Dawn Patrol - Don Winslow [108]
“I don’t know.”
“We used to be great together,” she says.
“Maybe it’s the big swell,” Boone says. “It seems to be bringing something in with it.”
She sits down beside him. “I’ve been feeling it, too. It’s like how a big swell washes in and sweeps things away with it, and it’s never the same again. It’s not necessarily better or worse; it’s just different.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” Boone says.
Sunny nods. “So this other chick …”
“Petra.”
“Okay. Are you and she …”
“No,” Boone says. “I mean, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t know, Sunny,” Boone says. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I used to know. All I know is that things are changing, and I don’t like it.”
“The Buddha said that change is the only constant,” Sunny says.
“Good for him,” Boone says. Old dude with a beer belly and a stoned smile, Boone thinks, sticking his nose between me and Sunny. “Change is the only constant”—New Age, retro-hippie, Birkenstock bullshit. Except it’s sort of true. You look at the ocean, for instance; it’s always changing. It’s always a different ocean, but it’s still the ocean. Like me and Sunny—our relationship might change, but we’re always going to love each other.
“You look tired,” Sunny says.
“I’m trashed.”
“Can you get a little sleep?” she asks.
“Not yet,” he says. “How about you? You need your rest—big day coming.”
“I’ve been hitting the chat rooms,” she says. “All the big boys are going to be there. A lot of tow-in crews. I’m going to give it a shot anyway, but …”
“You’ll shred it,” he says. “You’ll kill them.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
God, she loves him for that. Whatever else Boone is or isn’t, he’s a friend, and he’s always believed in her, and that means the world to her. She gets up and says, “I really should be getting to bed.”
“Yeah.” He gets up.
They stand close for a few painful, silent moments; then she says, “You’re invited.”
He wraps his arms around her. After today, after she rides her big wave, everything is going to be different. She’s going to be different; they’re going to be different.
“I have something I have to do,” Boone says. “Tonight.”
“Okay.” She squeezes him tightly for a second, feels the pistol. “Hey, Boone, there’s a few dozen bad punch lines here, but …”
“It’s okay.”
She squeezes him tighter for a second, then let go. Holding on, the Buddha says, is the source of all suffering. “You’d better go, before we both change our minds.”
“I love you, Sunny.”
“Love you, too, Boone.”
And that’s a constant that will never change.
116
The small boat pitches and rolls in the heavy swell.
Waves smashing over the bow, the boat slides into the trench and then climbs out again, threatening to tip over backward before it can crest the top of the next wave.
Out of control.
The crew has experienced rough seas before, but nothing like this. Juan Carlos and Esteban have seen The Perfect Storm, but they never thought they’d be in the fucking thing. They don’t know what the hell to do, and there might be nothing they can do—the ocean just might decide to do them.
Esteban prays to San Andrés, the patron saint of fishermen. A fisherman’s son who found life in their small village too boring, Esteban went to the city in search of excitement. Now he fervently wishes that he’d listened to his father and stayed in Loreto. If he ever gets off this boat, he’s going back, and never take his boat out of the sight of land.
“Radio in a distress call!” Esteban yells to Juan Carlos.
“With what we’ve got down below?” Juan Carlos replies. They have thirty-to-life in the hold. So they keep banging north against the tough southern current, trying to make the rendezvous point, where they can turn over their cargo.
The cargo is down below.
Terrified.
Crying, whimpering, vomiting.
Up on top, Juan Carlos says to Esteban, “This thing’s going under!”
He might be right, Esteban thinks. The boat is a dog, a bottom-heavy tub built for calm seas and sunny days, not for sledding down the face of mountains. It’s bound to capsize. They’d be better off