A Note In A Bottle

"You write a note, put it in a bottle and throw it in the ocean. Where does it end up and what happens?"

Approx. 1,927 words

The Note

Oh, my God! Why do they always do this? The same thing happened to Heinz about six months ago. Last I heard, he ended up smashed on the rocks, somewhere on the Nantucket shoreline. Poor fellow, he was cut down in the prime of his life, without the slightest trace of bluing. He was cast off, at the whim of a teenaged boy, like unwanted garbage.

Will someone please get me a Dramamine! Make it a double, no, a triple! I feel as if I could die! As a matter of fact, dying would be preferable to the way I feel now. If only….

“Go away! Shoo! Get out of here!”

Bruce is giving me the evil eye, sizing me up for lunch, no doubt, or perhaps just an appetizer before he heads for something larger, perhaps the QE2? Didn’t Roy Scheider blow him to smithereens in the closing scenes of Jaws? Perhaps this fellow is Bruce’s brother… his much bigger brother!

I’m alone and considered a tit-bit smorgasbord by a monster fish! I’ve got the mother of all cases of seasickness, enough at least for half the D-Day Invasion Fleet, and there is no one to care what happens to me.

Clarice Burns scrimped and saved for three years to take that cruise to Maui. Three years slogging through Chicago winters to her job as a data entry clerk for National Indemnity. Six days and five nights laying in the tropical sun, sipping those silly drinks with slices of fruit and little bamboo parasols in a bar, hoping to get lucky, but too embarrassed to accept even the mildest proposal from another vacationer or one of the local parasites.

At the end of six days, she boarded the Pacific Princess for the return voyage to Long Beach where she would change to a plane headed to Chicago. Her hopes of a wild and romantic interlude in a topical paradise had not died just because she left the islands. Clarice had read so many Harlequin novels she knew the heroine must never give up.

Following dinner the evening after departing La Haina, she gave the steward a five dollar tip in exchange for an empty wine bottle, insisting on the quality type with an authentic cork stopper, not one of the cheap plastic kinds. Clarice wrote a note and placed it inside. That same evening, she tossed me over the stern of the cruise ship, as if I were junk mail addressed to Resident. Clarice had no idea when or where the note to whom it may concern might be delivered, if at all, but she was ever an optimist. Why, at least, hadn’t she considered doubling her chances and sending another note using that cute little MaryK bottle from the beauty salon? At least I would not now be drifting alone on the broad expanse of the Pacific, but would have a vivacious lady friend to keep me company.

It would be my turn to play the optimist, hoping MaryK and I would be tossed together upon the shore of an idyllic paradise such as Bora-Bora, Tangaroa, Huahini or the like.

The sun has kissed the western horizon now and I will soon be alone in the dark to spend another sleepless night, tossing and bobbing amid the endless swells. I feel a storm coming up… Help! Dammit, where’s that Dramamine? I can no longer fight the fatigue and nausea. Blessedly, I pass out and my misery abates for the moment.

* * *

As it usually does in tropical latitudes, the gray luminescence, which marked the approaching dawn, quickly turned to a brilliant morning beneath a nearly cloudless sky. I always avoid that hackneyed phrase of a “breaking dawn.” Somehow it sounds too terrifying, even fatal to me. No longer am I drifting upon the open sea, there is the crunch of broken coral beneath me but my body remains whole. Thank goodness for small favors.

I lay basking beneath the warming rays of that brilliant orb in the heavens, perhaps I shall sleep a little while longer. I have no pressing need to be anywhere, why should I be busily up and about? An hour, perhaps two or three pass. I have no watch but even I can see the sun has climbed at least a third of the way into the tropical sky.

Wait! What’s this? Someone is coming down the beach. He is walking barefoot and carrying a plastic bucket in one hand with an expensive fishing pole in the other. He draws closer, finally bending down and picking me up.

He spies the note within my bowels and then places me in the bucket beside two very smelly fish! I’m getting sea sick again as he swings his arms while walking. The sky above is moving back and forth, now a glimpse of the sun, now simply an aquamarine sky. Where’s that damned Dramamine? Will somebody please get rid of these stinking fish?

“Morning, Hank,” a voice calls. “How was the fishing?”

“About the same as usual, Bob. I’ve got two nice sea bass for lunch. You want I should poach them or fry them up with some potatoes and onions?”

“Hell, anyway is fine with me, Hank. Anything will be better than the canned rations NOAA sends to this island. Hmm, poached, I think, with some of that coconut sauce you do so well?”

“Give me an hour, Bob. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready. Anything from Silver Spring this morning?” Although the main office of NOAA is located on Constitution Avenue in Washington, the data accumulated by Bob and Hank was transmitted twice daily to NSDIS, the National Satellite Data Information Service of NOAA, located in Silver Spring, Maryland.

“Just an analysis and impact summary of last night’s storm. Nothing to relieve the boredom of this damned weather station.”

“Quit complaining, Bob, at least we each have plenty of time to complete our thesis by the end of the year and submit them for review. Doctor Henry Sorensen, Ph.D. I think I can easily get used to the sound of that.”

Hank set his fishing pole beside the Quonset hut shared by the two men and took the bucket of fish to an outdoor sink at the rear of the hut. Quickly he slit the belly’s, snapped off the heads and scooped out the entrails in easy motions. He turned on the salt water tap and held each fish beneath the flowing water while using the back of his fishing knife to scrape away the fish-scales.

Hank Sorensen placed the fish on a plate inside the kerosene powered refrigerator and then grabbed a machete and headed for the trees which grew thickly upon the tiny island. He found many fresh-fallen coconuts as a result of last night’s storm. He selected two and went back to the outdoor sink where he had cleaned the fish.

With a swift whack of the machete, each of the coconuts was split in half and the clear liquid was swept down the drain. Hank used the point of the machete to separate the meat of the coconut from the shells, putting the large chunks into one of the now empty half-shells.

In the kitchen, Hank lit the kerosene stove and placed a heavy skillet over the burner to heat while he prepared the coconut cream needed for a poisson-cru sauce. He shredded the coconut and wrapped it in a clean linen napkin, twisting it until the heavy cream filled a measuring cup.

Hank scooped a spoonful of homemade coconut butter into the skillet where it sizzled and popped immediately. He sprinkled salt and pepper over the filet of sea bass and then poured the coconut cream over them while adding crushed garlic and diced onion. Briefly the filets marinated until the skillet was the right temperature. Gingerly, so as not to splatter himself, he placed them into the skillet and covered them with the remaining sauce. Hank flipped an old fashioned egg-timer on end and busied himself setting out plates and silverware for himself and his partner.

The sand flowed from one half of the glass to the other and Hank flipped the fish and then the egg-timer again. Soon, he turned off the kerosene burner and called out to Bob, “Lunch is ready! Come and get it before I throw it to the hogs!”

“Hogs, where?” Bob said a few moments later. “If we had any hogs here, I’d be hard at work digging a native style oven. Ummm, barbecued pig for dinner!” He made smacking motions and wiped the back of his hand across his lips before reaching for his fork.

“Actually, this fish is great the way you fix it, Hank, but I could sure go for a thick steak. I'd even kill for a god-damned Whopper after four months on this atoll.”

Hank had to admit the meal was good, even if he had prepared it himself. After the meal, Hank poured two glasses of Remy-Martin and handed one to Bob.

“That’s the end of another old soldier, Bob. How many are left?”

“Too damn few, Hank. We better cut down on the booze or we’ll be dry the last month or two before our replacements arrive.” Bob feigned a shiver and made a face when he said the word ‘dry.’

Finally he pushed his chair away from the table and returned to his task of cleaning and maintaining the weather instruments mounted outside the station. Hank collected the wine bottle with note inside and took a corkscrew from the hook on the wall to pull the cork.

Damn! The note would not slide out through the small neck of the bottle!

“Oh, my God! Tell me he’s not going to bust my head just to get at the silly note inside,” I thought. Thank goodness…, no he isn’t. Hank took a long pair of tweezers from the first-aid kit and probed inside my gullet until he could extract the note. He unrolled it and read:

“Hello, my name is Clarice. I’m 26 years old and work as a data processing clerk in Chicago. I have chestnut hair and blue eyes. I’m five foot three and weigh 106 pounds. Please tell me where and when you found this note. Clar79@aurora.net.”

Hank looked at the date. Three days ago. What the heck, he thought, my assignment on this island will be finished in only four months, perhaps I’ll stop in Chicago and introduce myself to Clarice while I’m on summer vacation.

The weather station had a servicable short-wave transmitter provided by NOAA, and email could be sent and received using the PACTOR software. True, it was slower than a dialup connection and pictures or attachments were not allowed, but what would a few words to Clarice matter?

Hank took the empty wine bottle to his desk and set it beside the now empty bottle of Remy-Martin they had finished at lunch. He booted his laptop and began to compose an email to Clarice. Later, when they fired up the generator to power the short-wave and send today’s data to NOAA, he would also send the email.

I stole a secret glance at Remy. She was a little taller that I cared for, but she was definitely high-class. Oh, so slender, so perfect! She had no need to alter the spelling of her name, like that video pop-singer. No one would ever think of tossing this Remy into the ocean, not on your life!

“Hello, Remy,” I said. “Have you been here long?”