Shipwrecked on Land

by T.A. McLean

Dark curtains floated across the sea towards the small, coastal village signaling to the men collecting underwater crustaceans that the moderate chop would soon give way to more turbulent seas. The small boat wasn’t meant to be anything more than a pleasure boat that was to include no mention of life on land, but life on land can board ships as easy as pestilence. Standing twenty feet from bow to stern she was once the prom queen when she first tasted the salty air, feeling the breeze flap through her sails. Today, the sails flapped less sure and the hull lacked the pristine, clean lines of red juxtaposed against the royal blue that once made her the envy of commercial vessels – living with the tides. The skipper of the S.S. Guenevere, Dr. M. A. Phelps, had taken taken her out for her last sea run before she would be scuttled beyond the territorial waters in an effort to create the town only man made coral reef. The town, however, had already acknowledged the life giving powers the doctor seemed to posses; he had been bringing life into existence for nearly fifty years, one would be hard pressed to find a town person who had not been coaxed from the womb by the doctor’s skillful hands. Time had aged the hands as it had the thousand or so souls that inhabited the small hamlet of Bates Hollow, as it had the ship on which the doctor was sailing onto open ocean, plunging like a knife through the curtains descending on the town. Those working on the docks, shoveling slop into buckets for bait, re spooling fishing line or a medley of various sailors tasks were used to the sight of the old ship sailing from the private pier located halfway around the small bay on which the town sat like a hidden world, protected from the reality of the world by the protected waters of Natawhaki Bay.

“Looks like like Doc Phelps is taking a fishing trip,” said a workman attempting to scrap barnacles of the hull of the crabbing ship tied to the commercial pier. His buddy Frank looked towards the the ship and shrugged.

“Crazy old codger. I was in his office yesterday and he was talking about how he donated his fishing gear to the boy scouts; what’s he going to use to catch them, a stick and safety pin?

The laughed for several minutes over the thought of the town’s most respected citizen Gerry-rigging a fishing pole before the trawler’s captain leaned over the railing and barked, complete with spittle, to shut up or they would both be doing their work from the bay side without the assistance of a boat. After several exploitives were exchanged both men resumed their work not chancing to see the Guinevere pass the mouth of the bay on a collision course with the storm forming dark shapes over the north Atlantic.
On board the forty foot sailboat that was clipping along towards to the surface open waters the Doc was not even conscious of the storm into which he was heading, since coming on board with his oldest friend Pete Baker he had remained below deck sitting a the small kitchenette table. Since purchasing the boat in the mid sixties each year the good doctor had become a better sailor until he knew the local waters well enough to ensure that the wind would carry the ship from the bay into the open sea without any manual maneuvering taking place.

“Surely nothing could go wrong now,” thought the Doc, “with Pete up on deck everything would be alright.”

Feeling comforted by this thought the doctor lifted the the small seat next to him, space was in demand on the ship, and reached in to extract a twelve year old bottle of scotch, Glenlevit, and a single glass placing both on the table. The table was small, enough for four to sit not particularly uncomfortably, but it didn’t matter to the good doctor because today he would be drinking alone: Pete never touched the stuff. After pouring three fingers into a small glass he lifted it above his head and toasted the Guinevere: the faded beauty of the sea. He drank. The amber liquid warmed his throat as it made its way to his stomach in a constant stream uninterrupted until the glass was replaced on the table empty and refiled it; although he refrained from immediately picking it up and bringing it to his lips, instead he stared for a moment at it trying to remember the last time he had two scotches in one sitting. The memory wasn’t coming quick enough and the doctor’s ind wandered along with his pale gray eyes around to the cabin. They finally rested on the mirror suspended inside a life preserver that adorned the wall opposite his seat. Doctor Phelps considered it the worst piece of decoration he had ever seen, but his eldest daughter had crafted it as an gift to her parents on their 20 th anniversary to commemorate what had been the boat they celebrated their honeymoon on in the spring of 1964. He smiled in spite of himself and ponder his own face in the mirror. In his younger days every nurse at Boston General had been infatuated with the new resident just out of medical school. His hair had been darker then, his eyes less sunken, face smoother, and no doubt a skillful surgeon could restore the face’s former glory with a few simple incisions and gentle pulls, but that was not the bane of the good doctor; he worried about more serious matters and preferred it that way.

He shook away the serious matters as they began to fill his vision and decided to not think about the land anymore, the land was dead to him, but the beautiful Guinevere was alive and spiriting him further away from all cares and concerns; her sails capturing every gust blowing from the dark clouds that had now engulfed the ship. Looking back up towards the mirror Phelps thought he saw Pete in the reflection standing behind him on the stairs leading to the deck and yelped with mild surprised, but quickly recovered knowing that Pete would stay on deck.

Whiskey, even if called Scotch still had the ability of warping a person’s common senses and playing on their emotions. He sighed and took a sip of the untouched glass and decided ice cubes would help the process if not entirely alleviate it. As he rose he noticed for the first time the boat was gently swaying in the choppy sea, but though little of it as he moved, with more care, towards the small refrigeration unit to collect a handful of ice cubes and placed them in his glass, swirled it for a moment and took a sip as he treaded back to the table. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at the sky, he’d never seen it so black, but it comforted him in a way, it insulated him both from the eyes of humanity hand of God who had been battling the good doctor over the mortality of patients for half a century; last count had the good Dr. Phelps ahead.

He smiled at the thought of an omnipotent being sitting across the table from him playing chess, but stuck in limbo, unable to do anything but move his king from dark to light squares and back again in the face of his own pieces surrounding the two inch monarch whose kingdom has fallen.
“Checkmate,” Dr. Phelps would say with a grin as he stared at the Lord puzzling over his pieces.

“Confound it Phelps,” the powerful figure would say, “looks like your patient gets a second shot.”

Still smiling Phelps resumed his seat and the drinking which had commenced over an hour ago, but took it slow; “no reason to hurry”, he thought. After several minutes of sipping slowly the placed the glass on the table and reached for the bottle, refilling it he reached into his pocket and removed a small pillbox and placed it in the shadow cast by the bottle of scotch from whatever light made it’s way thorough the clouds into the porthole above the table on the wall which it was attached. Opening the lid he looked at the contents: small shapes in shades of purples, blues and orange mixed together stared back. Reaching into the box he removed a blue pill and placing it on his tongue commenced to wash it down with a swig of noticeably easier to drink Scotch. As a medical man the doctor knew the inherent danger of the combination, but decided since he was away from shore ethics could take a back seat to solace. After consuming another pill, this one purple, the doctor swung around in his seat and switched on the single overhead light fixture in the main cabin and swore quietly when one of the two bulbs blow out casting the doctor’s half of the table in darkness.

“Maybe this isn’t so bad after all,” he thought as he leaned against the velvet seat and placed his head against the dark wood of the cabin. He finally felt peaceful in the torrent of the sea, suspended above it on a ship that had once been the envy of all the ships it passed.

Pete was still on deck.

Into the calm tranquility of the cabin came a noise that never could have been confused with any natural phenomenon: the electric squawk of the ship to shore radio coming to life with the repetitive voice repeating: “United States Coast Guard to S.S. Guinevere, Coast Guard to S.S. Guinevere; You there Doc?”

Reaching across the small interior of the cabin Dr. Phelps extended his arm and just barely gripped the mouthpiece with his longest fingers, unraveling the condense spiral cord with gentle pulling until he could sit comfortably while speaking into the microphone. He spoke with effort to mask to gentle slur of his words: “This is the Guinevere. Who is this?”

“Ensign Trevors,” came the automatic response, “Doc I have some news from the mainland, police just called.”

Ensign Trevors, the doctor knew that name but his mind was a little further out to sea than the ship itself.

“Is there some kind of medical emergency?” The doctor asked managing to sound concerned.

“Well Doc there’s nothing really that can be done. Doc it’s… um.,” the ensign stuttered while interference scratched the sound of his voice, “…you wife Doc, she was found this morning after you set out by the housekeeper.”

“My wife? Found? Housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Bantum, she found her when she brought breakfast upstairs. ‘pparently gave her quite a turn. They called over here so we could inform you and Dr. Killirk, they thought she may need to speak to him when you both reach shore.”

Dr. Phelps sat there and thought about his wife for several minutes before responding, “Changing course, returning to shore, Guinevere out.” With those few words his replaced the microphone and resumed his relaxed position and resumed his consumption of pills and scotch, now doubling the pills from one to two with each gulp of scotch.

“Ten-four Doc,” came the response after a moments silence, “I’ll have someone waiting for you at the pier to take you home.”

However, unbeknownest to the young ensign Dr. Phelps had not changed course, nor had he told Pete the news, somehow he had a feeling that he knew already somehow. Pete had always had some type of pre-cognitive capability that made him such an effective psychiatrist in a town where emotions often conflict between people who had lived in close proximity with one another for so many years. No doubt the housekeeper would call the children, she had raised them as much as the next person proving to the Phelps’ her invaluable qualities to the family that had grown from two loving people to a clan of three children and seven grandchildren, one of which was now expecting her own child. The good doctor smiled softly to himself and thought of being a great-grandfather wishing he could talk it over with Pete, his friend from bygone days spent learning the finer point of anatomy at Johns Hopkins Medical school until they had parted ways in medicine. Pete discovered the vast horizons of mental health while Phelps remained committed to saving the body from the ravages of existence that prey on all; he wondered how Pete’s average with a certain deity was holding up, he was the only psychoanalyst in town just as his friend Marcus Aurelius Phelps was the only doctor. This being the case it was no surprise when they both settled in the same town, but because of the responsibility of all manner of medical needs fell onto them it severely limited the ability for relaxation. Guinevere had saved them from the constant barrage of duty beholden to them on land even if Pete had rarely joined him in the last few decades, he claimed his seasickness had returned from a dormant sleep with a vengeance.

Pete was an honorary family member, never bothering to settle which Phelp’s had always counted as a blessing because it meant no interference with their time together on shore, but today they were at sea, Pete hadn’t been on the Guinevere in years. Yet, with the decision to scuttle the ship after one final voyage Pete had been coerced for one final fishing trip, one last voyage onto the open sea, no land, no people, nothing to do but bask in the sun, have a few drinks and bring home dinner.

Today was not a day for basking, the storm prevented it and now with the news from the shore he would doubt any fish he would be able to snag Mrs. Bantum would be willing to cook for dinner. He had often joked that his faithful housekeeper came with the impressive nine bedroom house situated on Nathaniel Terrace two blocks from main street and the office. The house was reminiscent of the town’s former role as playground for those wealthy sailors who found themselves trapped in stuffy offices in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia until the Depression had hit forcibly removing many from their former residences, occupations and denying them their passion for sailing on their own ships anchored in the bay. Many of the towns residents were descendants of those former patrician residents who had migrated away from the big city with what they had left rather than stand on line for a piece of bread or bowl of soup provided by donations to those less fortunate by those who had managed to remain fortunate. The good doctor never considered himself a rich man, but wise investments had yielded a comfortable nest egg on which he had planned to retire years ago before to his shock and dismay he counted seventy candles on the cake his wife had made for him prior to the illness; it seemed impossible that six years had passed since then and he still remained steadfast in his duties. It was possible he realized, the last years had been some of the hardest of his life and had apparently caused him to forget the passage of time, his wife’s illness had brought time to a standstill.

Tears began to well up when he thought of his wife, but he pushed them into submission deciding it was better to avoid thinking about it less he should betray his calm, collected manner developed from so many years of medical practice. He finished his most recent cocktail and glanced around the cabin. Above the passage leading to the deck his wife had hung an antique crucifix she had purchased at a shop in Augusta, although no religious they both thought it added a comforting sense to passengers, but not today. Lifting the remaining two thirds of a bottle he stared at the figure nailed to the bulkhead and spilled some scotch on the table as he tried to pour another glass without looking.

Pete would have laughed if he had not been above deck.

The figure of the cross hung within the Doc’s gaze but refused to meet his eyes; the emaciated figure nailed eternally to the cross just looked down at the floor not caring for what Marcus Aurelius Phelps had to say, rejecting him for his own sake. Toasting the figure the doctor realized he couldn’t undo the power emanating from the small bronze figure, it’s judgment was as final as death which Dr. Phelps was not sure anymore he could stop from striking. It had struck this morning without regard for the lives it may interrupt or even destroy. Pete had always loved spending time with his oldest friend’s family and belonged to the same gardening club as the late Mrs. Phelps who had always treated him as a brother-in-law inviting him for dinner, lunch or just for planting roses when the weather was just right. It had always been a good feeling to know that he had a friend as important to him as his wife, the three had known each other since those days in Massachusetts when the men were in residency and the lady was a candy striper with whom Dr. Phelps, a third year resident, had fallen head over heels for when their eyes had met at a Christmas party held in the hospital cafeteria for those working through the holidays.

This thought had crept into his mind and as if shocked to discover what he was thinking the doctor slammed the glass down on the table with such force that it shattered in his hand cutting deep causing blood to ooze onto the table’s surface. Calmly he reached into the lapel pocket of his seagoing pea coat and removed a handkerchief which after a few minutes hesitation, due in part to his various cocktails, was formed into a makeshift tourniquet.

It brought back memories of the time his youngest boy had sliced open his hand on a bow line while sailing in the bay for his twelfth birthday, except that time they had used Pete’s handkerchief, but Pete was above deck and no help. That old cut had left a scare and bleed much, but they true bleeding occurred when he had run a blood test to ensure no infection would settle in the wound. Dr. Phelps clenched his fist as he thought of the blood and inadvertently caused his tourniquet to become saturated and stained red; the pills and liquor were ensuring he didn’t feel it. If he had been in the condition he was now on that day maybe things would have been better off, maybe happiness would have persevered, but those were too many maybes for the good doctor. In all fairness he had acted truly professionally and that was all he had ever asked of himself even if he had begun to forget himself progressively over the las few years he never let anyone know, privacy was critical. This trait of his was ironic considering the freedom in which patients will discuss matters with a doctor, over time small town doctor’s find they know the people they treat better than those individuals families; everything was known to Dr. Phelps: Miriam Hotchkins’ botched plastic surgery, Frank Nevit’s shameful contraction, how each town member looked bare, and, of course, blood types. Blood types were extremely important for a town whose closet hospital lay twenty miles away in order to ensure any serious blood loss could be handled internally without a risk of a person perishing from exsanguination. Blood had alerted him to the mutation of his wifes cells that the general populace calls ovarian cancer, he had to break the news to his wife, his family, and Pete had to be told as well. Phelps had found Pete the hardest to tell, he had looked devastated, but Pete had nothing on his mind currently, he was merely on the deck and at the same time the farthest thing from the good doctor’s mind.

In a way he had blamed himself for the disease that had ravaged his wife’s body; perhaps a better doctor could have foreseen what was occurring on the cellular level, but Marcus always had considered himself a good doctor, even his instructors saw the promise in him. However, what the couldn’t see or even conceive was the overwhelming power destiny holds over mortals heads like an ever present itinerary for an individual’s life knowing exactly when events would take place and how they would pan out. Things were different now, however, his wife was gone, his son’s blood had been cleaned away a quarter a century ago, Pete was on deck, and Dr. Marcus A. Phelps was continuing to flood his bloodstream with a lethal combination of painkillers and Scotch. He giggled but quickly caught himself in his own absurdity and poured the final glass from the now empty bottle that had been given to him by Pete to congratulate him on the creation of a fourth generation of Phelps’.

“It’s a shame,” thought Phelps about his wife, “now the little one will never get the chance to meet her.”

Static began to emanate from the radio, but before any cohesive words could be formed the doctor had stumbled sloppily across the narrow interior of the cabin and ripped the unit from the bulkhead, if the ship had been any younger the alcohol may have impeded his ability to do so, but after spending so much time in the salt air the wood was not as sturdy as it had once been. His beautiful Guinevere owed her fate to Poseidon who had been eroding away at her for over forty years and held her destiny clutched between the prongs of his trident, scuttling her would be the greatest and worst moment of Phelps’ life – perhaps not the worst, maybe not even the best.

Since he was already standing Phelp’s decided it was time to go above deck and check on Pete, he wondered how long he had been below deck, but realized he would never know the only clock on board was integrated with the radio and the radio was about to find itself in Poseidon’s clutches as well. Securing it under his arm he made his way towards the ten steps to the deck, but before proceeding he turned, almost losing his balance, and went to the small stove.

“Will be cold out tonight,” he remarked to no one, “a nice fire will be just the ticket.” As he spoke the final words he turned the propane tank’s valve under the sink to the open position reaching to the wooden pegs above the sink to retrieve his skipper’s cap and adorning it on his head the Doctor made his way above deck.

Even with the amount of substances effecting his judgment he couldn’t get lost if he had wanted to, the rust colored footprints leading below deck would serve as a guide to the surface, leaving the darkness behind. As his head poked into the open sea air the doctor breathed deep the smell of the ocean and remembered that he had chosen his home because the smell was always available with the opening of a window. He glanced in the direction of the shore which was by this time nowhere to be seen having been obscured by the plutonian curtains Guinevere had navigated without any problem. The windows had been opened this morning when he left, he had done it for his wife because she, like him, loved the ocean more than anything on land; or so the good Dr. Marcus Aurelius Phelps had thought until the day of his son’s birthday when his blood test had revealed something peculiar, not just peculiar, unbelievable. His son had type O blood which neither of the Phelps’s had, which none of their grandparents had had.

There was only one person Marcus knew with that distinctive type and as he turned his head towards the bluer skies into which the ship was sailing he gazed at the only man close enough to his family to be a contender. It had been twenty-five years since he had found the truth and had buried deep within himself, working, some would say obsessively, to keep it out of his mind’s eye.

Something had changed recently, however, the brought the horrible realizations of so many years in the past rushing back, exploding to the surface like a submarine releasing it’s ballasts for quick reemergence.

“I’m leaving now to go boating with Pete. Do you need anything before I leave? Should I wake Mrs. Bantum?” He had asked her willing tying his shoes while sitting on the edge of the bed.

“No, the sun isn’t even up yet, let her sleep. Would you be a dear and just get me my medication before you go?” The slight figure responded while carefully adjusting herself into a sitting position. Her haired had grayed before the radiation had taken it away from her, but her spirit could still be perceived waiting below the surface for another chance. According to the oncologist it may have gotten it’s chance, the cancer had been in recession for weeks and Dr. Mattheson suggested the she may be able to stop the radiation therapy sooner than expected; the family had been elated, as had the town when the gossip began to circulate.

Finished with his shoes he placed the painkillers and medication bottles on his wife’s nightstand and leaned over kissing her forehead as he had done for over forty years. “I’ll be home with dinner,” he said, “I love you Guinevere.”

“I love you Peter,” she responded. Stopping in mid turn Dr. Marcus Aurelius Phelps felt as though his whole body was shaking like a leaf and slowly turned to look at his wife who did not seem to notice what she had said a few seconds early. He walked slowly back towards their antique bed that had been a wedding gift and when he reached the edge looked down at his wife who smiled up at him. It had been more than the good doctor could take and reaching around her head he slowly brought it closer and closer to his chest in a hugging gesture, but once he felt her warm breathe breaching the fibers of the shirt he wore he it was more than he could stand.

It had only taken a moment to hold his wife’s head firm against his own chest and wait until the screaming had become a mere sob which had final reverted to the silence one here’s when entering a home for a wake. She was gone: the love of his life, his bride, mother to his children, but not only his. He positioned her in bed as though she were sleeping and stood for many minutes staring at her in the pre-dawn light flooding into the large windows before finally turning around, he placed the pillbox she kept in the table’s drawer into his own pocket and opened the windows to let in the sea air. His wife had always loved the smell of the ocean just as the sun broke the horizon, in some way he had hoped it would make up for what he had done, but he knew realistically it would not. Even the Son of God had refused to meet his guilty eyes, he had been damned.

Now in the middle of the ocean, or at least out of territorial waters, Dr. Phelps , trying to ignore the smell of gas, looked at the father of his children, his best friend, laying in a pool of his own coagulated, type O blood; the dead eye’s hue resembled the ocean, just like Guinevere had always said. The calm that prevailed after he had quietly left his house this morning, taking care not to wake his housekeeper and to lock the door behind him hadn’t lasted very long offshore. While he and Pete had been rigging the lines Phelps had chanced to glance behind him and saw the impossible; his wife with her arms wrapped around Pete’s waist resting her head on his shoulder. While his wife mot likely felt nothing but horror as she passed from this world Pete was not to be so lucky. Rearing a heavy life preserver above his head Dr. Marcus Aurelius Phelps brought it down on the back of his decades long friend’s head killing him instantly, but for some reason the good doctor could not contain himself as he repeatedly bashed away the back of the skull. “Not even you could see what the secrets the brain holds this close,” Phelps had screamed at the figure who hadn’t survived the initial blow that was struck with such ferocity that it left a look of terror on Pete’s face; in a way Phelps wished that the town could see the pain he felt refracted on the face of Dr. Peter Baker in those last seconds that blurred the world of the living with that of the departed.

Sitting now, chancing a bask in the fading sunlight, Phelps looked towards the setting sun and smiled thinking how light he felt suddenly as though the world had vanished living only him and Guinevere to sail the ocean together, alone- forever. Yet, sighing, he realized it was impossible because the ship would eventually give out as did the Guinevere who existed on the shore, as a monument to everything perfect about life, but had corroded with the years, even now that was gone. With the smell of propane strengthening around the the ship Dr. Phelps breathed deeply and removed, with some effort, the wedding ring from his finger and placed it on the edge of the ship where it was caught in the sun giving a halo affect to the area around it. Admiring the beauty of it Phelps was not conscious that he had placed a cigarette in between his lips and reached into his pants pocket to retrieve the lighter his wife had given him on their wedding night and slowly brought it to his lips and struck the flint in the midst of the sunset; anyone happening to see the ship at this moment may have commented that it was almost beautiful the fireball that rocketed into the sky against the foreground of oncoming darkness, but the darkness had already existed on board the Guinevere and had been extinguished within an instant. The good Dr. Marcus Aurelius Phelps had ensured that as in life his Guinevere and he would lie together, suspended beneath the cruel world, trapped for eternity in the dark waters off the shore of Bates Hollow.