Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

In the night rains came, and the men groggily scooped water from around their feet until it began to merely drizzle and they drooped back into an unhappy sleep.

When morning came, Phil held only one oar.

Had he fallen asleep? the two men asked Phil. Yes, yes, he had, he answered. Hadn’t he tied the oars to his wrists so he wouldn’t drop them while he slept? Like they’d all agreed they would? they cried. No, he answered calmly, no, he hadn’t.

Phil cleared his throat. “This is not a problem,” he said. Phil would row with the one oar into the currents that moved like ribbons through the water. The currents would help push them closer to the shore. Gray lake and sky blended into a perfectly blank dome. If someone told them they were upside down, Phil thought, he would not be surprised. When Dan and Ross chewed their lips and exchanged more looks, Phil decided, they are putting their faith in me.

The boat dragged in circles. And when the weather broke and blue sky emerged, the men discovered that the land Ross swore he’d seen — that Dan and Phil believed he’d seen — was gone; the horizon lay sharp in all directions. If something had been seen, Phil guessed it had been clouds, a bank of them hugging the water like a real distant shore would.

Ross pawed at his face and sobbed, “My girls,” for his wife, Bren, and their three daughters, who were sure to have called the police by now, who’d no doubt sent search parties, search boats, search planes. Which made it even more frustrating that the men were still lost, drifting, alone. Phil looked at Ross’s sunburned, bald head, handed over his own hat, and said gently, “Hey, boss, you’re blistering.”

Each morning they rotated positions, two on the plastic bench in back and one on the rubber bottom at the bow. The two on the bench bumped elbows, smelled the other all day, shifted ass cheeks to avoid sores. Whoever sat on the bottom could stretch his legs and lean against the side. They coveted the spot for sleeping. Early on, Phil had hoped the other men would offer the spot to him indefinitely; he was the tallest, which made folding himself onto the plastic bench that much harder. Plus, it was his boat. But the other men decided to share. It was more fair. In return for getting the spot for the day, the man on the bottom had to massage cramps out of the other men’s calves and feet.

Phil was stretched out, locking and unlocking his knees. Quietly, he kneaded the blood back into Ross’s bloated legs while Ross groaned in good pain. Dan twirled his mustache and stared into nothing, patiently awaiting his turn. Though they weren’t on the ocean, all around them Phil smelled salted air. It must be coming from us, he thought, and licked his own shoulder. He tasted like a warm olive. His mouth watered precious spit.

The thirty-foot pleasure craft was long gone. After that first day of rowing, they could still see it as night fell, bobbing on the horizon like a fishing lure. But in the morning the sun lit flat, empty water, with no pleasure craft in sight. That was a hard morning for Phil. The men asked him to use the GPS to find out where they were. And Phil had to admit that it was still on the boat they’d abandoned; he’d forgotten to grab it, he’d said.

The truth was Phil had remembered it but couldn’t unhook it from the control panel, and really had never learned how to use it anyway. He only took the boat out this one week a year. It had sat in a marina weathering while he was living out west. He wasn’t even sure why he’d fought Patricia so hard for it. Maybe because she had wanted it, which was ridiculous after she had given him so much grief for buying it in the first place. “Get a job you like,” she’d barked. “Then you won’t have to fill your empty life with meaningless crap like that stupid boat.” He cried when he saw the boat in the list of assets she demanded. Now she had the house, the nicer car, the dog, which she gave away to an old friend. The friend had called Phil to offer the dog back, saying it felt weird, owning Phil’s dog. But Phil didn’t know how to go about retrieving the dog. He’d gone east, and the dog was west. He didn’t want to fly to get the dog and be in the same city as Patricia — there was the issue of that court order. But he didn’t know how to ship a dog. Would he have to call an airline to schedule it? UPS? The thought of making phone calls overwhelmed him. So the friend kept the dog.

“He’s asleep,” Dan garbled, and nudged Phil’s hands onto his own leg. “My turn.”

The three men had been babies together in the same neighborhood; their moms took turns watching them, shuttling them from house to house without ever having to cross a busy street. Still, Dan and Ross had always been the better friends; they were true next-door neighbors, while Phil lived down the street. They flashed Morse-code messages through their bedroom windows when they should have been sleeping. But Phil was too far away to join. Ross and Dan went to the local university, Phil to the army. But they all stayed friends, Phil made sure. Dan was a television writer in the city, a serial dater, the best man at their weddings. Ross lived in their hometown, had the family, golfed at the municipal golf course. Phil atrophied at a base out west, met and married Patricia there, then stayed to be with her. What a mistake. That kept him out of the loop. He should have tried to come back home. Dan’s parents still lived in town, and Phil knew Dan visited often. Ross and Dan must have seen each other then, but they never talked about it.

One time, a couple days into their lifeboat drift, Phil had jumped into the water to cool off after assurances from Dan and Ross that they would help him back in. A few yards from the lifeboat, he turned to watch them. He saw how the men stretched out luxuriously, how Ross clasped his hands behind his head and sighed, and how Dan did the same. The men smiled and laughed about something, enjoying themselves, almost. Phil never left the boat again.

Days passed. The men hadn’t spoken in at least two. Or was it more? How many more days? Phil wondered. As another night fell, his mind droned. He hated being alone with it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Let’s play a game.”

“Like playing imaginary cards?” Dan scoffed.

“Sure,” Phil said gamely. “That might be good.”

“I was joking,” Dan said.

“Okay.” Phil tried again. “We could bet on if we’ll get rescued.”

Ross scowled. “You’re a macabre fuck.”

Phil fake chuckled. “You’re right. How stupid of me. That’s not a game.” He stroked his chin. “What about girls? We haven’t talked about them in a while. That can’t be bad, can it?”

The other men shrugged.

“Ross, why don’t you start,” Phil encouraged.

“Fine.”

Phil closed his eyes. He was just beginning to stiffen when Ross stopped talking and yawned pointedly.

“This is boring,” he said. “Also, I’m tired.” His blisters had turned to wet sores, and he winced every time the wind stroked his oozing bald head. His energy bled out of it.

“You’re always tired,” Phil said. “Keep talking.” Even with his eyes closed, Phil could tell looks were exchanged — the boat shifted slightly as the men turned their heads.

In the distance, geese landed in a mess of honks and splashes. Ross remained quiet.

“Maybe just start from later in college,” Phil said. He wanted to hear about Bren. Beautiful blond Bren.

Ross trudged through the story of the flexible roller skater and her bleached pubic hair, his voice flat and uninterested.

Phil waited.

“Then I met Bren,” Ross said, and he choked on her name, sounding angry almost, which in a strange way made it a new story to Phil. Like a new encounter. A new first time. Nothing boring about that, Phil thought, his body warming.