Free Dead Reckoning by Tom Wright

structure was an old, white trailer, but the numerous additions that had been built over the years made the parent structure hardly discernible. Attached on the lagoon side was a sitting porch made almost entirely of driftwood and adorned with a variety of tropical-themed elements. A pair of flip flops, the quintessential footwear of the Marshall Islands, had been nailed over the entrance. Strings of little pineapple lights that crisscrossed the sitting area provided j ust enough light to function at night while not disrupting the starry views. A fan with blades in the shape of palm fronds rattled continuously overhead as it probably had since its installation. No one ever turned off anything with moving parts in such a corrosive environment; otherwise, the humid, salty air would quickly ruin the device. The work area of the boathouse was on the upwind side, which provided the added benefit of a cool breeze by which to work.
    Jeff did not hear me approach over the whine of metal grinding on metal. The wire knotted wheel attached to his drill scattered small bits of debris to the wind. Fragments of castoff stuck to his hair and grimy clothing, and sparks flickered through the dark and went out. As I dismounted my bike, he stepped back and lifted his face mask to inspect his work. Half the small propeller gleamed as if brand new. Jeff touched the fresh metal with a finger and then quickly withdrew it and stuck it in his mouth to cool. Seeing movement on his periphery, he turned and looked toward me.
    Knowing he couldn’t see me through the dark, I announced myself.
    “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.
    “Nope. What are you doing?”
    Jeff looked at all the parts on the workbench then to me and then away again.
    “Oh, nothing. Just blowing off some steam…cleaning out the parts bin.”
    “So, what’s up with you?” he asked nervously.
    I suddenly had no idea what to say. I thought it would be easy. I was sure Jeff would be thinking the same thing as me, but I hadn’t thought it through at all.
    “I, uh, just had something to ask you.”
    “What is it?”
    I suddenly felt uneasy with what I was about to ask him. He had family in the states too, so he was in the same boat as me. I settled on just coming straight out with it.
    “I need to get off this island. No, we need to get off this island.”
    Jeff turned and with a furrowed brow, looked me square in the eye. His expression—a mixture of concern, skepticism, and perhaps even a bit of relief—spoke volumes. His face softened, and he sighed as he turned back to his work.
    “I know,” he muttered under his breath.
    I paused to let the obvious sink in as I moved in closer.
    “Jeff, we need to get to the states. Your sailboat is the only way.”
    He blinked and pinched off a tear that rolled half-way down his cheek. My emotions remained raw, and with the appearance of that tear, I felt myself nearing the point of no return. I desperately hoped he would hold it together because I knew if he melted down, so would I. He wiped his eyes with his dirty arm, leaving a gray smudge across his face. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and spoke without any hint of sorrow in his voice.
    “I know. You’re right,” he said.
    “So what do we need to do?” I asked.
    “I’ve been thinking about this for days,” he said. “I didn’t want to admit to myself that things are really this bad, but there really is no other way.”
    “I just can’t sit here while God knows what is happening to Kate and the kids.” I said, sensing the opportunity to seal the deal. “It’s driving me crazy.”
    “This won’t be easy,” he said, his voice unsteady again. “There is no guarantee we’ll even make it. Crossing the Pacific is a hard trip under optimal circumstances with all the right gear. People spend months outfitting and training for this.”
    “I don’t care.” I replied. “I would try to row across the ocean if I had