It hadn’t mattered who I’d told; no one had believed me, not my insurance company, not the maritime licensing authority, and not Lieutenant Joe Kurtz, after he had hauled me out of the lake.
And not even the resident psychiatrist who had examined me after the Michigan State Police had carted me off to this psychiatric observation ward in Harbor Oaks hospital, over here in Macomb County.
And it’s here that I am writing this account, while it’s still fresh in my mind – with a wax crayon, for fuck’s sake, because they won’t let me have anything sharp, like a pencil!
It is also part of my therapy, apparently (“Write down your thoughts and dreams, it will help us analyse your mental health and condition”) … Fucking shrinks!
Anyways, as far as I can remember, it all happened like this:
About a week or so ago, before they brought me in here, I walked down the wooden quay of the Oselka Marina and stepped over the gunwale onto the deck of my yacht. The morning weather was sunny, with a nice off-shore breeze, ideal for a day’s sailing.
My yacht was a 35-footer, single-masted, and as nice as you like. Her transom bore the legend “Odysseus”, and she was my pride and joy.
I hadn’t taken her out for some time… Lake Michigan had seen some pretty strong rip currents in August, and some folks drowned off of Peterson Beach. There had also been some frightening water-spout activity off the Holland lakeshore in Ottawa County and strange whirlpools from South Haven down to Manistee.
So, I was real happy that the weather was perfect for sailing for a change and fine enough for me to take Odysseus out onto the open water. I felt good, dressed in a lightweight short-sleeved shirt, tan chinos and polished tan leather Docksiders… I was ready for anything.
I glanced around with a practised eye to check that everything was in order and stowed correctly. That’s when I noticed some wet footprints staining the wooden deck and trailing off towards the slightly open cabin door, which I am sure I had left locked when last on the boat.
I unsnapped a Maglite torch from its charger unit next to the wheel. It was a five-cell job, long and weighty. Balancing this firmly in my right hand, I opened the cabin door and stepped cautiously inside. Six varnished wooden steps led down into the compact but well-appointed salon below, and as I climbed down, I had my first glimpse of the intruder who had boarded my boat.
Had it been a thief, caught by surprise, as he was breaking open the admiral’s chest to get to the small wall safe within, or whatever, I would have probably challenged him immediately, jumping the last three steps to the carpeted floor, with a, “who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want on my boat?” and making a threatening step towards him with the heavy Maglite raised above my head, ready to whack him.
But… I was stopped dead in my tracks.
It was a young woman; a girl, if I can call her that… she looked no older than twenty, and she sat at ease, relaxing in the corner of the beige leather banquette opposite the steps. Dressed in a loosely buttoned white blouse and short white tennis skirt, she had her right shoulder turned slightly towards me, and between her slender fingers, fingers that were tipped with immaculately lacquered nails, blood red, she played with a string of white pearls. Her right leg was crossed elegantly over the left, swinging nonchalantly to the gentle movement of the boat. Her extended left arm rested its entire length along the back of the cushions. She made it look as if this was her boat and I was the goddamned visitor!
She smiled, lips closed, a knowing smile that was somehow unnerving. As her cheeks dimpled, her beautiful big eyes creased slightly at the corners in fine laughter lines.
I stepped down into the salon. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” I asked once I had found my voice, my tone slightly challenging. The Maglite was now down at my side, loosely held.
“My name is Stella Charybdis, but my friends call me Chary,” she answered. Her voice was silky and foreign-sounding, almost a purr. Her pink tongue flickered across her teeth. I had never heard of such a weird name. She was very exotic and, I guessed, not from around here. She was definitely not from Michigan and probably not even American.
“What do you want? “I asked, with a slight tremor in my voice.
“I would like to charter your boat,” she replied. Her eyes never left mine, her smile broadened, and I noticed the brilliant whiteness of her teeth and the sexually exciting gap between the front two. As she shifted her position on the banquette, her blouse fell open a touch, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of her naked left breast, heavy but firm. It was just a glimpse, and as she leaned back again, it disappeared from my view. I could feel my hard-on growing involuntary, even though little more than ten seconds had passed since I had entered the salon.
“Well, Miss Stella Charybdis,” I said, “this is a private yacht; it’s not for charter.” I asserted, glancing briefly around the salon to see if there was something I had missed or should be aware of.
“I know,” the girl answered, “but it is perfect for my needs.”
I carefully placed the Maglite on top of the cocktail cabinet next to me and stepped further into the salon, the coffee table between me and this strange ebony goddess.
“And what would those needs’ be?” I enquired, somewhat sarcastically. “There are launches that can be booked from tour agents in New Buffalo,” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “And from the Oselka Marina here, there are daily trips out on the Lake. Plus, other operators take people out fishing or to the islands, so why would you want this boat, particularly?” I asked half-heartedly, not wanting to reject her entirely.
She flicked back her long hair—hair as black and as sleek as the fur on a seal recently emerged from the ocean—and settled herself even more onto the leather, long legs, skin smooth as silk, as dark as chocolate, her feet naked. My balls were exploding.
“I have two passions… or you may say vices,” she replied, her eyes fixed on me momentarily as she stroked her leg, her hand slowly moving up her thigh.
“First, I have always loved boats,” Chary purred, “especially sailing boats, weekend yachts like this one. And second, I love swimming naked in open water.”
She adjusted herself on the banquette, and her short skirt rose up further on her wonderful thighs. My hard-on responded with a jump in my Jockeys.
“I don’t want some group of tourists and a grizzled old skipper, smelling of fish and beer, gawking at me,” Chary continued, “I want privacy, a beautiful clean boat,” her tongue flickered enticingly, “and a nice companion, who understands the need for isolation and the deep wide lake, with no other vessels around, and no restrictions on time, distance or location; the freedom to be liberated and totally nude.”
I nodded thoughtfully as if I were still considering the matter. Mr Prick had already made up his own mind and was coercing me to do the same.
“But my overall passion is boats,” Chary continued. “I adore them; yachts, schooners, cruisers, you name it… I love being around them. It is almost… an obsession, you might say. I will compensate you well; my gratitude knows no limits,” she smiled coyly.
Damn it, I thought, why not. I don’t need the money. But that body, that velvet skin, the wonderful breasts, that sexy gap in Chary’s teeth and the flicking pink tongue, and the vague promise… my mind was made up, and my hard-on was threatening to make its own appearance.
“Well,” I said, “I certainly understand your love of boats, isolation, and being out on open water because those are passions that I share. It is why I have this boat,” I said, looking about me and running my fingers lovingly along the polished wood of the cocktail cabinet.
“So, we have a deal?” Chary asked, standing up.
“We do, “I replied and shook her outstretched hand.
Within minutes, I had cast off. The girl sat in the stern the entire time we sailed, watching me in silence but flashing me a smile whenever I looked over my shoulder at her.
We sailed along smoothly and slowly in the nice breeze. The sun was warm and the water calm. I reached into the cooler next to the wheel and pulled out a can of cold Budweiser. I looked over my shoulder, raised my eyebrows and lifted the can in the form of a question, but she smiled and shook her head slowly, refusing the offer.
I popped the ring pull, sipped the amber beer, and let the boat sail on.
I hove-to, about a mile out, just leeward of Scylla Shoals. The water was too deep for the anchor, so I set the sail between the current and the breeze, and the boat stood poised there, almost motionless, rocking gently on the wavelets.
Chary stood up from the stern seat, and with her back to the Lake, facing me full on and totally unabashed, she stripped naked, dropping her blouse and skirt on the deck at her feet, before stepping out of her white thong. Her body appeared to be sculptured from pure chocolate, and I had never seen such a girl outside of a high-end glamour magazine or on a super-model catwalk.
She was stunningly beautiful, narrow-waisted, with straight, elegant shoulders. Her breasts were full and heavy yet perfectly shaped with no sag, and I imagined they would be warm and firm to the touch. Her legs were long and slender, and her feet were slim. I could see the thin ribs of the metatarsals running in a fan down to her toes.
Still facing me and with her eyes fixed firmly on mine, Chary stepped backwards until her legs came up against the transom. And then, arching her back with her arms above her head and her breasts lifting to the sun, she simply back-flipped herself gracefully over the side.
I walked quickly to the gunwale and looked out over the water. At first, there was no sign of her, and a few moments passed before I grabbed the binoculars from the wheelhouse, frantically scanning around. My heart thumped, now with panic instead of lust.
Suddenly, Chary broke the surface—a small dark shape, an incredible hundred meters from the boat! I was stunned at the speed that she must have swum to reach that distance in such a short time. She gave me a quick wave—even at this great distance, I could see the white flash of her smile—and I raised my hand in response.
Chary began swimming, both her legs moving up and down as one as if her legs were glued parallel to each other, her body flexing like a dolphin’s, an ebony blur against the blue of the Lake, a dark shadow, skimming along barely below the surface, before submerging and disappearing from view. My mind turned once more to the vague promise of what would happen after she had climbed back on board and asked if she could use my bathrobe and shower.
This erotic anticipation of things to come did not last, however, for suddenly, right next to the hull, Chary breached, leaping in a twisting arc, like a hooked marlin, right out of the water. It was than that I saw, to my utmost horror, a leathery delta-shaped flap of skin sticking up between her shoulder blades! It was a fin, a goddam dorsal fin, growing out of her ridged spine! It was at least eighteen inches tall, firm, yet waving slowly from side-to-side.
She plunged back into the water and surged away, the dark fin ploughing through the foam, cutting hissing bow waves upon either side, before submerging out of sight.
The shock of what I had seen was almost physical as if I had been punched in the gut, and I stumbled away from the gunwale, catching the backs of my ankles on the lazarette hatch. As I landed hard on my ass, my dropped jaw snapped shut, and I bit my tongue so hard that it brought me back to my senses. Regaining my feet, I saw her again, thirty metres away now, rising and plunging, as she made perfect circles around the boat, but with ever-increasing speed.
The boat began to rock and swing about; water surged around the hull, and I had to steady myself on the rail. Faster the girl swam, and faster the water swirled, until the boat was turning on its axis on a wide eddy of surging water, spinning like a top.
In a reflex action, which had no logical meaning or consequence, I screamed at the girl to stop. Faster, the boat spun around, threatening to broach, and I realised it was caught in a whirlpool, the water level rising above me at all points and the boat descending lower into the vortex.
Spray flew wildly, and I had to hang on to a shroud for fear of being thrown overboard. But above or within the noise of the rushing wind and the surging water, I could hear a toneless cry or call, rising and tailing off, like the mournful calling of hump-backed whales heard on a National Geographic documentary. It was alien and mysterious but somehow hypnotic.
I looked down over the side and could see below me what I can only describe as a funnel going down into the lake, like bathtub water swirling and emptying down the plug hole, a vast writhing whirlpool, diminishing into the black hole below.
The boat was now speeding around with the water rather than spinning on it, canted over at a forty-five-degree angle on its port side, sliding down the steep slope of lake water toward the narrowing vortex as it slowed, and then rising up again with the centrifugal force as it gained speed, almost reaching the crest… and deep within the slick surging wall, I glimpsed the speeding shadow-blur of Chary, as feral and wild as a shark seen coming out of the black and into the blue. I could see rows of sharks’ teeth in the raging turmoil.
So bizarre was this waking nightmare that I had absolutely no idea what was happening to me. I was in shock, but I had enough sense left to grapple my way to the emergency locker and quickly throw on a life vest.
As soon as the boat climbed up the wall of water once more, casting a wide net of spay that made shattered rainbows against the spinning blue sky and almost surging up out of the whirlpool, I launched myself over the starboard side, across the rim of the cresting waves that formed the upper, outer circle of the maelstrom, and swam like hell away from the chaos. I swam as fast as I could, which was not that fast, considering I was wearing a buoyancy aid. But I pushed on, not looking back and not knowing or caring which direction I was heading. I swam and swam until I found myself in calmer water.
Without looking back, I pushed on, still wearing the fluorescent vest. My lungs were bursting, and my eyes stung, but still, I crawled away from the terrible events that had overtaken my life.
When I could go no further, I turned onto my back and let the vest buoy me up while I floated and drew in gulps of fresh air. My heartbeat slowed to the same pulse as the emergency beacon that was affixed to the shoulder of the vest, and I looked around to see where I was and what was going on.
To my shock, there was no sign of the maelstrom I had escaped; Lake Michigan was as calm as a mill pond – and utterly devoid of my yacht.
I was only about a quarter mile from the shore, and over to my left, I spotted the quay of the marina, from where I had set sail with Chary only a couple of hours earlier.
The white bow wave of motor launch, fast approaching from that direction, caught my eye, its twin outboard engines throwing up a cockerel tail from its screws. As it drew near, I could see it was the patrol boat of the Berrien County Sheriff’s Department, marine division.
Lieutenant Joe Kurtz cut the twin motors and let the boat drift alongside me. He grabbed the collar of the life vest and hauled me up over the gunwale. The Lieutenant began unclipping the vest as I was plonked down in the co-pilot’s chair.
“What the hell happened to you, Bill?” Joe asked breathlessly as he checked me over for injuries. I couldn’t answer because he had pulled open my jaw to examine the bleeding tongue, but he continued, “I was messing about up at the boat yard earlier when I noticed you setting out,” he said as he ran his fingers through my dripping hair, looking for cuts or bumps, “and then, a while later, the stationary white sail told me that you were either at anchor or hove to, about a mile out.”
He uncorked a hip flask and offered me a swig of dark rum, which I gulped gratefully. “Figured you were fishing or having a beer in the sun,” he drawled, “didn’t think you were in any trouble.”
Joe took the flask back and took a long pull himself. “Anyways,” he continued, “I finished off stowing some kit away, and then, some fifteen minutes later, I went up to the lookout with my lunchbox. When I got out onto the balcony with my sandwich and binoculars, I noticed you had disappeared!” Joe shook his head, staring at me. “I was fazed, man. I mean, even if you had dropped sail and fired up the outboard motor, you still couldn’t have gotten out of sight or over the horizon in the time since I’d spotted you. So here I am… Cap’n Kurtz, to the rescue!” he offered a wry grin. “So, Bill. What the hell happened? And where the hell is your boat?”
I regained some of my composure, indicated I could use another tug at that rum flask, and, after a good swallow, I took a deep breath and a moment’s pause while trying to figure out the best way to say it.
“Joe, now this is gonna sound a weird question, but what do you reckon you’d call a mermaid that lives in freshwater?” I asked in a shaky voice, with hysteria bubbling just below the surface.
Joe gave me a queer look and said, “What the hell are you talking about?” He laid his hand on my forehead. “You get a goddam knock on the head, or what?”
“No, seriously, I’m not hurt!” I almost giggled, “I reckon you’d call them lake maids, wouldn’t you, or loch sirens or something like that? Or do you get mermaids living in lakes? Well, whatever you wanna call ‘em, I think there is one of those goddam creatures living in good ol’ Lake Michigan!” I chuckled hysterically.
Joe Kurtz just stepped back and stared at me.
I leaned forward and tapped Joe’s uniformed chest with my finger. “Listen, Joe,” I said, “you ain’t ever going to believe what I’m about to tell you!”
And, of course, he didn’t.
In fact, no one did.
[Image Credit : Photo by id23 on Unsplash]
As a freelance writer, Steve Foreman has been published since 1994 in several UK and African print magazines, including BBC Wildlife magazine, Soldier magazine, Combat & Survival magazine, SCUBA magazine, Church of England Newspaper, African Travel Review magazine, Land Rover World magazine, Your Dog magazine, Travel News and Lifestyle magazine (Kenya), What’s Happening in Dar (Tanzania), Tantravel (Tanzania); The Dar Guide (Tanzania), Daily Mail newspaper (UK), and others.
Several of his horror/paranormal/bizarre tales have been published in print and e-zines, including; Blood Moon Rising (issue 56 – 2014); Hellfire Crossroads (Vol 2 – 2014); Aphelion (2014/02); Twisted Dreams (2015); The Were Traveller (2015)
Steve Foreman has also had short stories published in the following print anthologies:
“Bones III” (James Ward Kirk Publishing – 2014); “Amok!” (April Moon Books – 2014); “Ill Considered Expeditions” (April Moon Books – 2015); “Between the Cracks” (Siren’s Call Publications – 2015)’ “The Grays” (James Ward Kirk Publishing – 2015);
