and profit from it.”
In the photo, Dawson Hartford stands at the wheel of the sailboat with a black captain’s hat perched on his head. He grips an open bottle of Dom Perignon, a frothy rivulet bubbling over his hand. Tall and imposing, with a thick mane of salt and pepper hair, he sports the proud, toothy grin of a man used to bringing the world to heel.
“You never heard of him?” Conner asks incredulous. I shake my head.
Conner regards the photo with the reverence a medieval pilgrim would give to the bones of a saint. “Floating across the Atlantic in a balloon, sailing around the world, rocketing into space—Dawson’s done it all. This has to be his boat. My whole life I wanted to meet him, and now I’m on his boat.”
“As it sinks to the bottom of the bay,” I pull Conner back to reality. “C’mon. Let’s see if anyone is onboard.”
Sloshing through the water, I open a door at the back of the cabin. It leads to a narrow, water-filled corridor. As we proceed down the corridor, we hear the unmistakable groan of fiberglass sliding against stone. The boat lists further to the side. Any moment, the boat could slip to the sea bottom with us trapped inside.
Conner points to a cabin at the end of the corridor. “That must be the sleeping cabin.”
Because the sleeping cabin is closer to the hole in the hull, the water level is higher—waist deep. Half the windows in the cabin are underwater. The room is dim. Clothes and paperwork float by. The body of a man slumps in a plush chair bolted to the floor.
“Is that Dawson?” Conner whispers.
Treading water, I move closer, but even from a distance, I can see something is terribly wrong with the man in the chair. The skin on the man is blistered and missing in long, oozing strips. Dawson’s thick hair—if it is Dawson—is gone. Only scraggly patches remain.
“What’s wrong with him?” Conner gasps.
I crouch before the body, bending to examine the mangled face. “I don’t know. He’s dead.”
“Holy fuck. That’s him…that’s Dawson Hartford. I recognize his face, even after…after whatever happened to him. It’s like somebody threw acid on him,” Conner grimaces, cautiously reaching out, nearly touching the man’s face.
Suddenly, the eyes on the body open, causing us to recoil in shock. Dawson Hartford sucks in a painful, rattling gulp of air and looks at us with an agonized stare.
“Help me,” he rasps, bloody spittle falling from his lips. “Help me, please.”
Recovering from my surprise that Dawson is still alive, I inch closer. Wracked with pain, his eyes beseech me. How could a man suffer such trauma and still cling to life? “What happened to you?”
“I… don’t… know,” he struggles to say, and then contorts in excruciating pain. It subsides and he continues, “Set sail… from London three days ago. Rio de Janeiro. Head for Rio. Everything…good. Two nights ago…just past Tropic of Cancer…storm. Massive storm. Out of nowhere. Wind roaring loud. So loud. About to capsize. Had to go on deck—right the boat. Everything foggy. The fog burned, felt like—like being roasted…alive. Need doctor. Please.”
Conner backs away towards the door, eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of storm could do this?”
Dawson’s head sinks down. Only the faintest movement of his chest indicates he is alive.
Not getting an answer from Dawson, Conner grabs my arm and jerks me back. “Tell me what did this to him!”
“I…I don’t know. Maybe some kind of volcanic eruption—no, no, that couldn’t be it. The boat isn’t burned. He sailed into some kind of acid cloud. Maybe a chemical spill. Something that burns flesh but not wood—not the sails,” In a jolt, the answer hits me. “Radiation. These are radiation burns.”
With an awful rumble, the boat lurches downward. As Conner and I grab hold of the doorframe to steady ourselves, Dawson tumbles head first from his chair into the water.
“No, no, no,” I thrash
In the photo, Dawson Hartford stands at the wheel of the sailboat with a black captain’s hat perched on his head. He grips an open bottle of Dom Perignon, a frothy rivulet bubbling over his hand. Tall and imposing, with a thick mane of salt and pepper hair, he sports the proud, toothy grin of a man used to bringing the world to heel.
“You never heard of him?” Conner asks incredulous. I shake my head.
Conner regards the photo with the reverence a medieval pilgrim would give to the bones of a saint. “Floating across the Atlantic in a balloon, sailing around the world, rocketing into space—Dawson’s done it all. This has to be his boat. My whole life I wanted to meet him, and now I’m on his boat.”
“As it sinks to the bottom of the bay,” I pull Conner back to reality. “C’mon. Let’s see if anyone is onboard.”
Sloshing through the water, I open a door at the back of the cabin. It leads to a narrow, water-filled corridor. As we proceed down the corridor, we hear the unmistakable groan of fiberglass sliding against stone. The boat lists further to the side. Any moment, the boat could slip to the sea bottom with us trapped inside.
Conner points to a cabin at the end of the corridor. “That must be the sleeping cabin.”
Because the sleeping cabin is closer to the hole in the hull, the water level is higher—waist deep. Half the windows in the cabin are underwater. The room is dim. Clothes and paperwork float by. The body of a man slumps in a plush chair bolted to the floor.
“Is that Dawson?” Conner whispers.
Treading water, I move closer, but even from a distance, I can see something is terribly wrong with the man in the chair. The skin on the man is blistered and missing in long, oozing strips. Dawson’s thick hair—if it is Dawson—is gone. Only scraggly patches remain.
“What’s wrong with him?” Conner gasps.
I crouch before the body, bending to examine the mangled face. “I don’t know. He’s dead.”
“Holy fuck. That’s him…that’s Dawson Hartford. I recognize his face, even after…after whatever happened to him. It’s like somebody threw acid on him,” Conner grimaces, cautiously reaching out, nearly touching the man’s face.
Suddenly, the eyes on the body open, causing us to recoil in shock. Dawson Hartford sucks in a painful, rattling gulp of air and looks at us with an agonized stare.
“Help me,” he rasps, bloody spittle falling from his lips. “Help me, please.”
Recovering from my surprise that Dawson is still alive, I inch closer. Wracked with pain, his eyes beseech me. How could a man suffer such trauma and still cling to life? “What happened to you?”
“I… don’t… know,” he struggles to say, and then contorts in excruciating pain. It subsides and he continues, “Set sail… from London three days ago. Rio de Janeiro. Head for Rio. Everything…good. Two nights ago…just past Tropic of Cancer…storm. Massive storm. Out of nowhere. Wind roaring loud. So loud. About to capsize. Had to go on deck—right the boat. Everything foggy. The fog burned, felt like—like being roasted…alive. Need doctor. Please.”
Conner backs away towards the door, eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of storm could do this?”
Dawson’s head sinks down. Only the faintest movement of his chest indicates he is alive.
Not getting an answer from Dawson, Conner grabs my arm and jerks me back. “Tell me what did this to him!”
“I…I don’t know. Maybe some kind of volcanic eruption—no, no, that couldn’t be it. The boat isn’t burned. He sailed into some kind of acid cloud. Maybe a chemical spill. Something that burns flesh but not wood—not the sails,” In a jolt, the answer hits me. “Radiation. These are radiation burns.”
With an awful rumble, the boat lurches downward. As Conner and I grab hold of the doorframe to steady ourselves, Dawson tumbles head first from his chair into the water.
“No, no, no,” I thrash
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