MAX draft chapter 2 - Coveting the craft of Purpose

Find draft chapter 1 here:

The Break (MAX - draft chapter 1)

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Chapter 2 - Coveting the craft of Purpose

SOUNDSCAPE 2:

Max pierced the streets like the shadows that streak past our peripheral. The ghosts in our homes that surely exist, if only we had turned our heads just a little quicker.

Gripped by adrenaline and grief, his instinct to survive flooded every crevice of his body. He was skin-covered human-determination, drenched in sweat and shaking like a dysfunctional washing machine! He really needed to slow down. Nobody this far away knew he had struck the match. The song of night creatures and dim street lights melted over him into a singular sensory encounter. Whilst he had no conscious plan, he was heading for the docks.

The port held some forty wet-docked vessels, with a main loading area that ran down the guts. Not much action during the witching hour. Which is why he had subconsciously set his compass for this place of departure.

Leave!

The only instruction; the sole command –

Leave now!

And what better place to ‘leave’ than a dock full of boats.

The side street, that had now carried him for an eon, had come to an end – opening to an expanded horizon. He gripped the corner of the low-bearing brick fence with his right hand, pushing his feet into the sidewalk. The drag of gravel and loose stone under his feet woke nobody. Fresh air had never tasted so good. Sweet. Life-giving. A re-fuelling. He got down low and let his body to do its thing, concentrate and access his frontal lobe; as they call it. Never traditionally been a great idea. As expected, his mind was status critical, and racing. It wouldn’t be long until those fire trucks had the flames under control and police would be on the scene. They would then start searching. And when his burnt out carcass fails to turn up, and his note is found, it would be abundantly clear who lit the menacing inferno. And it would be clear who threw all those around it into grave danger.

Max once stole a chocolate bar from his local general store when he was nine. No one ever found out, most importantly not the shop owner. At fourteen, he entertained the heist of a guitar from a music shop. But interestingly, these happenings never evolved into repeated action. Put plainly, he just wasn’t a thief. Not in him. No urge. Yet with the passing years, that had brutalised him unforgivingly, he was in quite the predicament. It was a big jump to lift a sea vessel.

He had spent ample time at sea. His Great Uncle was a Navy-man and his father also fell prey to the ocean’s calling. He would place young Max on the couch to watch The Wreck of the Mary Deare; a script that Max could now repeat word for word without prompting. This was followed by an hour of sea stories, tales from the deep – terrifying, yet magical accounts that were delicately passed down to his father, and then onto him. Most nights, his walk to the bedroom after “Ocean night” was with an imagination violated, filled with dread. He also spent countless hours with his father cleaning and living on his fishing boat. From its dry-docked dishevelled beginnings, to its glory years of operation: they were two men facing the vastness, or at least teasing the edge of an eternal unknown.

So, Max knew a few things. And what he didn’t know, he could piece together with a kind of natural, common sense bravado. Like riding a bike … on water.

Yet, one thing was certain – there was no time to reflect.

He wiped the sweat from his hairline and shook it onto the grass. A long breath in, then out: feeling the pace of his heart slow from the restriction of oxygen. He visualised the air leaving his lungs spraying all over the footpath, representing his anxiety and fear. It was a textured bloody orange as it sank into the cement.

He focused his eyes onto the scene before him.

The first step: know how long it would take to covet her. Inventory check. His backpack held a torch, spare batteries, a small cb radio, a blanket, matches, beef jerky and a bottle of water. Strapped tightly to his back, Max knew he would need his torch soon, but not yet. The guard was first priority. He needed to know this guard’s level of consciousness; his ability to intervene and put an early end to everything. If he could control the guard situation, then he could control the boat situation. Simple right? At least this was a plan of priorities. And on that, he took his first steps across the road and onto the walkway. Light, quick, brisk and dangerous. Like a new-born vampire.

He stopped sprinting like an obvious criminal once he reached the dock, instead opting to walk casually toward the office. This way, if the guard was awake, or alert, he would be noticed, but not suspected. This part of Max’s story was best titled, ‘Pray’. He would not yet know how relevant that concept would be further down his path.

Each step brought him closer. Each breath became tenser. The glow of the guard’s desk lamp gently caressed the walkway below the window. As he approached his viewpoint into the room, he could see that the guard had not turned his chair to glance in his direction. He remained facing his desk, which held a number of notebooks, ledgers and a small black and white TV screen that presented a split screen of four cameras across the docks. His door was a few steps forward and a turn toward the ocean. And it was open.

It was not exactly a quiet night. The wind through the trees on the street set a medium base level of noise. One could creep around fairly well and not be heard. Those were the exact quiet steps he took around to the door. Unheard. This was the first pivotal moment. He would peer into the open door to find one of two scenarios. One: a conversation with a security guard about boats and the weather, presenting as an innocent, suburban night-walker with a fascination for the sea – or two: a brief moment observing this guard in his own bottomless dreamland. Hopefully. Max made his move…

A guttural snore. A rhythm that had been locked in this pattern for a while. Comfortable. He could remain this way, undisturbed, until the morning sun graced the larger front-facing window presenting the vast horizon. Right now, all it presented was the blistery ripples of the shore which then lead into the black night sky. This brief moment was not only a relief, but also peaceful. Nothing but the wind, the shore, and snoring: the sound of opportunity.

Not to underestimate the terrifying abyss of a man’s hidden nightmares that can induce a sudden waking, Max recognised that time was still of some essence. He backed out of the office and walked the dock quickly, with purpose, until he arrived at the vessel of his desire. Its gangway. Smaller. Thinner. Completely at the mercy of the ocean’s outer fingers. He took in the unique sound of the onramp, its ropes, and a docked vessel in the water. And the smell. He knew it well.

He eyeballed the office in the distance: no change. Then the other way, further down the dock. Those few souls he noticed from across the street could not be seen from where he stood. Can’t see them, can’t see me. Good enough for now. He walked the gangway and boarded her with confidence. Yet, as soon as his feet crossed the barrier, a voice! His head jolted down a full foot and then froze! Confidence shattered.

Who the hell is that?! He sounds close! And who is he talking to?

He couldn’t make out what the sailor was saying, but it sounded like a casual exchange with another sailor on the next vessel, the one right next to Max’s newly acquired abode. Muffled tones. Instinct alone would judge the voices as to whether they were talking about him, or something else. It was an even back and forth, not heightened or concerned. He was safe. For now. He waited this out until he was gratefully gifted with silence once more, with each sailor going about their business inside their respective water-homes. It was too early to set out, but they were clearly awake and preparing. Not convenient. There was a high chance that both these guys knew the owner of this vessel and would notice someone taking off with it. If he could even get her going.

It was now time to check her out.

She looked old and wise from the outside, but accurate picture of her health could only be found inside. A brief and quiet inspection was required. He investigated the vessel, checking all of the integral mechanisms that were needed to safely operate. What he had chosen was a heavy-timbered offshore cruiser. Her hull was deep-bellied iroko, scarred by coral and bleached to a ghost-grey. She carried a stout mast of Sitka spruce, and her tanbark sails were a deep, stained red-brown. He could tell that when the gale came to hit her, she wouldn’t skitter, rather she would dig her long keel into the swell and shoulder the Indian Ocean aside. Almost like she’d been doing it for one hundred years. This beauty was well acquainted.

Satisfied with her predicted abilities, now was the hard part. He had never placed much credence in luck. Friends, those who came and went, would gloat about their windfalls. He could not relate. He had just not been a lucky guy. Most things in Max’s life had been earned through focused work and a consistent amount of uncomfortable grit. But tonight, he had found luck. The guard was asleep. And now, the boat he chose was in workable condition, and, had an engine. He knew, when he first laid his eyes on her, that there was a chance that the wind in her sails was the only way out. Thankfully, he now had a little wind and the old diesel grunter. The engine was enough for a getaway and the sails would do the rest. Best not to think too far beyond that.

Now he could accurately forecast the heist. Whilst not an expert, he could probably get her moving and on her way in about seven to ten minutes, with six simple steps. First, engine. Second, the lines. Third, the headsail. Fourth, cast off. Fifth, hoist the main. Sixth, get the fuck out of there. In theory, a relatively straight forward process. In reality, as one man, without being caught and attracting the unwanted attention – almost impossible. It would require a seventh step: a miracle. Or maybe just a lot more luck.

He grabbed his torch and descended into the cabin. He knew it had an engine, but he had not seen it, as it was most likely located under the companionway steps. The weight of an engine should be centered and low in the hull for stability. He unlatched the brass barrel bolt on the side of the stairs and swung the face of the steps upward, revealing the front of the engine. The smell grabbed his scalp and smacked his face awake; diesel, hot grease and stagnant bilge. A four-cylinder iron beast, bolted deep into her ribs. He knelt on the floor and leaned into the oily cave behind the woodwork.

It was dark. Just like his childhood bedroom, when he would speak to his younger brother from the top bunk on those bad nights: the evenings where their parents would tare shreds off each other in the kitchen, circling each other like two snarling rabid animals. This was a feature of their lives for many years. A slice of time that to a young soul felt like forever. And yet, in that entire chapter of side-lined violence, not once thankfully, did either parent enter the boys’ room. So, the darkness gave solitude. It became their womb of protection. He never asked his brother whether he felt the same way, but he assumed that he did.

He carried the first night with him until this day.

Max broke the dark with his torch; a welcomed tool. He set it to a wide spread and placed it facing up in the centre of the room to assess his surroundings. Old, a bit dusty, but this wonderful girl had been taken out recently. Again, this was good.

He needed to execute his six step procedure, starting with the battery isolator. He located the Perko switch fairly quickly now he had light. Three options: 1, 2 or both. Two was successful and connected the battery to the starter. Now fuel. He knew that the fuel shut-off valve on the tank had to be open, otherwise he’d not get far before the engine would die and expose him before everyone. He reached over and flipped the fuel lever.

The great thing about this old beast was that everything engine related was fairly close to the controls. All at his fingertips. He reached over to the key, which was there and ready to turn. This guy is too trusting.

The old diesel engine belched out a cloud of smoke and the floorboards shook! It didn’t roar like The Call, it rumbled, deeply. So much so he felt it in his teeth. No turning back now. That realisation flooded his nervous system and body with pure adrenaline. The clock was now ticking, second by second. He punched the throttle into ‘slow ahead’ and felt her pull against her restraints. With her now rumbling perfectly, he ran out to ditch the dead lines: mainly the bow and stern lines. He left the spring line for now, that held him to the dock. He pulled the end of the slip line as it slid around the dock cleat and splashed into the water. The sailors next door were now walking out to see the action. It was too early to take off for anyone. He was visible. He noticed the closest sailor heading toward his cabin door. He hauled the line in as fast as he could move. He needed to pull enough of this bloody line in and onto the boat before this guy made him. Just dump it here like spaghetti and deal with it later! The sweat from his forehead was pouring now. The thick mooring warp was wet, slimy, and heavy. His vision of his hands and the line were blurry. It was like watching a movie of main character passing out from first perspective.

“Howdy up there!”

Fuck.

“Sorry, have we met?” the sailor sounding polite, but secretly harbouring the ability to be firm.

Fuck fuck fuck. I can’t ignore him now.

“Oh, hi there… no I don’t believe we have…”

He recalled from his inspection of the cabin a few things. An old radio, a liquor cabinet filled with an array of half-drunken bottles of whiskey, some photos he assumed were of the owner and his wife and child, and most importantly, mail. The letter on the top of the pile was a bill. Possibly a docking bill. The letter window showed J.P. Morwell.

Okay, so it’s either Jack, John or James. He was old in the photos. The side of the hull said something like “Jack’s Pearl” or “John’s Pearl”? Or maybe it was just “Pearl”? I need to respond …

Max took his chances with the name that could be both, and threw James away.

“Ah sorry, yes … I’m Uncle Jack’s nephew. How are you? I came out to take his Pearl out for today.”

The sailor paused, slightly confused. Shit, I’m done.

“Oh, you’re Sam! Yes yes yes. Oh Sam, great to finally meet you. John always talks about you, almost every day!”

Chose wrong. At least I didn’t choose James. But why does Sam ring a bell?

“Does he, that’s nice…”

“Yes, I must say though, I thought you were younger?”

Max had appeared younger than his age his entire life. In fact, he was sick of people “wow”-ing out loud about it vomiting out ‘Oh wow, you look fifteen years younger than that! How do you do it?’ For the first couple of decades it was a nice injection for his ego, but after that it just became an annoyance. It evolved into a reminder of how life goes on and everyone dies. He was a façade. He was telling the world he was younger, when in reality he endured the aches and pains that all people of his generation suffered. It also had the sobering effect of making him feel like he was on borrowed time. Eventually, people would stop saying it. When that day came, it would mean a mirror would produce an accurate picture. Maybe this sailor was the first person to deliver the bad news.

“Oh – yeah, I’ve had a hard life mate” he hoped the throw away humour would put this observation to rest.

“Ha. Yes well, a bit early?”

“Yeah I know, but I wanted to set out now and find my position. Take a rest. Read a book. Can’t sleep you know.”

“Oh, I know that demon.”

“Yes, she relaxes me in ways land cannot.”

The sailor tipped his hat to Max’s words.

“Fair winds young Sam. Great to meet you.”

Thank god!

Max pulled in the remaining line, waved to the annoyingly inquisitive sailor and made for the cabin. It was go time!

He entered the cockpit, grabbed the large wooden steering wheel, paused – took a long breath and peered back at land – then jammed the throttle lever into gear. She started to move away from the dock …

Hey there … I will be gentle with you, if you can be gentle with me. And keep me safe through rough seas. Deal? He heard no audible response from the boat, more so that he acknowledged her groan over the water that suggested an agreement. Although, this did not last long. Five minutes out, just as he was planning how to tackle the headsail, the tone of the engine started pitching up. The usual wet gurgle was sounding dry. He noticed the warnings signs of panic, lurking around the corner. Maybe this engine was not capable?! It wasn’t long before the dry sound was becoming a metallic roar. He left the cabin to view the back. White smoke.

Why? Wait … the Seacock!

He had forgotten to allow water into the engine. A rooky error. The unplanned exchange with Vinnie had thrown him. He ran back to the belly of the boat, as he smelt the burning. There was too much burning already on this night. First was his house, with the odours of various woods and paints – now it was burning metal. Either way, he could not run from this smell. He had no choice but to address it.

After what felt like an eternity, he ran back to her belly, to the companionway and fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and reached shoulder-deep into the dark, oily bilge – praying in this moment that he would locate the bronze lever. His fingers felt their way past the engine block … There it is! He wrenched it 90 degrees! He knew she had been used recently. The seconds that followed were like days or terror. Please don’t die. Please don’t … then, suddenly, the sound he was hoping for – Thunk! The seawater burst into the engine pump. There’s the gurgle. That was too close for comfort. I’m a fucking idiot!

He stood up straight and checked for land again. About 200 metres out. The water was choppy, with waves breaking around the hull and treating her as an intruder; albeit a known one. Max held on tight and let the saltiness and wisdom of her wood seep into his hands. She told him it was okay.

Vinnie, who was probably watching him curiously to know whether John’s family had the same skillset, probably heard the engine. Well, not all apples fall close to the tree.

The thought arrived – he should attack the headsail.

It was a clear night. He hadn’t noticed this with all the shaking and jolting. He scanned the sky. The air was life-giving. The wind had also calmed since he was on the street. It had not left completely, but had reduced a little. He closed his eyes. It was about 6-11 kilometres per hour. He still could not relax. Snap out of ‘spiritual wanker mode’. He was still in the breaker zone and he waves were throwing him around like a bored cat testing an injured mouse. Max needed a distraction. He assessed the headsail and quickly realised that he could not go Roller Furing. This was a Hank-on Sails scenario. Furing on modern boats merely required a release from the comfort of the cockpit, grab the jib and pull it back, the wind does the rest. Hank-on involved him having to leave the boat to steer herself while he ran out 20 feet to the bow, wrestled 400 square feet of heavy stiff canvas, raise the sail while it would likely flap around like a rabid animal, then race back to the controls.

Not great, but it was what it was. And this exactly how it played out. Once he got the sail up, he dropped to his knees, and then onto his behind. He exhaled with slumped shoulders. What he had just pulled off, without running her aground or turning her over, was a miracle. He was passed the breaker and the ocean was starting to act like it should and not so erratic. In that moment she was sailing herself and he was completely at the mercy of her, the wind and the water. Whilst most people in his position would now run toward the steering wheel, he did not. Max had spent his entire life attempting to control every aspect of it. Year after year, he would fail, continually confronted with the reality that he had very little control of anything. The more he tried, the worse it became. Now, in this brief moment, he had let go. Even if it was for a minute or two. The soft touch of the waves on the hull and the movement of the boat bumping over the waves into the black horizon – she was carrying him, he was not carrying her. Finally.

Taking in a large amount of the ocean’s fresh salty air into his lungs, he then got to his feet and walked down into the saloon and then to the Navigation Station. The creak of the floorboard greeted him on the way in. The lighting was warm. This room was suddenly magical. It was his now. Not ‘Uncle Jack’s’.

He gazed at all of items on the desk. Papers, letters, a radio. He flipped it on. The coast guard channel was busy, but not talking about him. That’s all that mattered. To his left were a stack of books. Light reading perhaps? He didn’t mind a book every now and then, for an escape. He pushed the top book off the small pile – an investment DIY book – to divulge the thicker read underneath. Moby Dick. Really? Fucking loser. In fact, he read this story almost five times at varying junctures of his life: ‘almost’… meaning that he put it down at different locations in the story; each read going further than the last. The book itself had become his goddamn whale. The inescapable themes of humanity, revenge, unchecked power and the futile struggle against the monstrous supremacy of nature, was certainly not lost on him. He just didn’t like being confronted with the truth of it all.

He turned from the book to find the alcohol cabinet. A few sexy single malts were calling to him. This was his preferred escape for now.

He took the steps up and poked his head out of the cabin to capture the shrinking shoreline.

Well, it’s you and me for a while Old Girl. I am Max. I will look after you. I know your owner called you Pearl, or something like that, but I feel you need a new name. If you don’t mind, I would like to call you ‘Purpose’. Something you will help me find. Something we can find together, yes?

The warmth of the timber decking soaked into his hands. He took that to mean a connection was struck. Watching the horizon, Max knew he had to contend with the unknown, the unimaginable. The horrific stories from “Ocean Night” were knocking on the door of his consciousness, just wanting to come in and spread fear and anxiety throughout. But that wold not help. He chose not to contend with that kind of darkness. Instead, he would contend with one of those bottles from the cabinet, perhaps two.

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EBL 2026 - Taken from the draft chapter 2 of upcoming novel, MAX.