Aurora - Goddess of the Dawn

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are 18 years or older.

*****

STOWAWAY

Aurora was on a broad reach, ploughing through a friendly sea, heading south by east. It was one of those days, crafted specially as a gift for sailors, with a steady fifteen-knot breeze powering the sails, a long rolling swell and very little chop. Leaving George the autohelm to do most of the work, Watson spent the morning working furiously to meet a deadline and was now celebrating the upload with a well-earned beer. Feet up, kicking back in the cockpit, he surveyed his watery domain, the eternally restless seascape, waves driven like beasts before the wind. It was just him, for as far as the eye could see. Just him and his faithful yacht, Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn.

Until a sudden, distant glint shattered his reverie.

Seen through binoculars, the little angular blob turned gradually into a tinny, a small open boat, about five meters long. And a figure, now visible standing in the bow, madly waving. Watson's heart sank. He needed human contact like another hole in the head- or worse, another marriage- but there were few things more compelling than a boat in distress. The window was rapidly closing, where he could still lay claim to plausible deniability, and for a while he toyed with the temptation of turning a blind eye. Then, when he looked again, there were two figures both frantically waving, and a third, just visible sitting between them. Cursing, he dropped the autopilot off and trimmed the sails to make good an intercept.

Drawing up to the boat he lowered the sails, then stepped down to stand on the stern while two of the tinny's occupants stood clapping and cheering. "G'day," Watson hailed, "you guys okay?"

A scrawny male in filthy jeans stood at the bow, shading his eyes. Towards the stern was an overweight woman, clad in straining bib-and-brace overalls, and between the couple a third survivor, a stooped young female in a tattered blue and white dress. She sat with her head hanging down, dirty blonde hair veiling her face. Seasick, Watson thought, poor little sod.

"Jesus Christ," the male said breathlessly, "good onya. We been bobbing around out here for fucken' hours!"

Watson kicked the motor into gear and reverse-thrusted to a wallowing standstill. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Outta' fucken' gas!" the male replied. "And with this fucken' wind up the arse..."

Watson cast a sideways glance at his radio receivers. A nearby distress beacon would have lit up on the display but the screen was unequivocally blank. "No EPIRB?" he asked.

"No fucken' what?"

"EPIRB. Distress beacon."

The male held aloft a yellow emergency transmitter that had last sailed on Noah's Ark. "Fucken' battery's gone flat..."

"Mobile phone?"

The derelict proffered a beaten-up iPhone. "No fucken' service."

"Didn't try your oars?"

The male cast a puzzled glance at his overweight partner. She shrugged.

"Oars?" Watson said again, and mimicked the act of rowing.

"She doesn't have any, mate." the male replied patiently, as if responding to the stupid questions of a tedious child.

"Oh," Watson nodded, "Right."

Right indeed. No fuel, no beacon, no radio. No oars, no food, no water, no fucking idea.

"Couldn't give us a hand, could ya?" the fat woman smiled. Watson counted three or four teeth, though there might have been more rotting away in the crypt of her festering mouth. "And we could use a fucken' drink if you've got one to spare."

Watson looked around, hoping for a miracle- a rescue chopper perhaps, some other boat nearby- but the Universe failed him. "Yeah, sure," he said, "of course. Look, why don't I throw you a line? Wait till I drop the swim platform and I'll pull you up to the stern. Watch your fingers."

The hunched blonde girl didn't so much as look up until the woman seized a fistful of her dress. "For fuck's sake," she hissed, "don't just sit there. Give Uncle Stevie a hand."

The girl dutifully stood, struggling to find her balance on spindly legs, as Watson coiled a rope and made ready to throw. It was an easy catch for the two pairs of hands, but the male fumbled while the blonde took hold. "What the fuck?" the male seethed, snatching the rope from her grasp, "For fuck's sake, Beckah, let the fucken' thing go." Raising her hands in surrender, the girl resumed her seat and her attitude, brow-beaten and miserable, shoulders hunched, head hung low.

As much as it repelled him to do so, Watson offered the bovine woman his hand and helped her aboard. The male paused to ditch an empty bottle over the side, followed by half a dozen empty beer cans, before stepping onto the bow and almost falling in. Landing with a thump he overbalanced and Watson reflexively caught him under one rancid armpit. Straightening, the newcomer brushed himself off, then looked at Watson with a big, triumphant grin. "Jesus Christ," he leered, and Watson recoiled- "how fucken' good is this?"

"Does she need to stay in the boat?" the Cow Woman asked, gesturing at the girl in the tinny.

"Stay in the boat?" Watson shook his head in mild confusion. "What for?"

"While you give us a tow? Does she need to steer it or somethin'?

"Tow?"

"You're gunna give us a tow, aren't ya?"

Watson looked around in desperation. It wasn't so much that it would take him miles out of his way, though that was bad enough. It was more that they would have to stay onboard for the duration and the very idea was making his skin crawl. "I could probably scrape up some fuel if like," he said lamely, "and you can make your own way back. That boat of yours is much quicker than this old tub."

"Our own way back?" The pair looked at each other in mutual alarm. "Which way?"

Watson consulted the bobbing, swirling compass in its binnacle. "That way," he pointed, "about fifteen miles."

"Its probably better if you gave us a tow." the male said. "Can't see the land, mate. We might get lost."

"That's what happened last time." the woman affirmed. "The fucken' land. There one minute, gone the next."

Watson's shoulders sagged. Half a tank of fuel poured into the wrong direction would likely put them beyond the reach of salvation. A tempting thought, but hardly fair on the poor young girl. "Why don't you jump on board Sweetheart?" Watson beckoned.

"Mum?" The girl looked up at her mother, awaiting permission.

"Are you fucken' deaf?" the woman sneered, and Watson caught a whiff of her fetid body odour. "Do what the nice man says."

Watson took the girl's tiny hand and helped her onto the step, then turned and led the boarding party up to the cockpit. "Right!" he said once they'd finished inspecting their new surroundings, "How about that water?"

"Water?" the woman turned up her nose.

"You know. That drink you asked for."

"I'm thirsty, Darlin', not dirty. Any chance of a beer?"

"Oh," Watson said, feeling rattled, "of course. Can I offer you both a beer?"

The male jumped in, rubbing his hands. "Now you're fucken' talkin'. Waddaya reckon, Karen?" he nudged his partner, "This'd be the go, eh? Sailin' around all over the place sinkin' piss." He looked at Watson. "Don't suppose you could use a couple of deckhands?"

Watson's blood ran cold at the very idea. "Beers." he said, trying to derail that train. Ducking downstairs, he ripped two stubbies from a six-pack in the fridge and turned to find the male had followed him down.

"Well this is a bit of orright!" he said, "Mind if I take a squiz?"

Watson was starting to feel desperate. The male, Steve, was helping himself to a quick cook's tour and there hadn't been time to nail everything down. And just to complicate matters, the bovine female stuck her head through the hatch and announced, "The girl needs to use your shitter."

Watson ran a hand across his stubbled pate and heaved a deep breath. "Sure," he said, "send her down." A moment later, two grubby feet appeared followed by a pair of scrawny legs, all scratched and bruised, that disappeared under the unravelling hem of a ragged blue and white dress. Lowering her right foot onto each step, she joined it with her left, one step at time until she touched the floor. "My name's Damon," Watson said in as gentle a voice as he could summon. "What's yours?"

The girl's lips moved but there was almost no sound.

"Sorry, Darling?"

"Rebekah." she said again, almost inaudibly.

"Rebecca?"

"Rebekah! With a 'k' and an 'a' and an 'h'."

"Rebekah. What a beautiful name. Come on, Rebekah, the toilet's back here." He opened the door and showed her in. "Once you've finished, you have to push this button and wait till the water comes in, then push this other button to make it flush. Think you can manage that?"

The girl looked around the toilet's narrow confines, her sallow face a portrait of unfathomable wretchedness. The male, Steve, walked past, heading aft after casing the forward cabin. "She's a fucken' beauty this, mate. What'd she cost ya?"

Watson quietly closed the toilet door. "Just my soul."

The only way to get the male back upstairs was to lure him up with beers. Once the tinny had been tied off, Watson clunked the diesel into gear and headed for the nearest port, twenty miles away, around three hours motoring at full throttle. The girl reappeared after ten minutes or so and her mother looked her up and down with a withering glare. "Fuck me, Rebekah, did ya have ta go and stink up the whole fucken' boat?"

Standing at the right helm, Watson jumped to the girl's defence. "That's just the Electrosan," he smiled, "it's always been a bit whiffy." He jerked his head at the seat beside him, on the starboard side of the cockpit. "Come and take the load off, Sweetheart. Would you like something to eat?"

"Talkin' of loads..." the male guffawed and Watson caught a flash of fury in the fat woman's eye.

"That's okay, Mister," the human hippo said, "she's not hungry."

"Just call me Damon." Watson replied

"Not hungry for tucker, anyway." the male muttered, then spluttered with laughter at his own hilarity.

Watson read in the collective body language a sad and sordid tale, amply illustrated by the girl's abject shame.

"That's real fucken' funny, Steve." the woman sneered, "Go ahead and tell the whole fucken' world."

Watson clutched the helm till his knuckles turned white. If he could billy-club the male and throw him over the side, then gut the woman to attract the sharks and send her in after him, he could tell the police that he'd found the girl floating, alone, in the otherwise empty boat. He looked at her. "Would you like a drink of water, Sweetheart?"

The girl replied with a feverish nod as the male nudged his partner. "Hear that? Sweetheart! Looks like Beckah's got another admirer."

* * *

It turned into the longest three hours in Watson's post-divorce memory. While the couple helped themselves to half a dozen beers, Watson kept watch over the girl, sneaking her some rice and fish when she paid another visit to the toilet. She devoured the food as if she were starving, which in all likelihood she was. Watson's belly squirmed with hatred. He'd picked up his fair share of dodgy hitchhikers over the years, but none so menacing and despicable as these, feral hogs set loose on his precious Aurora.

By the time they'd been cast off and almost forcibly farewelled Watson was at his wits end. Rather than risk an evening departure in the face of an incoming tide, he motored to the far side of the river mouth and threw out the anchor. Once dinner was done, he washed up the dishes and put on some music. The deliverance- his, not theirs- called for a small celebration, so he broke out his stash, rolling a medium yield joint before throwing on a porn DVD. With the anchor light on and the boat streamlining into the tide, a beer in one hand, a joint in the other, and his favourite all-girl orgy filling the screen, he sat back, feet up on the settee, nursing a big fat erection. A Good Samaritan enjoying the fruits of his deed, expecting a call from Mrs. Palmer and her five slippery daughters at any time.

Until all at once the peace was obliterated by the sound of an outboard motor. Watson shot to his feet and even as the blood was draining from his face, the nose of a tinny rammed the hull. Sweat prickled his scalp. "Fucking Water Police!" he cursed under his breath, dousing the joint and killing the TV. Paying him a visit for no other reason than to totally fuck up the serenity.

"OI!" a voice yelled and Watson's jaw sagged, "Damon! It's Steve!"

"And Karen!"

They were already boarding before he could arm himself. Mosquito coils were smouldering in the cockpit, but the instant the male stuck his nose through the hatch, the cannabis hit his olfactory nerves and his eyes lit up. "Now you're fucken' talkin'!" he leered and looked over his shoulder. "KAREN! Damon's got ganja!"

The bovine woman stepped off the front of the tinny, giving it a bootful of Newton's third law. The yacht's structure shuddered as she hit the swim platform, arms flailing, her body impacting the step like a sack of manure. "Steve ya cunt!" she bellowed, "Fucken' help me!"

Steve-the-expletive didn't help. He was already on his way down the companionway, a carton of beer perched on one shoulder. By the looks of it they had come fully prepared for an overnight stay. Turning at the foot of the steps, the male put down the beer and held out his hands. "Buddy!" he cried with a cigarette-stained grin, "We couldn't let you go without a thank you."

Aurora rolled in anguish as the fat, rank female entered her and Watson knew he was in trouble. The male was busy installing beers in the fridge as the woman appeared, making her way gingerly down the companionway. "I nearly fell overboard." she whined, rubbing a fat elbow. "Your fucken' boat moved away when I tried to jump on."

The woman's companion was less than impressed. "For fuck's sake ya stupid slut, stop your bitchin'. Look! Damo's got choof."

They sat themselves down on the settee, where only moments ago their unwilling host had been about to crank one out. This pair wasn't going to go quietly, Watson realised, so the only other alternative was to render them unconscious, preferably with a baseball bat if one was at hand, or drugs if it wasn't.

Desperate necessity gave birth to a light bulb idea. Black Friday. A little stash of weed that had gone black with mould. Oven-drying had killed the mould, but some sort of chemical synergy between the bud and the fungus had yielded a borderline hallucinogen that also provoked heart-pounding paranoia. Fine in small doses, but to be handled with caution. As he sat watching the couple, noisily slurping their freshly-opened beers, it came to him in a flash, like an airburst heralding the dawn. From unpaid fines to child abuse, these scumbags would be wanted, by some authority somewhere. Ratting a rusty old tobacco tin from its hidy-hole, he rolled a multi-megaton joint and lit up.

Watching the pair sucking on the killer joint, he propped his elbows on the table. "You know, for a minute there..." he snorted.

Steve filled his lungs then exhaled a long, blue plume. "What, mate? For a minute there what?"

Watson summoned up his best scumbag-ese. "Well, for a minute there, when youse rocked up, I thought it might be the fucken' filth."

"The what?" Steve squinted.

"The filth. The pigs. The feds and Customs."

The rat-faced male was already feeling the effects and sat squinting at Watson intently. "Now what the fuck would the pigs want with you?"

Sucking in a chestful, the woman tapped Watson's arm but one thought of her sordid mouth and the old man waved the joint through.

"Damo?" Steve asked. "What about the pigs?"

Watson looked left and right then narrowed his eyes. "The cunts are after me." he said.

"Who are?"

"The fucken' feds."

The couple exchanged a frightened glance. "What for?" the male asked at length.

Watson set-to rolling another joint, not that he intended actually smoking it. It was a ruse. The moment they were off his boat he was getting the fuck out of there and didn't want to be seeing sea monsters when he did. "Oh," he hedged, "this and that."

"Are you fucken serious?" Steve scoffed, putting on a brave face but obviously rattled, "For a little bit of fucken' wacky-tabaccy?"

Watson grunted with laughter. "Well it wasn't a little. And it wasn't just dope. Do youse know how much ganja you can get for a load of assault rifles? I mean a boatload? Fucken' tons!"

The ferals eyed each other. "Bullshit!"

"No. No bullshit. I was actually on my way down south to pick up a shipment. For a while I figured you might be undercover but you're good guys, I can tell. Ever heard of the term 'one good turn deserves another?"

"Good turn?"

"I saved your arses, didn't I? Towed you back?"

"Look, mate, if it's money you're after, we don't have-"

"No, no, no. I don't want money. I just need you to do me a little favour."

"Favour?"

"That's right. You see, I thought we might bring this latest shipment through here."

The weapons-grade cannabis was already weaving its magic. The intruders quickly went from foul-mouthed inanity to intense, wide-eyed terror, as he pitched into his tale. Running guns to tribal gangstas, shootouts with the cops, double-crossings and concrete boots. By the end of joint they were climbing the walls. Bad enough they were wanted in three states, but to be hanging out with a gun-runner, on something as obvious as a dirty great yacht... They didn't even take their beer when they left, and almost fell into the tinny before departing without so much as a 'bon voyage'.

No sooner had they disappeared, weaving drunkenly across the river mouth with no lights, than Watson weighed anchor and made a run for it. Hammered almost senseless himself, he turned up the nav-display as he slalomed through the channel markers, engine at full throttle, heading out to sea.

* * *

Tanya listened in stony silence, uttering not so much as a word. When he was done, Watson sat thinking for a while, reliving the calamity, the miracle.

"So where was she?" Tanya finally asked, picking at an orange toenail.

Watson rallied himself. "Well. Have you ever seen any of those old stowaway movies?"

Tanya shook her head.

"Well they're always in the lifeboat.

She squinted at him. "You've got a lifeboat?"

"Tan..." Watson said dryly, "look behind you."

Tanya looked at the rigid inflatable tethered to the stern. "In there?"

"In the RIB." Watson nodded. "It was up on the davits with a cover over the top. There was a smell coming out of it. I figured it was just a flying fish, rotting away. They do that you know, flop onto the boat and die. But the RIB was hanging off the back and I couldn't see into it, and I wasn't about to go looking, not under sail. I just figured I could leave it till later."

"How long before you found her?"

"Three days."

Tanya sputtered through a mouthful of beer. "Three days? That poor baby!"

"You're telling me. She came down once or twice at night while I was asleep, found a little water and some leftover food. But she was a mess. Not bad enough she was dressed in rags, but she'd had a little puke and accidentally dirtied herself. It was pitiful."

"How did you find her?"

"We took a bit of a knock and the RIB screamed."

"The RIB? Screamed?"

"That's what it sounded like."

"It was Beck?"

"Well it wasn't the tender."

"Jesus Christ, Damon" Tanya breathed, "I wish I'd seen your expression."

"Yeah, well, you can probably imagine. It never so much as crossed my mind that they might have brought her along. They just left her there, in the tinny, while they came in to party. Then, for fuck's sake, they left her behind. Didn't even notice she'd gone. Though the amount of Black Friday they smoked it's no wonder."