THE CLOSER THEY GOT  

"Full Moon Rising" by George Grie

“Below with love!  Below with love!”  Tommy Folleter lounged on deck of Preservation.

A bit drunk, Tallard thought.

“Up with the comet!  Up with the comet!” Art Langly answered from the galley.

Carl Tallard laughed.  These sayings never made sense.  They weren’t supposed to, Tallard knew.  He’d given up trying to understand his friends’ patois, but he enjoyed their company nonetheless.  ’Loved having them here because paradise was on the Pacific, and the bright blue ocean and friends, Tallard thought, were among the finer things in the known universe.  Dreams coming true was a rare thing.  At forty-two, he’d heard his share of rags to riches stories.  The stories, to Tallard, seemed lifetimes, worlds away where only God and movie stars existed.  Sure, you saw them on the big screen every day, but where did they actually live?

Carl Tallard wasn’t a movie star or a professional baseball player.  He was Captain of Preservation, the sixty-foot houseboat, that was, in all aspects, his American Dream.  Preservation was his personal Hollywood .  For forty-two years, luck had patted him on the back.  He was in good health; he controlled his drinking.  He had a deep, bronzed tan.  He played the stock market, something his father (God rest his soul) taught Tallard when he was just a pup.  Thanks to the tips he’d received from Sea Monsters Inc. (coincidence he could not resist) he’d invested his savings, and the dividends had proved lucrative.  Carl was a man made by intuition.  He listened, gambled, and nine times out of ten, the odds shifted in his favor.  Because of dad and Carl’s intuition (his love for the Pacific blue waters), Preservation had been born, purchased, and docked at the marina at Santa Cruz .  Here, Tallard could explore—at leisure—the deep, mysterious wonderland, the Ocean. 

Since Marion fled to New York , seeking a life in publishing with her secret lover, Carl Tallard discovered love—at least for him—was not a languid female, a hand tightly gripped in his own, or a curl of raven-black hair.  Love was the feeling he had when he was alone on Preservation, and the only thing of worldly importance was the pounding July sun, the pristine blue sky, and the endless universe of water lapping gently against the sides of the houseboat.  Love was the smile on his face when he knew destiny had brought him to the Pacific.  He could entertain his thoughts with reading, writing in The Captain’s Journal—as he called it—or fishing for sea bass.  Love, was knowing luck had given him the opportunity to own Preservation, and Carl Tallard, man of forty-two, grabbed it where it mattered most.  Love was in the hull, the sound of the motor coming to life, the places she took him.  Surely, the good Lord—since Carl loved her so—would let him take Preservation beyond Heaven’s Gate when all was said and done.  You spent time in Heaven, after all, with those you loved, right?  Just bury Tallard and Preservation together at the bottom of the sea.  Nothing, he thought, once he parted from the salt of the earth, could be more romantic. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it, honey,” he said, thinking of Marion in New York .  He rubbed his hand over the brass rails of Preservation.  He felt no emotion when Marion left, oddly enough, when she told him of the affair.  It was luck, perhaps.

Loneliness didn’t victimize him.  It was a weak and timid emotion, evincing an obvious lack of fulfillment.  He was happier once Marion left.  He could dedicate all his time to nautical hobbies without hearing a single whine or complaint.  He could watch Jaws whenever he felt like it.

Tallard believed he and Jaws would’ve been the best of friends.  The only disappointment he experienced was when he had to return to land for more beer, meat, and potatoes.  Running his toes through the sand was part of that love, too.

As often as he sought the comforts of solitude, Preservation provided opportunity with friends.

On that breezy, warm, July evening, the sun began its descent below the horizon, sending orange, yellow, and red embers across the sky. 

Sailor’s delight, Tallard thought, and smiled.

The wind played, rippling the dark blue plastic of his windbreaker, bringing with it the rich salty smells of the ocean.  Carl’s dad, along with the telescope, had bought him a hat similar to the one Skipper wore on Gilligan’s Island .  Tallard wore it religiously.        

Thanks for the memories, pop.  Thanks for everything.

Something about friends, a voice suddenly issued in his brain.  You can’t always trust them, know what they’re about to do, how they’re going to betray you. 

Puzzled, Carl cocked his head, and quickly shook the voice off as age, a problem with his ears. 

On that July weekend of the 24^th in 2008, Tallard sacrificed his solitude, his lack of loneliness, for a weekend trip on Preservation with his two closest friends, Art Langly and Tommy Folleter.  Art, a culinary artist and owner of Tasty Art’s in Santa Cruz , was below deck in the galley preparing appetizers.  Tasty Art’s was a cultural dining, atmospheric experience for friends, families, and lovers.  Whenever Tallard returned to land and civilization, he made at least one stop at Tasty Art’s, not only say hello to his friend, but for the atmospheric, fine dining experience.  Tasty Art’s, after the last review, was a four star restaurant. 

Tommy Folleter lounged on a lawn chair several feet from Carl, nursing a cold beer.  He was a real estate agent who complained about the phone calls, the 24/7 routine, and how—once a day off was finally savored—you often missed an important sale. 

Tallard didn’t mind Tommy’s complaints.  The man made decent money at a job he was good at.  He had a wife, two boys, Eric and Lucien, and a girl, Tess, in Sacramento .

The evening light provided Tallard enough time to scan the sea with the portable telescope.  Carl’s father found it in an antique shop in La Jolla for Tallard’s twenty-first birthday.  The telescope was copper and gold, extending to the size of a small baseball bat.  It was probably, Carl estimated, over a hundred-years old.

Carl and his two closest friends had been on the Pacific for three days now, enjoying Art’s cooking, cold drinks, laughter, fishing, and one another’s company.  Tallard provided this vacation for his friends every year in July.  It became a tradition, more special than Christmas.  They ate steamed crabs, oysters, relaxed in the hot sun, and drank exotic beverages.  Paradise , indeed, Tallard thought, was on the Pacific, on Preservation.

Sometimes (as he was doing now), Carl simply enjoyed scanning the ocean with the telescope.  He was a true man of the sea when he did this; he felt like Ahab.  At times, he saw the hump of a whale, a sailboat, or dolphins at play.  More than once, he witnessed flying fish emerging from the surface and descending into the water again.  Grinning to himself, he wondered if he’d ever stumble upon a sea-dragon.  One thing about the ocean, he realized, was the affordability it provided to his imagination.  The space in his head was clear, allowing room for primitive, ancient reflections of tales at sea.  The telescope was like a writer’s favorite pen, something he kept close at all times, and sentimentality washed over him when he peered through it, a reminiscent spark of love similar to when he’d opened the present on his twenty-first birthday.  No woman had ever given him that feeling, and when Marion had left, his love for the sea only grew in proportion.

“Below with love!” Tommy cried from the deck, raising a bottled beer.  “Below with love!”

Tallard grinned, felt the warm wind whip against his face, and leaned over the railing.  He scanned the sea with the telescope again.

“Oh, shut-up already!” Art called from below, and Carl—out of the corner of his eye—saw Tommy throw his dark head back and laugh.

Good times, Tallard thought.  Real good times. 

For a split-second, he forgot about good times with his friends.  On the horizon, he spotted a ship centered perfectly in the middle of the setting sun.  The sun was an intense yellow/orange ball over the straight line of the dark sea.  It was hard, of course, to tell with the brightness of the sun (Tallard winced), but there was a ship out there. 

Ships, of course, were not rare on ocean waters.  They were, in fact, a dime a dozen.  The possibility of something out of history, however, was something else altogether, and that’s what the ship looked like to him.  Because of the sun, and the distance, it was hard to tell.  The shape of the vessel was distinct, however, a shape he recognized.  Tallard studied it, peering closely.  It wasn’t a speck on the ocean, but it was big enough for Tallard to see three huge sails.  The bulk of the vessel made him stare for a few minutes longer.  He’d seen pictures, studied and read about them, but ships of this kind were reminisced only in museums and picture books.  Yes, he recognized it.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d would say he was looking at an exact replica of the Santa Maria , the Nina, or the Pinta.  Only the red crosses were absent. 

But that was ridiculous.

Wasn’t it?

Tallard smiled, thinking about the years he’d spent on the ocean.  If the ship were an ancient vessel, it would be the discovery of a lifetime.

As dad had given him the telescope—as a boy dreaming of a nautical life—he was a kid again.  A wave of naiveté slipped cool hands against the base of his scalp, easing around his brain.  Soft fingers massaged his thoughts, sending him into cool reflections as if he’d experienced this moment five-hundred-years ago.  As if he’d seen the ship before in all its glory  As if—no—he’d sailed it.  It was not, however, déjà-vu.  Seeing the ship defined his life more than the Pacific, more than Preservation, or Marion flying off to New York with her rich, publisher boyfriend. 

Time slipped away, his friends, and the houseboat.  Carl Tallard fell completely, unalterably in love for the first time in his life.  He forgot Art and Tommy were here with him, and when he did think about them, he wished they weren’t here.

How can you say such a thing?  Do you really mean that?

No, he didn’t mean it, but he felt it—if only for a second.    

He was standing in the middle of a head-on collision between two racing boats at full throttle.  It could only mean one thing, he thought.  The discovery of the ship, the chance encounter, was definitely true love. 

He was crazy with it.

But how could that be?  He couldn’t tell for sure.  The ship was too far in the distance.

Something told him otherwise, though.  The ship on the horizon was over five-hundred-years old.  It was five-hundred-years old, and it was calling him.  Something…he couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was… 

Love.

Of all the years he’d spent on the ocean—thinking about dad, his life on the shore, the vacations he’d spent with Tommy and Art—Carl Tallard was witnessing a true, full-fledged miracle.

“I’m staring at a ghost ship,” he said, aloud.  “A five-hundred-year-old ghost ship.”

When the words came out, he couldn’t believe them, but something rang true, proved perfect. 

He couldn’t prove it, of course.  The fading light was a factor.  He couldn’t see as well either with dusk approaching.  Yet…

You are looking at an ancient vessel.  Don’t be afraid to let it romance you, to sway you into slumber.  It is true love.  Your true love.  Of course, you were meant for more.  Didn’t you know?

A strange familiarity stirred his breast, a voice whispering nostalgic thoughts.  He put it off as the easy sway of his imagination and the sea.

Tallard was tempted to turn Preservation toward the ship.  By morning, he would have a better look.

First—before he got too carried away—he needed a second opinion.  Maybe his forty-plus eyes were playing tricks on him.

They’re going to take you away from it, you know?  They’re jealous.  They always have been.  Your silent life at sea.  They join you for comforts, but they’re brimming with resentment.  They’re plotting the perfect time to throw you overboard without a lifejacket.  They’re going to feed you to the sharks. 

“That’s crazy,” Carl said, scaring himself by answering the voice.

“Did you say something?” Tommy asked, black hair curling into his eyes, Dos Equis in hand.  He was wearing Bermuda shorts, no shirt, black chest-hair glistening.  Tommy spent most of his time on the houseboat drinking and bathing in the sun.  “Vacations are about doing as little as possible,” he told Carl on a previous trip.  “You didn’t invite me out here to put me to work, did you?”

The light to the east was dimming fast.  Carl was having a hard time making out the bulk on the horizon suddenly.  Drunken Tommy probably wouldn’t notice anything anyway.

“Come over here, Norton, my friend,” Tallard said.  “You have to see something.”

Tommy looked up and saluted Carl with a beer.  “Aye-aye, Captain!”

Tommy stood up awkwardly, unaware of how tipsy he was, and ambled across the deck in a crooked line toward his captain. 

“Norton, my friend,” Tallard said.  “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Norton, is not my name,” Tommy said, not catching the joke.  “Call me Molly.  Call me George.  But Norton is not my name.”

Molly was a nickname Art had come up with somehow though Folleter, because Molly wanted to be an attorney at one time before his career in real estate.  Art warned him it was a folly of a profession.  Attorneys are sharks.  Don’t take it personally, Molly.

Molly hadn’t taken it personally.  His reply was simple:

“I always thought chefs were sort of dainty,” he’d told Art.  “You know, all that time in the kitchen.  Like male decorators.  I mean, what’s up with Christopher Lowell?”

Langly didn’t reply.  He’d shaken his head and grinned at Molly. 

Back in the world of ghost ships, Tommy tried a pirate’s accent.  It fell inanely short:  “What, pray tell, dost thou seekest from thy first mate?”

Carl handed him the telescope and rolled his eyes.  “Take a look and tell me what you see.”  He pointed to where the ship was winking out of sight, the sun dipping below the horizon.

Tommy peered through the telescope and said, “Aye, ’tis a be-autiful sunset.  And the water’s glow is most becoming!  ’Tis from the heavens, master!”

Carl ignored him.  “No ship?”

“Ah!  Yes.  A ship.  I can see it!  A damn speck it is, too!”

Tommy took the telescope from his eye and put a hand to his brow as if he could see the ship better without it.  He refrained from the accent.  “What interest do you have in it?” he asked.

“You didn’t notice anything…peculiar?”

Tommy put the telescope to his eye and peered again.  “Peculiar?  Hmmm?  No.  I can hardly see the damn thing.”

Carl felt a pang of disappointment.  “It looks like the Santa Maria ,” he said.  “The ship looks like something out of a museum.”

“You’ve been in the sun too long,” Tommy said.

“I wouldn’t kid a first-mate.”

Tommy, however, was incredulous.  “Ah, you’re trying to pull a fast one?” he said.  “You’re trying to fool Molly Blackstone!”

Tallard smiled at his friend.  “Tommy, you’re all logic.  Don’t you believe in ghosts?” 

“Hasn’t the ghost ship routine been done about a zillion times before?  I’m kind of disappointed in you, Carl.  The world is looking for originality, man!”

Maybe he was losing it, Tallard thought.  Maybe he should get an apartment on land.

Art Langly, short, portly, and with a long brown ponytail, emerged wearing a red tank top and bright yellow shorts.  He had on orange slippers.  The contrast, even in the coming dusk, was obnoxious.  Art had been taking advantage of the sun during the three days and had already developed a deep tan.  He had a clean-shaven face, big dark eyes, and a broad, square chin.  He was carrying a tray of gouda cheese, sliced apples, and grilled pineapples covered in barbecue sauce.

“What’s all the excitement about, boys?” he asked.

Tommy took a slice of apple and cheese and popped them into his mouth.  “Skipper here wants to take us into another dimension,” Tommy said, chewing.  “Damn, that’s good!”

“One of sight and sound?” Art said.  “How so?”

“It’s just the ocean,” Tommy said.  “He’s been out here a long time.  I think its time we found him a nice apartment on dry land.  What do you say, Captain?”

Tallard was silent.  He shrugged and smiled.  “It’s your call, boys,” he said, taking the same combo on the tray as Tommy.  “No wine?” he asked Art.

“Ah, yes!” Art said, mimicking the accent Tommy had used earlier.  “Below deck, sire!  I can’t carry everything, you know.”

Art handed Tommy the tray of appetizers.  “You never told me what all the hubbub was about?” Art asked.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Tommy asked, taking another slice of cheese and apple.

Langly furrowed his brows.

Carl ignored them and stared out over the Pacific.  The sun finally winked out of sight.

*

After a night of swordfish and wine, Tallard retired early while Tommy and Art lounged on the sun deck, making quiet conversation in the dark.  The night sky, while in the middle of the Pacific, was the most impressive spread of nebulous lights Tommy and Art had ever seen.  One of the many perks about the yearly vacation, helping sway them onto Preservation.  Tallard said goodnight early. 

He was up, however, before six a.m.   Not his style; he preferred sleeping in.  What priorities did he have in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the salty breeze and the crisp, summer sky to keep him company? 

The vessel from the night before, however, was the first thing on his mind.  It was more than an ancient vessel, more than love and dreams.  In the morning, it called to him again…

Carl donned a pair of shorts and the blue windbreaker from the night before.  He did not take his hat.  He didn’t put on his deck shoes, but grabbed the telescope from the side dresser and sauntered on deck of Preservation. 

The sun already lightened the clear, morning sky to the east.  The firmament was a stretch of soft blue and rose.  If the ship were any closer, he’d be able to see it now.  If it had traveled away from him, however, it might be gone. 

Putting the telescope to his eye, Carl looked over the rail, scanning the sea in the same spot as the night before. 

He winced.  Why hadn’t noticed it before he put the telescope to his eye?  He didn’t need it.  In the space of an evening, in the early dawn, the ship had closed the distance by half.  The vessel had followed them, steering in the same course as Preservation.  Putting the telescope to his eye, despite its proximity, Tallard scanned the deck of the vessel for any signs of life.

“It is a ghost ship,” he mumbled.  A brisk, morning chill—as if in answer—ran the length of his spine. 

It wasn’t the Santa Maria , but it might as well be.  The red crosses were the only missing ingredient.

“You sonofagun,” he said.  “Yes.  You sonofagun.  You turned toward me, didn’t you?  You saw me coming.  I’ll be damned.  Right out of the days of Columbus .”

From what he could see, no one was on deck.  Maybe they were having breakfast.

You’re living it all over again, crazy boy.  Everything you’ve ever dreamed.  This is it.  Your life’s fantasy.  The world around you.  This is what you’re supposed to be.  This is true love, crazy love. 

Like a fox. 

True love had to be magical.  He heeded the call, not turning it aside.  Ah, he thought, the beauty of ships.  They guided themselves, bulk cruisers of the sea.  What was he worried about?

Honey, I think we’ll take the five-hundred-year old vessel out today.  That sound good to you?

Tallard had every reason to puzzle over this phenomenon, but what could he do?  Steer the houseboat to starboard until it brushed the ancient, caramel-colored sides, hop on deck, and see what had happened to the crew? 

Yes.  That’s exactly what you could do.  You’re pals might think you a little off your rocker, but hey, what sane man spends ninety-nine percent of his life on the ocean to begin with, especially in 2008?

Tallard was wide-awake.  He smiled, impatient to show his friends what he already knew. 

He took one last look.  He was thirteen again for a minute. 

Carl decided to get breakfast ready.  It wasn’t much of a vacation if Art had to prepare everybody’s meals.

Reluctantly turning away, he headed below deck. 

As he closed the ship from sight, he felt something reaching out, an impossibly long tentacle brushing his neck like a sea monster. 

Or was it Carl reaching for the ship, the ancient, ghostly thing destined to wander the desolate, dark waters of the Pacific?

It’s love.

Love?  Yes.  He supposed it was.  Crazy love.  Like a fox.

Carl smiled, as if he’d been kissed for the very first time.  He found himself hurrying like mad to get breakfast ready.

*

“What sayest thou, Tonto?  Have biggun chief found ancient vessel?”  Tommy was always in rare humor to start the days.  He had not come on deck until Tallard woke him, serving Tommy breakfast in bed.  After two cups of coffee, and rubbing the glue out of his eyes, Tommy followed Tallard on deck, and saw the vessel not a quarter-mile out.  “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, no longer in rare humor.  “That’s your lost ship, isn’t it?”

“The very beauty herself.  Kinda special, isn’t she?  Take a long look.  You might never see anything like her again.”

The ship was clearly visible, though still a ways in the distance.  Looking through the telescope, Tommy did see a resemblance to the lost Santa Maria .

“It looks straight out of Christopher Columbus, doesn’t it?” Tommy said.

“The weird thing is no one’s on deck,” Carl said.

“Why is that weird?” Tommy asked.

“Well, it’s weird because if they’re having breakfast, they’ve been having breakfast a long time.  I’ve been watching it for the last hour.  Someone has to man the wheel.”

“That ship’s being manned by Claude Reins?”

“It appears so.”

Tommy laughed, not believing.  “Quit pulling my leg.  Maybe they dropped anchor.  I mean, it doesn’t look like its moving.  What’s going on?”

“I guess they could’ve dropped anchor.  But if so, why are the sails still up?”

Art was lounging on deck, listening.  He had the same perplexed look on his face. 

“You don’t believe any of this, do you, Art?” Tommy said.  “He’s telling us there’s a ghost ship out there.  Are you listening to this rubbish?”

Art didn’t say anything.  He shrugged and raised a rare, morning beer to his lips.

“Uh-huh,” Tommy understood.  “Couple a’ practical jokesters.  Almost had me.  Old Tommy, that gullible Molly.”

Tallard wasn’t smiling. 

Something caressed the base of his spine again, warning him about friends. 

The only thing amiss, he realized, was he wasn’t behind the wheel.  Maybe the emptiness of the ship was telling him this.

“Have a drink,” Carl told him.  His voice was unwavering, smooth, distanced from logic.  In his mind, he was already on the vessel. 

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” Tommy asked.

“Make an exception,” Carl told him and motioned to Art.  “He has.”

Tommy nodded and reached into the cooler for a much-needed beer.

*

Throughout the day, Carl kept looking west, toward the ship.  His friends told him to ignore it, but it was hard, especially since the ship was…speaking to him. 

They fished throughout the day without much luck and continued to joke and sample some of the finer delicacies of Art’s talents.  They drank heavily and had a good time in the July heat.  When the stars came out, however, Carl was exhausted again.  He retired to bed early for the second night in a row, leaving Tommy and Art to recline on deck. 

Tallard, once asleep, dreamed of love and fate, a premonition of things to come.  His friends were not with him on this haven out at sea.  The ship came to him, not as a vessel, but an angel of the ocean water, an exquisite, sensual bride, coercing him toward intoxication.  Carl understood every word she spoke.  Light fell across her shoulders in gossamer threads.  He heeded the call.  She was, after all, his life and bride, and he did everything she told him.  He knew everything, as if it had come to him…

In a dream…

If it was a dream, it was extraordinarily vivid.  Why would his friends not want him to have this? 

“You grab his legs,” Tommy said, in the dream.  “And we’ll throw him overboard.”

Art nodded. 

Together, they bound Carl’s arms and legs with rope.  They wrapped duct tape around his head and mouth, so he couldn’t scream. 

Art picked Carl up by his feet.  Tallard struggled.  Together, Tommy and Art, heaved him over Preservation, and into the cold dark Pacific. 

But she’ll save me, Tallard thought, sinking to the ocean floor.  She’ll come and cut the ropes.  It doesn’t matter that they don’t want me to have this.  I’ll be with her instead.  Let them take Preservation.  She never meant anything to me anyway.

Tallard was crazy like a fox with love.

That wood tastes like caramel.  It’s conquest.  Peace and safety.  The dream you’ve been waiting for your whole life. 

Tallard did want to be a part of it.  Victory was in the taste of caramel, the color of the wood. 

I am the one for you.  I am the grinding, lustful thing you’ve wanted savagely to abuse.  It’s always been about more than the ocean.  Capsize me, you hunk of a man!  Bury your telescope in my port!

He didn’t know who was talking.  Was it his imagination, or was the soul of the vessel reaching out with slender arms to seduce him?

The tug to his soul was obvious, offering him sights and sounds he’d never imagined.  He discovered more than Columbus ever had.  Remember this date!  They’ll call it Carl’s Day!

Every man must have a treasure to hunt for.  Every man must know what that treasure is.

Was that his father talking?  Had daddy said those words?

Hey dad, look what you gave me!  Look what it led to!  Can you believe it?  In your wildest dreams, before you died—as I held your hand in the stagnant hospital bed and the cancer took you—did you ever imagine anything this grand for your only boy?

Eternal paramour of the sea, sweet like caramel pushing at my love, rescuing me, a helpless boy of thirteen…

Only one thing stood in his way.  One thing he knew he must do to make his dreams come true…

Funny thing about friends… 

“Eternal bliss and safety,” Carl said through the tape, bubbles rising to the surface as he lay back on the ocean floor.  “Drifting farther out to sea, away from the mainland.” 

He had life, even under water. 

How else do you expect to be crazy, love?

“Like a fox?”

Something like that.

Art and Tommy were jealous.  That was all.  They were willing to commit murder to prevent him from having an eternal love affair.

“Why?” he asked.  “Why would they do that to me?  I tried to give them this time away, so they, too, could see how much she loves them.  They could’ve been here with me.  We could’ve all been happy here, like a family.” 

He’d mourn for them later.  The sadness he felt was a dull, fiery blade. 

Another vision came to life.  In the dream, he was suddenly on deck of Preservation again.  Art and Tommy tugged at him, trying to prevent him from boarding the ship.

“Carl, don’t!” Tommy said.  “It’s not safe!  Please!  Stay here!  We’ll go back to shore!  We have to get away from here!”

They wanted her for themselves.  That was it.  They were trying to confuse him, drive him…crazy?

“Something’s not right with that vessel,” Art said.  “Good God, Carl, can’t you see that?  Please!  Don’t go!”

Yes, papa.  You said something about a treasure.  This is what I found.  Have you ever been more proud of me than you are now?

The ship solidified every confusing thing about his life.  Once he touched her, grabbed the wheel, and steered her toward the sun, he’d be the man he’d always wanted to be.  But he couldn’t do it without her.  Even his father had said something similar.

Tommy and Art didn’t want him to have the ship, which left Carl with only one choice…

Tallard smiled in his dream.  He felt better than he had in a long time.  Hadn’t he, in some way, found his destiny?  Wasn’t it the desire of all men: love and destiny, the desire that came with it all? 

In the dream, a sudden fog enveloped Preservation and the ship he longed for.  He broke free of Tommy and Art and ran toward the railing.  He leapt and came down onto the deck of the ancient vessel.  He waved good-bye to Art and Tommy.  They did not wave back.  Troubled looks crossed their faces.  They exchanged words.  Shouldn’t they be happy for him?  Tommy and Art disappeared in the mist, leaving him alone with his eternal paramour.  They could go back to land and mystify over his actions, but it didn’t concern Carl now.

He closed his eyes and smiled, listening to the water lap against the sides of the ship.  The heavy fog closed in.  He could barely discern the black, oily depths of the ocean.

The ship had a mind of its own, steering him toward the gathering mist, farther from the coast of California . 

He knelt on the deck and kissed the planks, tasting not wood, but caramel…

*

But that was all a dream.

When he woke, Carl felt the dream and the realness of life.  The dream had felt real, and if he didn’t hurry, his friends would put a stop to it… 

He awoke a changed man. 

Tallard grabbed the gun from the bottom drawer of the dresser.  He’d never had reason to use it until now, merely a safety precaution.

He grabbed the magazine from the back of the drawer, inspected the clip (full) and shoved it into the handle, hearing a satisfying ‘click’.  It was a good sound, a professional sound, a sound that confirmed the job he had to do.  The gun was a Beretta M-92. 

You’re a better person, for what it’s worth.  It’s not gonna be the same now.  Everything is special.  You are special.  The trip you’ve taken is not temporary.  You’re here for good, you know?

Influenced by the sway of the sea, Carl Tallard made restitution while sleeping.  For him, he’d never felt more resolute, more in control of his destiny and thoughts.  He was a man made by principal.  All he had to do was stick to the plan. 

The sadness of betrayal gripped his heart.  It was mutiny—and as any Captain will testify—it was, simply, unacceptable. 

Quietly, with the gun in hand, Tallard walked down the hall where Art lay sleeping in his room. 

It was rightfully his, this mysterious ship.  After seeing it only twice, he wondered how close it was today. 

Tallard seized the moment, how to react in order to obtain his goal.  Life was the ocean.  Friends were only an obstacle, preventing him from obtaining the prize.  How could he even call them friends?

He should be thankful. 

Lucky?

Ah, yes, the thing following him through life, granting him miracles along the way.  Luck had given him the information he needed.  Luck brought to light this terrible treason, the way he’d played his cards all his life.  Tallard was gifted, uncovering talents he never knew existed.  He had a calling.  He could not abandon his mission!

My love for you will have its rewards.  It depends on the choices you make, Skipper.  Save your emotion ’til later.  I am here with you now.  I will rock you to sleep, cradle you in my arms.  Because you never had one, I’m your mother now.

Funny, Carl thought.  He couldn’t remember his mother, his father ever mentioning what had happened to her.  Did she die during his birth, abandon him to his father, or leave him in a garbage can?

True love is the understanding sympathy of a caring mother.

For the sake of his life and sanity, Carl grabbed the knob to Art’s room and turned it.  He pushed open the door and stepped into the dark where mutiny lay sleeping.

To his surprise, Tallard felt a terrible surge of emotion.  How could they do this to him?  He didn’t want to understand it, he realized.  The thought of their betrayal brought tears to his eyes.

Art was snoring.  Tallard, standing over his ‘so-called’ friend watched him for a few seconds before lifting the gun. 

This person sleeping was a stranger. 

Tallard grabbed one of the unused pillows and placed it over Langly’s face.

“There is only one cure for mutiny,” Tallard whispered. 

Art struggled under the pillow.  The man sucked for breath.  Carl placed the muzzle of the gun into the pillow and pulled the trigger three times.  The shots were loud, making Carl wince.  Feathers rose into the air and descended. 

Art’s feeble struggles ceased.  Blood oozed from under the pillow.

The gunfire was loud enough to wake Tommy from across the hall.  Not long after, Molly stood in the doorway, wearing only his boxers.

“Carl?”

The voice was eerily familiar.  Tallard couldn’t quite place it.

You have come onto my ship.  You have taken complete advantage of me.  You have allowed me to suffer.  You would’ve fed me to the sharks. 

Things moved too fast.  Who were these people, and how had they come here?  The answer was just out of his reach…

Something about friends…

“Carl, good Christ!” Tommy said, his eyes wide in shock, very much awake.  “What did you do?”

As if you didn’t know, Carl thought.  As if it’s all a big mystery! 

Tallard pointed the gun at the stranger’s face.  Tommy’s hands went up, shaking his head, pleading:

“Jesus, Carl!  No!  Don’t!—”

Tommy took several steps backwards.

He was a good actor, the man in the boxers.  Carl gave him credit. 

“No!  Jesus, Carl!  Please!  What’s happened to you—”

Tallard was tired of games.  He pulled the trigger seven times, the gun kicking violently.  Tommy flew backwards through the air and hit the opposite wall.  He slumped motionless to the floor.  The holes in his chest oozed blood. 

Carl walked over to Tommy, pointed the Berretta at the man’s head, and fired again just to make sure.  The body jerked, slumped, and was still.

Who else was on the boat?  If there were others, he’d find them! 

They had to know, didn’t they?  Nothing would stand in the way of his dreams coming true!

With the smell of gunpowder thick in the air, Carl looked at the bodies of his enemies, and stormed on deck. 

Destiny called.  It was time to come home. 

*

True love waited for him beside Preservation.  It scraped the side of the houseboat now.

Crazy like a fox, love. 

The sun had risen, turning the sea into a magnificent array of gold.

Not that it was important.  Destiny had brought him to love’s doorstep.  The ship was more beautiful than he remembered.  With the sun and the golden waters, Carl Tallard could not imagine a better introduction to a life of mystery. 

The gun fell from his hand and clonked! on deck.

Mist gathered, moving in around Preservation and the ancient vessel.  A longing tugged at his heart.  Perhaps now was the time for tears.  Did she realize how much he missed her, how long he’d been waiting?

It didn’t matter.  He’d let her have him.  He hadn’t killed his enemies for nothing.

It was an easy jump, he saw, a matter of climbing over the rails of Preservation and then leaping onto the deck of the ship.

Carl Tallard swung his legs over the rail, bracing himself with one hand.  He looked down into the dark waters between the two boats.  Was that a face leering at him, wide eyes in the water below? 

He steadied and launched himself over the water.  He came down hard on the deck of the ancient vessel. 

Through the thick and heavy mist, he looked behind him.  Preservation disappeared just as quickly in the surrounding fog.  In some strange way, he already felt different.  He was alive in ways he’d never felt before. 

That’s because it’s love, you crazy little fox, you.

No doubt, his father was smiling down on him.  It made the whole trip worth it.

Years of tribute, of dedication to his father, had finally paid off.  He was living in luxury, in the crux of a God’s elbow.  Stars pampered him. 

He didn’t ride off into the sunset just yet, however…

Within seconds, something unnaturally loud pierced the air, a chaotic din of a million screams.  He didn’t understand it because the sound didn’t seem to have a source.  Nothing was visible, only the empty deck of the vessel. 

Carl put his hands over his ears and winced at the shrill, another kind of mutiny.  His ears were bleeding.  Tears came to his eyes.

He did see, though.  From everywhere!  Behind crates and barrels—the mizzenmast, and bulkheads—a maniacal black wave of ghouls spewed from every corner of the vessel, rushing toward him at lightening speed!

What they were, Carl couldn’t tell.  He wondered only if they rushed toward him by the hundreds or thousands. 

Dripping strands of mucus fell from hungry mouths.  Arcs of freakishly lone teeth dipped below black chins.  Tallard had enough time to witness their black and gray eyes, bodies stunted as if they’d been mashed, no taller than his knees.  Gangly sticks for arms waved in the air, tapering to hands resembling a jumble of cooking knives.  Art would’ve been proud.

But who is that? he thought.  Why did he think about Art?

They came at such speed, he hadn’t time to think.  In fact, Carl had only seconds to comprehend his fate…

Again, he looked to the side.  Thick fog had swallowed Preservation.  The houseboat and his friends were gone.

He thought about how his shipmates, how his true love had betrayed him.  What a cruel, agonizing twist of fate! 

What was that about Destiny? he thought.

He didn’t want to drown in the deep waters of the Pacific, not while these abhorrent things diced and gnawed into his flesh. 

How he’d managed to be deceived was beyond him.  In the seconds that followed, he still failed to comprehend it. 

It seemed only yesterday he’d been at peace with his life.  Everything had been perfect.  All he wanted was time away from land, with friends to enjoy the ocean’s paradise…

Yet, he experienced a terrible want to understand what these creatures were…

Was he dreaming again?

Something laughed in his face, telling him he had no such…luck?

Tallard braced himself for the onslaught, nothing left for him to do, nowhere to go. 

Charred sticks, thin, black, breakable branches pummeled his feet, hands, and chest.  Curved teeth pierced his throat, sending blood into the air.  Knives punctured his eyes.  They sliced off his lips.  They impaled his abdomen and groin.  He was a human pincushion, he realized.

Tallard tried to hold his stomach in place.  His innards spilled onto the deck in a colorful splash of shimmering gore.  Blades ripped through his feet, tore into his hands.  They sliced his face open, dug his eyeballs out.

This is your love.  This is your treasure.  Buried not with Preservation, but here in the dark where all your dreams turn bad.

“Dad,” Carl whispered.  “Help.  I’m so sorry.”

His knees buckled, and he fell forward… 

They descended furiously, crazed and lunatic, burying their knife-like claws into his flesh.

The only thing he had to live for was the cold, dark water…

He noticed one other thing, though.  Through being torn apart—his blood sailing like red ribbons through the air—the ship was turning in circles.  It was caught in a whirlpool, he realized. 

Crazy love, he thought, like a fox, love.

Maybe it wasn’t paradise, life here on the Pacific…

Cold water came together above his head.  The ocean dark disposed of what remained of Carl Tallard, and this horror…