Episode Two: The Sailing

The ten PM night ferry from the Port of Cebu left bang on time as it always did. Tonight it was full: full of cargo, and a little over-full of people. The tourist cabins, with their air con and bunk beds, were packed to the gunnels, but every passenger had their place and knew it (even though a few tried their best to change it).

In the open air economy class too, each passenger had an allocated bed, which they stuck to. Mostly. The odd family or two cut deals so that they could lie closer together after last minute purchases had split them apart, but other than that, no issues.

The seated accommodation, however, was different. Everyone knew what the game was here. Not everyone had a place to rest. Ship security had been hoodwinked. Extra passengers had snuck on board. They weren’t listed in the manifest. But they weren’t stowaways. Not strictly speaking. The crew knew all about them. They just did little to stop them.

Oh, those extra passengers would try every angle to sneak their way into the better cabins – even the exclusive VIP ones – but they would rarely succeed. Mostly they would hustle their way into the karaoke bar and hope the place wasn’t too noisy so they could catch a snooze on the five hours it took to make the crossing.

But tonight was very unusual.

One of them was white. And blonde. And wearing loose joggers, a thin hoodie and trainers. And travelling with no luggage. None at all.

The crew thought she’d got lost. They beckoned her towards the better accommodation, but asked to check her ticket. When they challenged her, she would walk away. She was distant. Distracted. Not on their wavelength.

And a little agitated.

She was an anomaly.

And she was attracting suspicion.

The snack bar had closed for the night. It was two AM. Two young female crew members, diminutive in size but giants in character, their neat uniform looking a little shabby (as anything would at this time of the night), were completing their stock-take of the remaining goods.

Only one of them was not concentrated on the job at hand.

‘Dai, what do you think of that one?’ she pursed her lips towards the white woman, who was standing at the side of the ship, hoodie over her head, rocking back and forth on her heels and staring out towards the faint silhouette of the Camotes islands, looming in the distance.

‘Not my type.’ Her colleague quipped as she finished counting unused pots of instant noodles.

‘Huh?’ Her colleague quietly explained in bewilderment.

‘Babaye ni. I like men. Remember?’ the second crew member joked.

‘Dili, man!’ The first one playfully slapped her colleague down. ‘I mean, do you think she is alright?’

‘Is anyone alright at this crazy hour?’ the second one jibed back.

‘Dai, I don’t know. I mean, she is really odd: no luggage, no friend...’

‘No ticket!’

‘Exactly. But she is foreigner. She should have all these things. And look at her! She has not slept at all. Something is wrong, Dai. I am sure of it.’ The first crew member insisted.

‘Is your spidey-sense tinging?’ her colleague jested, a little jaded.

‘Dai, look at her. Just look.’

Her colleague took a good, long gaze. She was right. It was thoroughly odd. Who was this woman? And why was she here? The more she thought about it, the more deeply unsettled she became.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The woman sensed their gaze. She glanced back at them.

The crew members quickly turned away, pretending to be busy.

The woman wandered away, towards the middle of the bunks, where the privileged passengers who’d actually paid for their tickets were sleeping like lambs and snoring like stuck pigs.

‘Ate, you are right. We have to do something.’ The second one whispered seriously to her colleague.

‘But what?’ her older colleague asked her.

‘Only one thing for it, nalang.’ The younger one decided. ‘We call the police.’

‘No! No police!’ The woman’s commanding Scottish tone boomed out across the beds, jolting a few guests from their fitful slumber.

The two crew members immediately sought to settle things down. The older one lifted her hands and pulled them towards the ground, shushing gently with her mouth. ‘Please. Do not upset them.’ She hushed.

‘No police. Not now. Not ever. Just mind your own business.’ The blonde woman spat.

‘Okay. Okay.’ The older crew member also tried to calm her down.

A taller Filipino man in his fifties, dressed only in a white t-shirt and black jeans, slowly roused himself from his slumber, rubbed his eyes, and asked, ‘Problema, ladies?’

The crew members shook their head

‘Dili, sir.’ They pronounced, in thoroughly unconvincing unison.

The woman nodded her satisfaction. She wandered casually over to the other side of the ship, where a seat had been vacated by a passenger who, unable to sleep, had momentarily left for the smoking area. She sat herself down, put her head on her lap and tried to rest.

The man eased himself out of his lower bunk, sat on the edge, and then wearily stood up. Careful not to attract attention, he crept over to the snack bar.

‘Sorry, sir. Serrado lang mi.’ The younger one explained the fact the snack bar was closed, not quite realising what was happening.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to make me a pansit guisado. I’m going to pay. And before I pay, you’re going to tell me what’s going on.’ He told them quietly, subtly flashing an ID card from his wallet.

The older one nodded. She took a plastic instant noodle pot and opened the lid back a little, while gesturing with her forehead to her younger colleague to boil some water in the kettle. She complied, even if bemused.

The older one, in hushed tones, explained their suspicions. ‘Iya, sir. Puti siya. Pero way tiket. Way lugar. Way bagahe. Ug tanawa niya. Dili normal gyud.’ She told him in understated Bisaya, nodding towards the strange white woman, while the younger one poured the now scalding water into the noodle pot.

‘Ma’am, we have been following her for some time. Please, leave it to us.’ he instructed her, handing over his money in exchange for the now heated, but not yet cooked, noodles.

The younger one handed him the noodle pot and a plastic fork. ‘Careful, sir. Init kaayo.’ She warned him about the heat he could instantly feel in his fingertips.

‘Salamat ninyo.’ He thanked them. Then, without another word, he padded delicately over to the woman.

‘Care for some noodles?’ he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Low sodium diet. Those things are full of salt. And MSG.’ She mumbled, as if suddenly respecting the floating outdoor dorm full of sleepers.

‘If you’re in trouble, I can help, you know.’ He offered, standing near her, while consuming his first forkfull of the as yet undercooked noodles.

‘And who might you be?’ She asked him, a slight sneer in her Glaswegian tone.

He introduced himself punctiliously. ‘Rohelio Gomez. NBI Ormoc. At your service.’

‘What? Are you some kind of banker?’ she asked, incredulous that such a man could even offer to help her.

‘National Bureau of Investigations.’ Rohelio told her.

‘So, police?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘I said, “No police!”’ she snapped angrily, pushing him aside, so that some of his noodles and broth sloshed from his pot, scalding his fingers.

‘Hey! My snack!’ he protested.

She weaved between the bunks, quick as a flash.

‘Stop her!’ Rohelio yelled.

The other passengers began to stir, awoken by the commotion. ‘Hey! What’s...?’

They could barely get the words out before she leapt passed them like a gazelle from a lion, Rohelio on her tail, still shaking a scalded finger. He began to call out. ‘She’ll do something...’

Too late. The woman reached the Camotes side of the vessel. She quickly clambered onto the guard rail and turned round to face Rohelio. ‘Do not come after me!’ She snarled.

‘Don’t jump! You’ll drown! You’re too high!’ he yelled at her. ‘Come down! Please!’

‘See ya, policeman!’ she shouted, saluting in mockery, before she hunched down and dove off the side of the ship.

The elder crew member in the snack bar grabbed an emergency phone from the snack bar wall and cried out, ‘Emergency! Emergency! Man overboard! Stop the ship!’

Rohelio sauntered over to the guard rail. He saw her tall, narrow frame getting smaller and smaller as she plunged down two decks in height, before crashing into the ocean below. He held tightly on to his breath, and his noodles, peering intently into the deep.

Other crew members dashed to the right side of the boat. They shone searchlights. Torchlights. Mobile phone lights. Any light.

Rohelio caught sight of her spray. And then nothing. Nothing for five long seconds. Five seconds that seemed like an age.

And then he saw it: two pale, skinny arms, striking out into the vicious, seething currents of the Camotes Sea. A blonde, long-haired head, battling determinedly to remain above the water line.

Rohelio took out his phone. He sat his noodle pot on the guard rail and dialled a number. ‘Ma’am Amparo? Better get here quick. We have a jumper.’

The sea threateningly lapped the shore as the silhouette of a small woman in her early sixties dashed from her beachside home in flip-flop sandals across the fine white sand, roughly shoved her bangka into the sea and yanked the starter cable on the outboard motor until it choked and chugged into life. She powered further into the darkness and the deep. The sea toyed with her tiny wooden vessel like a cat with a mouse, slapping it this way and that, up and down. She arrowed it skilfully through the swell, taming it with one vigorous yank after another on the rudder.

She would get there in time. She had to.

The woman kept fighting, kept slashing with her hands against her watery enemy, kept kicking out hard against the determined current. One stroke. Then another. Then another. Then another. But she couldn’t tell if the shore was getting nearer, or if each swell of the tide was pulling her away.

Rohelio peered into the dark. The diesel ship engines were silent now. All around him, sirens were screaming into the night. Sailors ran chaotically around, grabbing life jackets, readying a life boat. But there, in the distance, and looming closer, he could hear the dull throb of a bangka engine.

‘Come on, Ma’am Amparo. This one’s yours.’ He pleaded quietly under his breath.

The lifeboat was readied. Sailors from the ferry jumped into it: first two, then three, then four. A fifth and a sixth sailor began to lower the lifeboat into the water.

But it was in vain.

The sea was too strong an adversary.

The woman did what she could. But her strokes were slowing. Her kicks were weakening. Her breath was ragged now; her heart pumping slower and slower and slower. Her head began to dip. Sea water splashed over her eyes. It stung. It burned.

And then its dripping fingers found their way into her mouth. She found the strength to spit it out. ‘Help me!’ she strained desperately. ‘Someone, please help me!’

The lifeboat splashed down into the sea. Its pilot yanked its motor into life and gunned it straight for the woman.

But it would be too late.

Stroke by stroke, her aching limbs were losing their strength. Her will was sapped. Her head was sinking deeper and deeper and deeper.

Before long, the whole world went black.

She fell asleep.

Hours later – she could not tell how many as she had lost track of time – the brightest glare of light warmed her eyelids. They flickered into life and opened up. She blinked against the sun. Every limb ached. She was thirsty. So very thirsty.

She noticed someone else in the room: a small, but strong form that seemed to be a woman.

‘Where am I? Am I in heaven?’ she groaned weakly.

The woman smiled and chuckled. ‘Not quite. But you’re safe, Charlotte. ‘

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked the woman.

She did not receive an answer. ‘Sleep, now. I’ll still be here when you wake up. I’ll tell you everything then.’

The Sabin Resort Hotel is the most luxurious hotel in Ormoc City, and has been since it opened. Known for its pool, its sunset and the wonderful atmosphere in its restaurant where a live band plays every evening, it was, of course, the natural resting place for a renowned influencer like Shiloh Stalker Valdez.

They (Shiloh was a pre-op trans man whose gender identity and sexuality could match the Pacific Ocean for fluidity) had, naturally, booked the best room in the hotel – the Presidential Suite. They had taken a rather perverse delight when they had looked out of their window at a garden wedding taking place on the view deck and realised from the newly married couple’s looks of sad, jealous longing that they had forced the happy young couple to celebrate the first night of their nuptials in an inferior room.

Hey, for all Shiloh cared, they could tie two twin beds together with garters to stop them from pulling apart. Or sneak into a bottom bunk and hope one of then didn’t bang their head or fall out.

Shiloh really didn’t care. What was cis marriage anyway? Just a patriarchal contract designed to limit potential breeding partners. Surely human beings had evolved far beyond that?

Their people had anyway. They were wild beings who could sleep with whoever they wanted and whenever they wanted and however they wanted.

They were so highly evolved, they had reverted to being hind-brain driven beasts. And they loved it.

Anyway, the husband would likely cheat on her in one of their love motels. Or on their websites.

Or... Elsewhere in their business empire.

Well, right now Shiloh was enjoying it a little less. To say the Philippines looks down on ‘street pharmacists’ is a huge understatement. Shiloh was well out of range – by several thousand miles – of their usual under-the-counter supplier of uppers (cocaine, ketamine, but never meth – that left too big a scar), downers (sleeping pills, when they needed to come down from a high quickly) or poppers – the kind of thing you really cannot obtain from Watson’s Pharmacy (the branch on Real Street had been particularly clear about that). Even absolution had slipped through their artificial, painted fingernails.

Honestly, did that ancient celibate hypocrite even have a hotline to the Almighty? Or was it just a load of made-up baloney?

So tonight, the internet’s biggest influencer and social butterfly was taking a rest: starfished on their queen sized bed, eyes buried between two evenly-cut slices of cucumber; skin caked in the most expensive cosmetic creams and potions the nation of Korea could supply.

They had business to attend to. Some pleasure, of course, but mostly business. So rest was critical.

Besides, the maudlin ballads and love songs being played for the wedding party downstairs well into the wee hours and beyond were enough to make an insomniac snore.

As they lay there, dreaming of being the first influencer to earn a billion dollars, they heard a timid knock at the door.

‘Enter. But at your own risk. Yesterday was not my best day.’ they royally pronounced.

One of his assistants – a dainty Filipina, dressed in a smart, dark, but gender-free, business suit that flattered no-one, and an oversized pair of spectacles, despite having twenty-twenty vision (so her boss’s slowly fading eyesight caused by the illegal concoctions he imbibed would not be obvious) – pushed open the door as carefully and as sensitively as she could.

‘It’s your friend, boss. The one who used to be known as Charlotte Chapman. I believe the latest name you gave her was Cherry Popper.’ The assistant began to tell him.

‘”Friends” is a TV series. It’s outmoded. Like the concept. But, do go on.’ They said with a flourish from their bed.

‘She’s fallen from the ferry into the sea. They think she may have drowned.’ The assistant winced. This news would not go down well normally. But stone cold sober? Much, much less so.

‘What is it with that woman and water? I swear she’d wear a life preserver to take a bath.’ Shiloh quipped heartlessly.

‘But don’t you need her to, you know, interview applicants?’ the assistant asked.

‘What? Because she is a woman?’ Shiloh retorted.

The assistant didn’t dare answer.

‘I mean, look at me. Look at me!’ the influencer with unshaven legs, a conspicuous moustache and five o’clock shadow emerging through their heavy cosmetics, and plentiful masculine features (not to mention organs) argued quite vehemently. ‘Am I not a woman? Really? Am I not a woman?’

The assistant was backed right into a corner. She needed the money. And this job paid well. A little too well. She arrowed a lightning prayer for forgiveness, crossed her fingers behind her back and said, ‘Of course you are, Ma’am. Of course you are.’

‘Well, then: no need for Ms Cherry Popper.’ They argued. ‘What time is anyway?’

‘Six thirty AM, Ma’am.’ came the reply.

‘Way too early. Wake me when I’m beautiful again.’ Shiloh instructed.

‘Very well, Ma’am.’ the assistant agreed. Although she had no idea when that would be.

Or if it would happen before she retired.