Mack recognized that confirming so early in their new life the aggression they might face would color all future interactions with the people they would meet, even the good folks who meant them no harm, people they could possibly trust. A gun battle neutralized his innately positive view of the goodness of people. The crew of God’s Will had demonstrated a determined, if amateurish, greed and violence. Had they arrived at night and boarded the Requiem, Mack and his family might not have been able to repel the attack. Reason was not a factor, only taking what they wanted. Before the pandemic, they may have been good neighbors and hardworking fishermen who went to sea each week seeking a profitable catch. They might poach another fisherman’s net or his secret oyster bed, but that was part of the business. Using weapons to steal from another boat crew was a degree of desperate behavior that probably signaled how hungry they and their families were. Maybe the loss of their mobile home or house due to delinquent mortgage or rent. Millions of Americans had found themselves unemployed in the onslaught of the pandemic, and the government refused to help after an initial stimulus payment that supplemented the wealth of those who needed it least, fueling an widespread indiscriminate anger that harmed the innocent rather than the pandering politicians.
But Mack quickly reminded himself that he could not indulge conjecture. He must protect his family or literally die trying. Over time, maybe the world would rediscover its forgotten humanity, but right now that time seemed far, far into an imaginary future. He could more easily conceive of the end of planetary life than foresee the restoration of whatever good humans ever possessed. If he felt this way, then what might inspire hope? What is life without hope?
Dropping onto a cockpit bench seat, Mack reached for the binoculars and scanned the river for God’s Will. A speck of white lit by the late morning sun moved up the Neuse a couple miles distant. If the fishing boat had navigated that far, the captain must be alive. Or perhaps a member of the crew had taken the helm. Now that the threat had passed, Mack hoped they had not seriously wounded, much less killed anyone. He and his family sought only to protect themselves. They intended no harm despite using firearms against the attackers, themselves armed. Yes, that was one rule of engagement that Mack would consider: only use the force necessary to repel the attack. No guns in a knife fight. Almost instantly, he dismissed the idea as folly. If attacked, they must do whatever they could to defeat the attackers. They might limit themselves, but they could not expect others to reciprocate. Even the theft of supplies, food, or water was a threat to their lives given the scarcity of resources and the difficulty and risk of finding more. Keeping four people alive post-pandemic required defending all they had all the time, materials as well as lives.
Matty broke the silence. “Dad, did we do alright?”
“Yes, yes. You guys were wonderful. You responded just as I asked. We surprised the hell out of them, caught them off guard, and persuaded them we were not the soft target they sought. On the other hand, I am not sure they were the kind of hardened marauders that worry me. I think they were mostly opportunistic and desperate, just good ol’ boy fishermen with hungry families at home. Unfortunately, a decent size sailboat is a “yacht” to many of them. They see money and excess; they see people who have more than they have and believe that we should share, voluntarily or otherwise.”
“Why didn’t we just offer them a small bit of our food?”
“Matty, if we admitted that we had any supplies to share, they would have tried to take all we have. It’s a conundrum.”
“A what?”
“Conundrum. It’s complicated. If we share any amount with someone, we prove their suspicion that we have more than we need even if we know we need to conserve our supplies to survive long term, even if sharing would be an act of generosity that depletes our supplies. They need not view our actions as generous when they are in a situation more dire than ours. It confirms their bias that the people with the yacht are rich and, whatever they offer, they could give more. In other words, we’d like to share with someone in need, whose family is without shelter or sufficient food and water. My heart aches for them. But, if we do, they may see us as their source of supplies to which they are entitled because we have more than they think we need. Quickly we might find ourselves in their situation, and who will help us?”
“But Dad, if you think they were fishermen in trouble, why wouldn’t we help?”
“Back when all the turmoil began, your mother and I discussed what we would do if a young girl appeared on our doorstep asking for a few cans of food. Suppose she was waifish, clearly not getting enough to eat? We could easily spare a few cans.”
“So you would give her what she asked.”
“Not so quick. She might be innocent. Her family might be good people in a bad situation. However, once we gave her food, she and anyone her family knew would mark our house as a place with plenty extra and ‘more than they need’. We would potentially become a target for others who may be, shall we say, ‘more insistent’ about our generosity. The conundrum is that we have no way of evaluating a person’s intentions, what’s in their mind or heart, whether they might help us if we needed help, or take advantage of our weakness.”
Andrew had been standing on the port side deck scanning the river banks and listening to the conversation. He still held his shotgun at the ready. “Dad, how often do you think something like happened this morning will happen?”
“No way to know, son.”
“I think I should have shot the crew. They were armed and firing in our direction, trying to shoot us.”
“They were a real threat for sure. But we didn’t need to kill anyone to run them off, did we?”
“Maybe we got lucky. Maybe they’ll be back. If I had shot them, they would not return.”
“True enough, but taking a life is final. You can’t undo a mistaken shooting.”
“But they shot at us!”
“And we returned fire effectively with your sister shattering the windshield – I’m sure that woke up the captain – and you keeping their heads down. They did not seem organized for violence, so our measured response worked just fine. If they return, which I doubt, but they might…if they return, they will have raised the stakes, and we may have no choice but to respond in kind.”
Susan interjected, “Andrew, don’t be too quick to seek blood. There is a sense of power while you hold a weapon, but there is a lingering question of whether you had to use it. More importantly, whether you had to kill. As your father said, killing a person is a final act that cannot be undone. You live with the consequences the rest of your life.”
“And if your actions were unavoidable to defend the life of yourself or the lives of your family or other innocents, you will cope. You probably won’t celebrate, but you will accept over time that your actions were necessary. Even then, a certain guilt will likely shadow you.” Mack knew this was how he would react, but he had never had to confront the reality of killing another person. “We have plenty of time to talk this through later, so let’s move on with our day. Given what just happened, we need to relocate the boat to a site less visible from the Neuse.”
“Gator Cove?” suggested Andrew.
“No, only one narrow channel in or out. Requiem would be trapped if anyone blocked the entry to the cove. But outside the entry, Requiem would be secluded behind the peninsula, hidden from sight to everyone unless they travel that far up South River.”
“What about the guy who came downstream this morning?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. No one lives at the headwaters of the South, so he likely had just been pulling his crab traps or checking nets. Also, he seemed as wary of us as we were of him. That’s good. Both of us are more inclined to keep our distance from the other. Besides, I still want to check the fish house near the mouth. With Requiem out of sight from the Neuse, I will feel more secure running over there.”
Mack lowered the dinghy and pulled the starter cord on the outboard. Andrew and Matty retrieved the anchor. Mack took less than twenty minutes to reposition the boat, dropping anchor into a muddy bottom. Andrew paid out plenty of scope while making sure that they could swing 360 degrees without grounding then secured the snubber.
“Anyone hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Let’s have lunch, let our nerves settle, maybe grab a nap, then Matty and I will take the dinghy over to the fish house late this afternoon.”
As a family, the four were a strong team. Nevertheless, each had their needs, passions, and quirks that were as individual as people can be. Each retreated to their favored space to relax and release the thoughts and nerves of their morning experience. Andrew grabbed a William Gibson book he was reading. Matty settled onto the settee with her pencil, pen and paper for drawing. Susan found peace in the galley, a place she unwound, not because it was a “woman’s place” or a “mother’s role”, but because she savored the creativity and challenge of gathering tastes and textures to enliven the normal ingredients of meals. Mack enjoyed the same when he was not engaged in the endless tweaking required by the Mistress, Requiem, the most demanding member of the crew with an insatiable need for attention without regard for time of day, weather conditions, or other people’s priorities. As captain, Mack wandered the deck of the boat and searched for any damage from the shooting, checked the lines and standing rigging for the same. He was surprised to find no evidence of the conflict but relieved. Had any sails been up, they likely would have suffered bullet holes – nothing terminal for the sail but requiring repair.
Maybe he had misgauged the severity of the threat. Maybe the fishermen displayed the weapons only to scare the “yachties”, the nautical equivalent of “city folk”, into willing submission. Sure, they had fired their weapons, but they were either poor shots or did not intend to inflict harm. If the latter, Mack’s reaction may have been more than needed. Then again, anyone shooting a weapon at you should be presumed to intend harm and, therefore, should expect retaliation. He reflected on the engagement and decided that his reaction had been appropriate. Better to be viewed as a harder target than a softer one. Word might spread, and that suited him fine. The more people who spread the word, “Don’t fuck with that blue hulled yacht named Requiem”, the less likely they would need to prove themselves in active conflict. Mack’s clear priority was the safety and welfare of his family. He preferred to achieve that peacefully; he favored avoidance of conflict. Only the recent reports of widespread civil violence had led him to arm the boat.
With bellies full of lunch and the adrenaline of the morning attack dissipating, slumber embraced them all. Andrew volunteered to take the watch until someone else awoke. In a trice, Andrew, sitting in the cockpit, could hear the harmony of snoring throughout the cabins below. He smiled and scanned the water and shoreline with the binoculars, eyes and ears alert to any movement or sound that was out of place. He heard only the soft lapping swish of water in the marsh grass and the sighing of wind in the trees on the adjacent peninsula. A few hours earlier he could not have imagined the day recovering such serenity.
Mack slept hard for half an hour, then woke just as completely as he had slept. He climbed into the cockpit where Andrew remained awake and watchful.
“Good to see you were able to stay awake, son.”
“My eyelids sagged a bit at first, but then I focused on the surroundings, making a mental map of natural landmarks and distances, anything that could hide a person intending to sneak up to the boat.”
“Good work. When the girls wake, maybe you can brief us all. Useful info.”
“Can I take my sleep watch now?” Andrew could not, and did not try to, suppress his yawn.
Mack smiled, proud of his son. “Of course. Thanks for taking the first watch. When you wake, Matty and I will run the dinghy over to that fish house, so I’ll need you up top again.” Andrew nodded as he descended the steps into the saloon, already unsteady with fatigue.
Mack stood and stretched, his muscles tense and sore from the morning’s attack. As Andrew had, Mack scanned the area for noteworthy landmarks, sniffed the air for the acrid smell of fire smoke or diesel fumes, and searched the quiescent river for signs of movement whether by fish, animals or men. Their world shielded by the peninsula seemed empty, the four of them alone at the edge of the marsh and mainland. The land had been a large farm for years, remote more than rural. Open Ground, an apt name for several square miles of empty agricultural land. Mack considered the possibility of mooring up one of the narrow creeks where they could plant a garden in one of the old fields, never far from the security of the boat or the protective presence of other family members. As usual, the primary challenge was the height of the mast. At 65 feet above sea level, the perfectly straight mast with a cross of spreaders midway would never be mistaken for a tree, not even a plumb pine that had died and shed its limbs. The ideal location for anchoring would be somewhere they could camouflage the mast among a background of forest. He reminded himself that this was the first day of an adventure that could last thousands of miles, more than a few countries and inestimable years. It was too soon to disappoint himself with a critique of their current anchorage.