The Man Who Hated Water

Brian Fitzpatrick hated water. He despised the cool droplets that fell from the gray sky and rained out his Sunday afternoon golf match. He detested swimming; the way it left his hair drenched and mangled and soaked into his skin like a sponge. More than anything he hated to drink the stuff. The bland taste sickened and gagged him when he tried to swallow it.

It was 4:17 PM on a windy Friday afternoon. Brian was high above the Atlantic ocean, slouched in a bumpy seat aboard an old twin-engine airplane. He was determined to conquer his fear of water.

Brian twisted his neck and stared at the glistening water below. It was an unappealing sight. Not so much as scary but rather one that made his body dizzy and his mind claustrophobic. The only comfort Brian clung to was the distance the airplane provided between him and the water.

This phobia of his simply had to be buried. It interfered with his everyday living and grew more testing and absurd with each passing year. It had to stop.

No more would he douse his body with Stetson cologne before going to work because he had talked himself out of a shower. He routinely greased his hair to hide the oil and filth that grappled onto every strand of his short red hair. His co-workers gave him odd looks. He knew they could smell him. He was growing tired of the grief his job brought him. The accounting business never was his first choice of professions. He had considered dirt farming.

“We’re pretty far out, eh?” Brian shakily asked as he loosened, his red-and-blue striped tie.

“Been further,” Norm, the rickety craft’s aging pilot, re-plied steadily. “Clear as a bell. Not a cloud in the sky. Can’t say that 'bout Korea back in '52.”

A forceful gust of wind slapped into the right side of the plane, making it lurch and violently jump.

“Aaaaaaaahhhh!” Brian yelped in surprise. A surge of adrenaline shot through his body like serum from a syringe. This was not the type of plane ride he had planned on.

“Ha!” Norm snickered and snorted. “Shoulda been with me in my fighter. Flew sixty-three missions under heavy fire. Only got hit once. Didn’t go down, though.”

Up yours, Brian thought to himself. The last thing he wanted to hear was on old warrior boasting about his deeds in combat. He was, however, a competent flyer; one of the best Brian had flown with. His job occasionally required him to fly and meet clients. A few of the cocky, know-it-all pilots had scared the hell out of him. He unbuttoned the top button of his white cotton dress shirt.

Brian had taken the day off to drive from his apartment in Royersford, PA to Manze, NJ, a quiet town about ten miles from the seaside. During the course of his thirty-one years he had frequently vacationed in many resorts in southern Jersey and generally enjoyed a good time. On Wednesday he decided to undertake this flight and on Thursday he booked a room at Brownie’s Seabreeze Hotel. When he returned to shore he felt it would be his duty to drink numerous gin and tonics in the downstairs bar and then stagger up to room 423 for some much needed rest.

“How are we doing on fuel?” Brian asked absentmindedly. He squinted slightly at the various gauges on the faded dashboard.

“Got plenty,” Norm answered, tucking a strand of silver hair back underneath his tattered Air Force cap. He belched suddenly, causing his chubby belly to roll and tumble. “Lunch,” he said, throwing Brian a wink from one of his dark brown eyes.

Brian ignored him. He was thinking about Mary Sue Petterman, a twenty-four-year-old secretary he worked with. She was the prettiest woman in the building; charming, intelligent, and extremely fun-loving. She was also very attracted to Brian.

The way she played with her curly auburn hair and stroked her smooth freckled legs when she was around him made him frantic with desire.

The stopper occurred roughly three weeks ago when she invited him to her apartment for an elegant dinner. On the menu was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and vegetable casserole. Brian instantly opened his mouth to accept but Mary said something that froze the words in the middle of his throat.

It had something to do with vegetables. She couldn’t prepare them alone. No, that wasn’t exactly it. Would he like to wash the vegetables so she could prepare them. It would, she mischievously remarked, give him enough practice to wash her off after dinner. In the shower.

“Turn around and head back to shore!” Brian belted out. He suddenly felt very foolish. The only thing this flight had done for him was make him feel depressed. Remembering how he flatly declined Mary’s invitation left him wondering if he was more of a social misfit than he thought. Hell, he had shrunk away claiming he had an appointment with a doctor who didn’t even exist.

“Huh?” Norm gasped, pulling himself out of a dazed trance that was the result of maneuvering for months through anti-aircraft fire.

“I said turn the damn plane around and take me back to the airport,” Brian growled with increasing irritation. “I forked over my money for this ride and when I say turn around I mean-”

“Alright! Jus' shut your mouth will ya? You wanna go back, we’ll go back. Jus’ don’t order me around. I don’t take orders no more.”

“Sorry,” Brian spoke softly; embarrassed by his verbal outburst, “it’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Norm retorted. “Hang on, I’m gonna roll her around.”

The left wing of the plane dipped menacingly low as Norm recklessly swung the aircraft around. At that moment a monstrous gale of wind rammed into the plane from the starboard side. The impact was forceful enough to cause Norm’s hands to slip off the controls. Within seconds the plane flipped over and was barreling downward in a deadly tailspin.

“God dammit!” Norm screamed, grabbing unsuccessfully for the control panel. The plane shimmied and spun violently, tossing the occupants around like shoes in a dryer. The vast green ocean was getting closer and closer.

“Do something!” Brian shrieked hysterically as he slammed into the grimy passenger window. “Pull up, pull up!”

With a blind, uncalculated grab Norm seized the control stick and yanked it back. The volatile aircraft veered sharply upwards, fighting to maintain horizontal stability.

“I can’t hold it!” bellowed Norm. “We’ve lost too much altitude! We’re goin' in!”

“Wwwwhhhhaaaaa!” was Brian’s reply.

Salty mist splattered on the windshield as the plane approached the sea. Brian’s mind was blank; frozen in panic and disbelief. He watched as the plane crudely skimmed and danced atop the glistening water and then smashed into a twisted wreck of steel into the sea.

A brilliant glare pushed through the cracked windshield and shone brightly in Brian’s dazed eyes. A blur of confusion clouded his thoughts.

Reaching around the fragmented cockpit Brian found the bent doorhandle and pull himself off the floor and into his seat. The left side of his ribcage throbbed with a dull ache and his forehead tingled with a similar sensation. He lethargically blinked his eyes and the events of the last few minutes invaded his memory.

“Oh great,” Brian muttered. He looked over and saw Norm was motionless; slumped in a crumpled mass against the dashboard. The top portion of his head was crushed and Brian knew there was no life in him. He reached over anyway, checking first his neck then his limp wrist for a pulse. Nothing.

He dreamily slouched back into his seat and tried to collect his thoughts. Confusion buzzed steadily in his head as he sought to assess the situation. The impact appeared to have rendered the radio useless but maybe if he- Brian bolted upright in fear as the reality of the situation dawned on him!

The thick, pulsating feeling that masked his thoughts zipped away quicker than prey from a predator. He was in trouble. Big trouble.

“Christ,” Brian squeaked meekly. “Help! Somebody help me!” His voice rose to a panic-stricken scream as he twisted about wildly in the cockpit, looking in all directions at the awesome waters that created horizons all around him. Delicate beads of sweat slid down Brian’s pale face.

Trying to control the spasms that shook his body, Brian drew deep breaths and focused his eyes on the cockpit floor. It took a brief moment for the paranoia to increase. The airplane was taking on water through a crack in the floor. The wounded plane was quickly sinking.

“Get away from me!” Brian shouted madly at the water. He yanked his legs up to his chest and perched on the seat as the sea defiantly violated the cabin. The water level rose closer to the top of the seat.

“Got to get out,” Brian sputtered. “Lifeboat, lifeboat.” He threw-around glances at the dented interior of the plane and the contents and spotted a compressed orange object that had what appeared to be a pump attached to it. He reached over his left shoulder, seized the rubbery package, and read the dangling label: Liferaft.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. Brian quickly read the instructions. Pull cord and stand back was his interpretation of the directions. The tainted window to his right already had a significant crack running across it. One good smack would shatter it completely.

He drew back his elbow, hesitated for a moment, then rammed it into the center of the glass. It splintered instantly, propelling shards of glass into the lapping ocean. Jagged pieces of glass inconsistently decorated the pane. Brian quickly removed them, tossing the fragments to the minute waves that caressed the sinking plane’s hull. He then maneuvered the compacted liferaft through the empty window pane and pulled the attached cord. It started to inflate as he let it drop to the water.

The rubber boat expanded to full size in about twenty seconds but to Brian it felt like an extended eternity. He gingerly began his escape through the window.

When his upper torso was clear of the plane he reached down and steadied the boat, being careful to keep the boat flush against the plane’s exterior. He prepared to make the transition.

The water level was now a mere inch or two from Brian’s feet. Drawing a calm breath and staring at the center of the raft Brian tensed his legs and planted his feet. In a swift motion he pushed-off from the seat and launched himself through the window. He flopped on his back into the boat, creating a muffled, sluggish splash when he landed.

“Made it,” Brian whispered to himself. A sudden choking gurgle grabbed his attention. He whipped into a sitting position and looked backwards. The crippled plane was almost out of sight; submerging like a doomed submarine that would never come up for air again. Poor Norm, was all Brian could think as the faded red tailfin disappeared beneath the water.

The sun was slowly and methodically sinking over the horizon line. This put a lump in Brian’s throat. Soon he would be drifting alone in the dark, surrounded by trillions and trillions of gallons of water. It was a horrid thought. He sat Indian-style with the small of his back pressed firmly into the side of the oval liferaft. He wished he had a soda, a glass of lemonade, or even a beer. He was getting very thirsty.

The dark was closing in fast and Brian figured it had been three or four hours since the crash. He was now stretched-out in the boat with his head propped up against the side. The inescapable sight of water had forced his into this position. His dry throat cried out for a drink and made his stomach churn. With a slight sigh Brian curled up into a fetal position and envisioned a large, refreshing glass of iced tea as he closed his eyes.

When Brian’s eyes snapped open the following morning the sun was just clearing the horizon. A thin layer of seawater coated the bottom of the boat. Brian assumed it was from the small waves splashing overboard periodically throughout the night. His left side, from his shoulder to his ankle, was slightly wet but he really didn’t care. It seemed a small nuisance compared to the burning dryness in his throat. Damn, he was thirsty.

“I can’t be far from shore,” he croaked to himself as he sat up. “We were only a few miles out.”

A few seagulls passing overhead helped to reassure Brian that he would reach shore soon. The airport must have notified a rescue team when the plane failed to return to the airport yesterday. They would find him soon, he told himself.

The hours passed slowly and the sun’s heat intensified while Brian drifted. The boat and his clothes were dry now and judging by the position of the sun Brian figured it was about three o’clock. It had been almost a day since he had taken a drink and it was really starting to bug him. The roof of his mouth was sticky with drying saliva and he had difficulty swallowing.

He slouched motionless in the boat and stared blankly ahead. An occasional splash of water would sprinkle his hand or neck but he hardly noticed. Brian figured the more he detached himself from his environment the less thirsty he would be. He watched the sun reflecting in the rippling water.

A faded mental picture snaked into Brian’s head. He was four or five and in a battered white rowboat on the pond at his uncle Milo’s farm. It was just him and his uncle Milo and they were fishing in the murky pond.

Uncle Milo, Brian vaguely recalled, was a lanky individual with thinning blond hair. He always wore a tattered green jacket and frequently talked to himself. His gray-blue eyes held a strange glare in them.

The next image Brian’s mind replayed for him was of himself splashing wildly in the pond’s dank, stagnant water. Had he fallen overboard? He could never remember. As he was slipping below the water level he looked up and saw his uncle (laughing?) yelling for help. What he remembered after that was sinking into the dark water and swallowing what seemed like gallons of it. He thrashed around like a fish on a hook as he desperately tried to breathe. Suddenly, a large pair of hands grabbed him and hoisted him out of the water and into the warm sunlight. It was his father. He had swum out from the muddy banks and rescued Brian.

The incident at uncle Milo’s farm was never talked about. Sometimes Brian thought it was only a dream but that was impossible. Uncle Milo died of a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the head four days later. He had, his father would tell him years later, never fully recovered from his experiences during the Korean War.

When the daydream passed Brian noticed the sun was moving into setting position. Another hour or so and it would be getting dark again. The businessmen would be having a cocktail in their favorite club and he would still be suffering in this damn raft. It was a disheartening thought.

The stars shone grandly against the black night sky. Brian watched them twinkle as the wind sang a harsh lullaby. He was feeling lightheaded and weak and was growing quite nervous about his situation. He was sure a search-and-rescue team had been sent out to look for him but why hadn’t they found him? It was a very real possibility that the current had sucked him out miles from the coastline. Brian decided he didn’t care for that image and pushed the thought aside.

“Go to hell.” Brian rasped at the picture of Mary that was burned into his memory. She mocked him, continually licking and puckering her soft, wet lips. The moisture seemed to roll off them and Brian wished it was his mouth he was looking at. He let the sea lull him to sleep once again.

When Brian awoke the next morning he was damp and soggy from the misty morning air. It didn’t bother him at all. He imagined he could drink himself to replenish his throat. He stared weakly at the ocean hoping to spy a bottle of grape juice floating toward him. No luck.

At almost the same instant it happened. Brian spotted a boat breaking over the horizon. It was a white vessel and he wanted to make sure it saw him. His legs threatened to buckle under him as he attempted to stand. He found that standing in an inflatable raft is almost impossible so he settled for a kneeling position while he madly waved his arms at the boat.

A helicopter buzzed overhead and circled Brian twice. He grinned a distant, sheepish smile because he knew he was about to be saved.

The helicopter hovered a couple hundred feet above Brian. The pilot in the cockpit gave the thumbs-up gesture and Brian replied by doing the same.

“Woooooohhhhoooooooo...” Brian scratchily cooed. It made his throat burn and caused him to gag and cough. He kept his eyes on the approaching ship.

The boat broke through the water quickly and neared Brian’s position. Several men in white uniforms were on the deck as it gently eased next to the lifeboat.

“I’m gonna throw you a line,” a large black sailor called to him. “Catch it and pull yourself next to the ship.”

“Right on,” Brian managed to squeak-out.

Large, strong arms heaved a coil of rope overboard. It splashed into the water several feet from the raft.

“Grab it,” yelled a sailor with a blond crewcut.

Brian stared dumbfounded at the rope as it squiggled and squirmed on the surface of the water. He blinked his eyes, shook his head, and reached over to snare the rope. The water swam through his fingers as he clutched the coarse, stiff rope and yanked it clear.

He quickly worked the rope through his hands until he had pulled himself adjacent to the rescue ship. A rope ladder plunged down and landed next to him.

“I’m comin' down to help ya up,” the black sailor called again. His taunt body carefully made its way down the ladder.

“Thirsty,” Brian managed to gasp out when the sailor reached the bottom rung.

“We’ll get ya a drink in a minute,” the sailor assured him. “What ya got to do is make yer way over to this ladder. Ya’ll go up first and I’ll follow.”

Brian clawed his way to the ladder and gripped the third rung between his hands. With the help of the sailor he moved slowly up the rungs. When he reached the top two sailors grabbed him under the shoulders and pulled him onto the deck.

“How long have you been out there?” a stocky sailor asked him.

“Thirsty,” was Brian’s answer.

“That long, eh,” the sailor mumbled.

The cabin door opened and the sailor with the blond crewcut walked through it.

“I brought you a present,” he said as he smiled and handed Brian a large jug.

Brian took the container, put it to his cracked lips, and began to drink. The cold welcomed liquid coated his parched throat and filled his stomach. He furiously chugged mouthful after mouthful.

“Hey careful,” the sailor said to him. “If you drink that water to quickly you’re going to make yourself sick.”