and intentions,
or not.
They came in waves,
fueled by testosterone
and blessed with
the convenience
of lenient liquor
laws. Yet I succeeded
in keeping most
of these potential
consensual molesters
at a great enough
distance to prevent
any negative influence.
Since I was her
only uncle, it
was my self-proclaimed
duty to look after
my niece. It was
my way of keeping
my younger brother
and sister-in-law
company on their
adventure below
the border.
But now I had
a sickening inclination
that the scores
of young men who
were perpetually
drawn to Samantha
were not attracted
by her magnetic
personality or
mature wisdom,
but her eyes were
radiant and full
of life as she
listened to music
blasting through
her headphones.
My growing shadow
was just about
to approach the
bow when she broached
the question of
why I was always
pestering her
with my stern
presence and excessive
protection.
“I
told you not to
come so close
to me. You’re
being punished
for terrifying
that handsome
young man on the
dock,” she
warned, without
breaking focus
of the waves and
the familiar oceanic
melodies dancing
through her mind.
“Darling
Samantha, wearing
bikinis like those
don’t leave
much undressing
to the imagination
of your suitors,”
I offered back,
my shadow now
motionless, except
for the subtle
movement of my
short grey hair,
gently blowing
in the warm tropical
breeze.
She smiled innocently
and sensed the
truth in my implicit
suggestion.
“Uncle
Will, I’m
sorry but I’m
almost sixteen
now, so you’re
just going to
have to be more
tolerant of my
constantly evolving
social life. This
sometimes involves
boys, so be prepared.”
“Boys?”
I contested with
laughter.
“Samantha,
that last one
at the dock was
nearly my age,
and the two at
the marina were
college kids.
I’m only
looking out for
your best interests.
You need to focus
on your work and
make all your
dreams come to
fruition. Please
don’t let
any boys kill
your ambitions.”
“Nobody
will interfere
with my goals,”
she promised,
accepting the
cold glass of
lemonade I handed
her, after assuming
that it was ok
to get closer
only if I offered
a gift of atonement.
It was a nice
moment we shared
together on that
mahogany deck,
watching the ocean
slowly project
an amber glow
on the aquatic
rocks in the distance,
which shimmered
like a tiny river
running through
a submerged corral
reef.
It was almost
as if we were
sailing on the
wings of paradise.
Riding the crest
of our wonderful
destinies, and
the sunset was
welcoming our
future and all
it had to offer.
Only there was
much more to this
scenic escape
than meets the
eye. We had actually
come here to relieve
the recent past,
in an attempt
to begin to pull
the fragmented
pieces of our
tattered lives
together.
Our family had
been shattered
six months earlier
by the devastating
news of the death
of Samantha’s
younger brother,
who committed
suicide, choosing
to hang himself
from the brass
bar on the roof
of the closet
where he decided
to die. The glass
chandelier which
adorned the marble
fixture of the
dining room ceiling
one floor beneath
the scene of the
tragedy was the
only sign that
anything was ever
wrong. The crystal
petals shook ferociously,
producing a pleasant
sound that rippled
throughout the
empty home for
a few ominous
seconds of desperation
as he gasped for
air, attempting
to tear through
the rope cutting
through the flesh
of his neck
Yet the braided
rope encroaching
upon his throat
didn‘t snap
and break his
neck when he kicked
the chair to the
floor, the way
all the websites
claimed it would.
The chandelier
shook for five
straight minutes
of final waning
regret, but his
body wasn’t
discovered for
eight more hours.
The misery devoured
our family initially,
but as the shock
wore away we found
strength within
one another, and
though sadness
still exists today,
we came down to
Mexico in hopes
of finding reprieve.
It was a memorial
celebration which
Samantha’s
brother would
have wanted us
to experience,
a light at the
end of a very
dark tunnel.
Since Cabo San
Lucas was always
his favorite destination,
his remains were
scattered in the
waves. Samantha
had not been able
to take her eyes
away from the
ocean since she
helped provide
this final wish
to her deceased
brother, as if
she feared he
would leave her
again if she lost
sight of the water.
She had been smothered
all week long
by potential lovers
and admirers but
she was really
dealing with her
own personal struggles,
which she kept
well hidden behind
the immaculate
smile she presented
to the world.
We had no idea
what was about
to unfurl in the
next thirty seconds,
but we instantly
learned lessons
on how to shout
at the top of
our lungs. I think
my voice was more
powerful than
my niece’s,
but her recent
sore throat was
probably an impediment
to the projection
of the fear and
alarm that struck
us both. We knew
as soon as they
boarded our boat
that the bearded
men meant potential
harm, because
their leader was
holding a carving
knife in his right
hand, his other
arm pointed at
the cabin where
the rest of our
party was situated.
His attempted
gesture with the
knife was not
an especially
effective method
of gaining their
attention. But
the rise in our
voices at the
sight of this
rudimentarily
armed mutiny was
enough to accomplish
their objective,
garnering the
attention of everyone
within seconds.
They all looked
demented, but
the other two
intruders were
younger and much
less sober than
their leader,
who was eager
to announce himself
as the new captain
of the ship, his
crew using rope
to tie us to the
wheel in the cabin.
“At
least it’s
not the anchor,”
I muttered to
my brother, after
discovering that
the rudder submerged
six feet underneath
our cluttered
bodies was not
going to be steering
us back to the
marina.
“This
is no time to
joke,” my
brother advised.
He was white as
a ghost and I
could see the
terror in his
eyes as he spoke.
“Are
you pirates aware
that this is a
privately owned
vessel?”
Samantha asked.
Their leader flashed
her an almost
entirely toothless
smile, seemingly
completely aghast
and speechless
as he tried to
figure out the
young captive’s
intention and
unusual line of
questioning.
“We
have a satellite
tracker device
on board,”
she lied, “and
I thought modern-day
pirates only struck
cruise ships in
Africa, did you
guys get lost
on your way to
Somalia or something?”
She smiled after
she finished her
polite, yet uninvited
inquisition. But
since our captors
only spoke Spanish,
most of her words
made no sense
to them at all.
At least that
was my suspicion,
judging by the
fact that they
spoke no English
during their demented
sailboat hijack.
But they definitely
selected the best
time to do it.
Now the darkness
was closing in
on us, four innocent
victims of an
aquatic abduction
mission, hidden
in the cabin,
bound for destruction
or whatever else
these drunken
idiots had in
store for us.
“My
sister worked
for the American
police force in
a small town outside
Amarillo, Texas,”
the captain kidnapper
suddenly announced
with respect,
“tracking
down criminals
and car thieves
with global positioning
systems hidden
in automobiles.”
His face was ashy,
with more hair
than his head,
as he brushed
his double chin
with a gigantic
cigar as if in
deep meditative
thought, interrupted
only by an even
deeper puff of
tobacco.
“Besides,
we came on board
too fast for you
to signal anyone,”
he continued,
“which is
the reason we
have attached
you to the wheel,
out of sight in
the cabin, merely
as a precaution.”
He answered Samantha’s
question, while
debunking my false
assumption that
he was too stupid
and drunk to be
bilingual.
“Why
did your sister
get fired, stealing
automobiles?”
Samantha continued.
I couldn’t
believe that she
actually had the
audacity to suggest
any such connection
to his own behavior,
but the portly
captain did not
appear to take
any offense to
it.
“She
was never fired,”
he answered, “she
was hired because
she went to college
for criminal justice
and she never
even missed a
day of work.”
“But
you said she worked
for the police,”
Samantha pressed
further, “did
she get fired?”
I couldn’t
even believe that
my niece could
suggest these
inflammatory insinuations,
which could easily
be interpreted
as insults by
an intoxicated,
armed attacker,
who had us bound
to the boat he
was stealing.
He looked flushed
for a few seconds
and I was convinced
that he had just
been disrespected.
But then he didn’t
get furious like
I figured he would.
Instead he got
very sad, and
almost looked
like he was about
to cry, as tears
suddenly filled
his already bloodshot
eyes.
“My
sister died a
few months ago,”
the captain replied,
now beginning
to cry.
He wiped his clenched
eyelids with both
hands, and if
he had any hairs
in the front of
his head he would
have lit them
on fire. I was
almost waiting
for him to incinerate
his forehead,
but it never happened.
I imagined that
if he had it would
have almost matched
his scraggly chin
and face.
He reached in
his right pocket
and pulled out
a white handkerchief,
folded neatly,
amazingly clean.
He carefully unrolled
it in his hand
with the tips
of his filthy
fingers and thumb,
exposing a golden
lighter that he
appeared reluctant
to touch.
“This
was given to me
a month before
she moved away
from us,”
the captain told
Samantha, holding
out the lighter
for her to examine.
“She
carved my initials
in it,”
he added, allowing
Samantha to get
close enough to
read the cursive
lettering.
“It’s
nice,” she
observed.
His knife was
now secured in
a leather waistband
holster a few
inches in front
of her head, and
he seemed to trust
or respect her
much more than
he did the rest
of us, who he
did not ever address
or acknowledge.
“I’m
sorry about your
sister,”
Samantha said
respectfully,
“I really
am.”
“It’s
ok,” the
captain replied,
intricately folding
the lighter back
into the handkerchief
with his other
hand, placing
it safely back
into his pocket.
He left us alone
and went to the
bow to confer
with his companions,
who were drinking
tequila from a
plastic three
liter bottle with
a rattlesnake
trapped inside.
The reptile looked
alive as it swam
from side to side
as they raised
the bottle to
their lips and
passed it around.
“It’s
dead,” the
captain announced,
noticing that
all four of us
were curious.
He brought the
beverage closer
to the cabin so
that we could
examine it, using
his kerosene lantern
to light up the
marinating serpent.
It looked alive
but closer examination
revealed that
it was in fact
dead, though moving
vibrantly in the
liquid, black
eyes wide open,
with pieces of
flesh and layers
of skin floating
in tequila. He
asked Samantha
if she wanted
a drink, and thankfully
she silently declined
his offer with
a frightened shake
of her head.
“It’s
been in there
three years,”
he advised her,
“it’s
good.”
“I’m
sure it is,”
Samantha confided,
“but even
so I don’t
think right now
is the appropriate
time for such
an experiment.
With the whole
kidnapping and
grand theft sailboat
thing going on,
you know?”
That made the
captain smile
again, and it
seemed that he
was getting more
interested in
talking with my
niece than helping
his shipmates
plot their course
on the glossy
nautical map they
had laid out on
the bow with lanterns
on each corner.
“I
like you,”
the Captain confessed
to Samantha, “but
try to make yourself
comfortable because
we’re going
to be sailing
all night.”
#
I was awake well
before the fist
light of the new
day. I think we
all were, since
we were up most
of the night trying
to situate ourselves
comfortably, which
was an impossible
task to accomplish
in the dark, cramped
cabin. We were
trapped, with
our arms tied
behind our backs,
breaking instruments
and dials with
our feet every
few hours.
The first thing
I noticed was
that there was
no land in sight,
and the golden
horizon was not
quite as exquisite
as the day before.
I was very sore,
and we had not
been given any
food, only two
bottles of water
which we were
unable to lift
to our lips. The
captain had his
crew come down
every few hours
and offer us their
assistance drinking
the warm liquid.
I thought my bladder
was about to burst
when I finally
convinced one
of the men to
let us each relieve
ourselves at the
rear of the boat,
using the ladder.
They watched over
us, humiliating
my sister-in-law
as she prayed
for them to release
us immediately.
Samantha sang
a sweet song and
dove into the
ocean, leading
to a few moments
of frantic commotion
as her parents
started screaming
and our captors
struggled to turn
the boat around.
We were now gliding,
using a steady
wind to distance
ourselves from
whatever the captain
wanted to escape
from. All three
of them were visibly
ill and exhausted.
If not for the
persistent commands
from the captain
I imagined that
the two other
vagabonds might
not have summoned
the motivation
to turn around
for Samantha at
all. But they
did and she was
eventually pulled
aboard, laughing
hysterically and
looking refreshed
and beautiful
as ever.
“Well
what was all that
about?”
the captain asked.
“I
couldn’t
just go to the
bathroom with
all of the intruders
watching me could
I?
“Plus
I needed a swim,”
she added, removing
the drenched sweatshirt
she had slept
in, revealing
the same bathing
suit top she had
worn the day before.
The captain was
amused, but not
particularly upset
with her. Yet
her parents and
I were furious,
and we told her
so. It was a dangerous
stunt, considering
that she had no
life preserver,
with no land in
sight. A reckless
and brazen attempt
to gain attention.
But for some strange
reason she knew
and trusted the
captain would
return for her,
which he did even
before she resurfaced.
My brother was
now wide awake
and infuriated.
He was demanding
the captors to
return his boat
to land immediately
because his wife
was a diabetic
and he needed
to examine her
health. We figured
we would have
returned to Cabo
San Lucas last
night, and therefore
had brought no
provisions on
board for another
day. Not until
Samantha spoke
did the captain
even indicate
that he had heard
any of my brother’s
words.
“My
mother really
does need some
basic testing
equipment, she‘s
hypoglycemic”
she politely explained,
“so please
drop her off someplace
near a pharmacy
or hospital.”
I was ashamed
at myself for
getting so upset
with Samantha
a moment ago,
but all my anger
instantly changed
to pride when
she convinced
the captain to
give his crew
instructions to
take us back toward
dry land to help
my sister-in-law.
Within a few hours
we docked beside
an enormous rock,
and one of the
crew went to go
purchase the medications
that my sister-in-law
wrote down for
him, the captain
refusing to allow
one of us out
of the boat, fearing
this would provoke
trouble. The captive
returned a few
hours later and
in all that time
nobody else approached
or came within
view of the sailboat.
“I
hope you’re
satisfied,”
the captain told
Samantha, “we’re
eight hours off
course now.”
Samantha’s
mother injected
herself with insulin
and returned the
needle to the
captain, who now
allowed two of
us to be untied
at once to provide
more room in the
cabin. The captain
spent most of
his day with Samantha,
asking questions
while the crew
controlled the
sailing and the
sky grew dark
and foreboding.
Their bond deepened
when she learned
how the captain’s
sister had died,
according to him
suicide, victim
of a self-inflicted
gunshot wound
to the head.
“They
let her carry
a firearm,”
he explained,
“and this
new medication
she was using
to battle manic
depression suddenly
pushed her over
the edge.”
“That’s
tragic,”
Samantha said
with sincerity,
as they sat on
the deck watching
the sunset.
The sun was well
above the horizon,
but the clouds
were so thick
that it was indistinguishable.
It had been growing
darker gradually
all day, and the
wind had begun
to howl persistently.
We lost sight
of land again
hours ago and
it seemed we were
headed for a storm.
Samantha asked
the captain if
we could make
it to shore before
the rain began,
but he told her
we were hours
from any land
on the map. He
said the plan
was to get to
a small uninhabited
island by morning
and they had to
proceed on track.
“My
brother died of
a heroin overdose,”
Samantha told
him, “actually
it was a suicide.
He hung himself,
but the heroin
would have done
it for him sooner
or later.”
“Samantha,
how dare you say
such terrible
things to this
thug,” my
brother interjected.
Her mother agreed
and pleaded with
her daughter to
speak the truth
and never lie
under any circumstances.
Her confession
was news to us
all, but it seemed
to have some kind
of mesmerizing
effect on the
captain, who seemed
to relate to Samantha
because both of
them had siblings
who had recently
taken their own
lives.
“So
how long have
you stayed away
from the needle?”
she asked him,
pointing to the
small depressions
from track marks
on the inside
of his forearms.
They were so small
that I had not
noticed them,
nor had her parents,
but it occurred
to us all that
Samantha had some
sort of trick
up her sleeve.
The waves grew
larger and dark,
as the mates drank
tequila from the
snake, and I tried
to convince the
pirates that we
were in for a
major storm that
might kill us
all by morning.
The captain pretended
that he couldn’t
hear me, but I
could see in his
eyes that he was
frightened at
the prospect of
either losing
his boat or his
life.
“I
don’t want
to die,”
he quietly confided
in Samantha a
few hours later,
“so untie
them and tell
them we need all
hands on deck.
Make sure they
listen and obey
my commands if
they want to live
through this.”
We were finally
all free from
the wheel for
the first time,
but now the captain
demanded that
everyone be tied
to the ship by
an ankle, since
the sea was much
too rough to be
able to maneuver,
let alone pick
somebody up. Plus,
it was so dark
that I doubted
anybody would
even be located
if they fell overboard.
My sister-in-law
was crying hysterically
as she tried her
best to use a
steel bucket to
help one of the
mates drain the
water from the
deck, which was
collecting inches
by the minute,
with the waves
crashing sporadically
upon us from both
sides of the boat.
I did my best
to help them control
the sails, but
since the cold
wind was ravaging
us so mercilessly
it took at least
three of us to
manage the main
sail. We had to
duck every once
in a while to
avoid being struck
in the head by
the metal as it
swung wildly about.
We were all tied
to the mast, which
seemed like a
masterful plan,
until the mast
began to splinter
like weak timber
and tear apart
like crackling
thunder, at which
point we were
commanded by the
captain to untie
our own legs as
fast as possible.
We all did so
with the knife
he lent us, of
course only after
cutting himself
and Samantha loose.
We all listened
to the wood failing,
and before the
last crew member
had a chance to
free himself he
was launched ferociously
into the ocean.
Even his scream
was swallowed
by the sea before
we had a chance
to realize he
was gone. The
captain screamed
for us all to
tie ourselves
back to the boat,
to stay low, and
hold on for dear
life.
We were tossed
violently from
side to side for
hours, bruised
and bloodied by
the profuse movement
of the waves.
I prayed that
the relentless
lighting would
target the ship,
strike our vessel
and save us all
the inevitable
struggle of drowning
individually in
the tropical depression.
I was ready to
die when Samantha
was forced over
the bow by a surge
of foam, disappearing
below the water
without even a
mutter of despair.
Before any of
us could act,
the captain was
up and over the
boat. The only
sign of him was
the rope that
connected him
to the bow, which
almost broke when
the slack ran
out. The last
remaining pirate
crewman yelled
in Spanish for
us to help him
pull the rope,
and we all did,
until the captain
finally reappeared
at the surface
next to the boat,
Samantha in his
arms. She was
choking, spitting
out water, coughing
uncontrollably.
But she was alive,
and we pulled
them both on board
and rode out the
storm together
in the cabin all
night long, as
the boat broke
apart, from fragment
to fragment.
The rising sun
seemed to free
us from the storm,
but forlorn and
worn out, nobody
held out much
hope. Our boat
was going down.
It took a while,
but the waves
were finally taking
control, and we
all knew our only
hope was to hold
onto the floatation
buoys we were
using for life
preservers since
the actual life
vests went overboard
with the first
big storm surge.
They were being
handed to Samantha
and her mother
by the captain
when he unwillingly
conceded them
to the sea, an
ominous sign.
I remember holding
onto a barrel
for hours, all
of us using separate
improvised devices
to stay above
the surface, rotating
between them and
using a rope to
stay connected
to each other.
The next thing
I know I was spitting
up water and lying
on my back on
a cold steel floor,
soaked in bloody
saltwater and
urine, my family
alive and awake
beside me, smiling
as they realized
I was going to
be fine.
We were in the
hull of a Mexican
rescue vessel,
being transported
to the hospital.
“How
long was I out
for?” I
asked my brother,
hugging my niece
who lay leisurely
beside me, smiling.
“A
few minutes uncle
Will,” she
interjected, “but
we knew you’d
come around. Who
else would be
able to destroy
my social life
so well if you
were dead?”
The officials
were asking us
various questions
about our experience,
and it seemed
like everything
was going to be
better in the
future. We were
all together now.
One big family.
Four gringos,
two pirates, and
an adventure of
a lifetime.
“Where’s
the nearest saloon?”
Samantha asked,
“I feel
like a rattlesnake
tequila.”
©
2008 by Matthew
Dexter
|