Voyage of the Devilfish

Sandbridge Beach, a small village of beach houses, fish restaurants, convenience stores and bait shops, was bathed in the moonlight of a cloudless night sky. The large beach houses were quiet in the off-season. A few were decorated with Christmas lights. As midnight approached, the lights of all but a few houses were off. Michael Pacino’s old Corvette rumbled to a halt in the carport under a large three-story redwood house on stilts overlooking the water. He turned off the engine, brought back to the present by the silence, surprised that he had driven the forty miles from the base to the house without conscious thought or motion. Slowly, feeling like an old man, Pacino emerged from the cramped car, pulling a duffel bag from a cubbyhole behind the seat. He stood, watching the waves break on the beach on the other side of the property, then climbed to the second-floor entrance to the house. Hillary had bought the beach house with her own money. Commander’s pay might afford a modest colonial in the suburbs but never a house on the water, not on Sandbridge. It had bothered him some, living here. As he searched his pocket for his key the door opened. Hillary’s face was always a welcome sight after a long run on the boat. She had beautiful tanned skin, dark blue eyes over high cheekbones and perfectly full red lips. With long blonde hair, she was tall and thin. Her own complaint about herself was that her breasts were too small. He had no complaints. She was also a high-strung, thoughtful, at times brooding woman. On many nights after Tony was in bed she’d spend hours on the deck overlooking the beach, smoking cigarettes and staring out to sea, sometimes writing poetry in a notebook she never could bring herself to let Pacino read. When he was assigned ashore she would tend to come out of herself, laughing and talking more. Frankly, she once told him, she was scared to death of losing him, and that fear was a live thing between them. She had tried to convince him to leave the Navy and come to work for her father, an executive for Dynacorp International, a defense contractor. Pacino couldn’t see it. Money meant little to him. He still drove his midshipman car, the beat-up ‘69 Corvette. To Pacino, resigning from the Navy was just unthinkable. He was a submariner, his reason for living was to poke holes in the ocean, to be where he was needed. Like his father. He understood her feelings, worried about them, but he couldn’t quit. And she was no cliched rich bitch who selfishly wanted it all her way. She had tried hard, as he had, but it hadn’t been easy… Tonight would be a repetition of the old conflicts, he suspected. Once through the door he found he was right.

“Michael, we waited on that pier for hours. Neither you nor squadron gave me any idea you wouldn’t be on the boat. I had to find out from Jon Rapier that you got called downtown. And now Julie Rapier calls and wants to know why you’re taking the boat out to sea for Christmas. My God, Michael, what’s going on?” She trailed him upstairs as he pulled off his uniform, the khakis still smelling like a submarine, shrugged into an old black sweatshirt with the faded legend on the front reading! “DEEP, SILENT, FAST, DEADLY — U.S. SUBMARINE FORCE.” Once in his jeans he took the stairs down to the lodge room and headed for the bar. Once he found the Jack Daniel’s he splashed the gold liquid over four ice cubes in a highball glass and drained half of it in one gulp. How, he wondered, could he tell Hillary what he was about to do? If he could tell her, she might understand, but this trip was top secret.

“Hillary, please—” and stopped as he saw the tears. He was about to go to her when he heard Tony calling from the loft above. He hurried to the stairs, and as he climbed the risers saw Hillary going out on the deck. At the top of the stairs Pacino took Tony in his arms and carried the boy to his room, turning on the light, taking up the boy’s teddy bear and sitting down in the easy chair where they read together on the rare nights when he got home at a decent hour.

“Daddy,” Tony said, “mommy said you’re going away for Christmas. She said she doesn’t know when you’re coming back.” ‘Tony, I have to go. I’m sorry but there’s something very important we have to do on the boat. I’m really sorry. Ace, but it has to be done now. I’ll be back soon, though, and when I’m home we’ll have our Christmas then. Okay?” Of course not okay. Tony’s tears proved it.

“It’s way past your bedtime, and I’ve got to pack. Let’s get you tucked in.” As Pacino repeated the words of Tony’s prayer—“if I die before I wake, pray the Lord my soul to take”—his eyes seemed to get heavy. He hoped Tony wouldn’t notice. But Tony’s eyes were shut, and by the end of the prayer his son’s breaths were slow and deep. Pacino kissed Tony’s cheek and moved out of the room, shutting the door gently. Darkness. Hillary already in bed.