Tidal Rage

make on her little sewing machine on the porch of their house. His mind wandered back to Elisa when she was a kid, wanting to hold his hand wherever they went. Sometimes it had been restrictive; he was five years older than she was, and having a young girl hanging onto your arm was a topic for his friends to prod him with jibes.
He remembered the first time he had pitched a tent in the garden at their house in Cleveland. It had been an old silk parachute that his father had got hold of. Cutler did not know it was purchased so his mom could make a First Communion dress for Elisa; she must have been six years old. Boy, the telling-off was worth it to see the joy on his little sister’s face when she had charge of her first playhouse. She was playacting the mom, ordering Cutler about. “Clean the dishes! Mop the floor!” He had to endure the warm water flowing from a plastic teapot into a plastic cup and was made to drink every last drop of Elisa’s unique tea.
Elisa was every inch as clever as Cutler and had become an honour student at Cleveland High. Cutler’s mother did not leave a single item out of what she had done, how she had grown, who was making eyes at her, in the long letters she wrote to Cutler during his absences. On his return, Cutler would spoil her, spending a significant amount of his salary on her in Abercrombie and Fitch and other high-end clothes shops.
As he sat there in the minimalist terminal building, he was in no doubt his little sister was either in severe peril or dead. From his experience, he knew the crew would have searched the ship thoroughly.
Cutler had been involved in searches on ships looking for counterfeit dollars off the coast of Tampa, and he knew the crew would have a thorough understanding of all the places she could be on the ship. If she had injured herself, or knocked herself unconscious, they would have discovered her by now. He was certain she was no longer on the vessel.
“Boarding will commence on the British Airways flight to Seattle in twenty-five minutes,” the loudspeaker announced.
His mind had settled on the fact; she was definitely not still on the ship. That meant there could only be two possibilities. One: she was abducted onto another boat from the vessel, and that was highly unlikely with the watch-outs and the size of the vessel. Plus, the assailants would have to traverse the side of the hull and bypass the sophisticated radar. In essence, he calculated, one of the two possibilities was highly unlikely. Not impossible, but highly improbable.
All that remained was that Elisa had, by one means or another, fallen overboard. Certainly not by her own hand; suicide was not an option. She was a happy girl. He had seen her only four months earlier, and she was looking forward to the gymnastic competitions that she was entered in that summer.
Cutler’s parents were sure Elisa would make the national team for the vault, such was her skill at the sport. Cutler was almost sure; she was too well-adjusted to ever consider suicide. Even in the unlikely event his eighteen-year-old sister had a major problem in her life, she would not consider suicide.
Cutler took out his pen and notebook and scribbled down a reminder for himself to investigate the events involving Elisa’s life leading up to the cruise.
“Sir, you have to board; we’re waiting for you,” said the flight attendant he barely recognized from his aircraft.
Cutler looked up and was surprised to see that the terminal building was almost empty.
“Sir, you’re the last person; we have to board,” she emphasized.
“Sorry, I was deep in thought. I didn’t hear the boarding announcement,” Cutler apologized, as he stood up and began walking toward the terminal door with the flight attendant.
Under normal circumstances, he would have noticed the utter beauty of the stewardess—black hair, perfect almond skin, large brown eyes—but today this was lost on him.
They boarded the aircraft, to the background muttering from a young, suited banker type in the second row of business class.
“Always one person to keep you waiting,” he said, looking around at the same time to see if he had any back slaps or support for commenting.
Cutler was certainly not in the mood, and the business type visibly shrank in his seat when Cutler gave him a look that said, ‘Don’t mess with me today, you may regret it.’
Cutler did not feel the upward motion as the wheels lifted off the ground, for he had returned to his thoughts. So, not suicide; one hundred percent rule that out. That means she had gone overboard by what means? Could she have fallen over by accident?
Cutler had a fair understanding of the requirements under federal law for health and safety of maritime vessels. This was one of those series of lectures he had had to undertake along with other, what he considered at the time, lame subjects, but he now appreciated the background.
As far as he could recall, guardrails around outer decks on the lower levels with decks above would normally be 950mm to 1150mm, above waist height. On the upper, open decks above the ship would be enclosed in glass panels, where the wind strength was the strongest. Guardrails again a minimum 950mm at the stern. What this meant was that it would take a physical action on Elisa’s behalf—or someone else’s—for her to go over the barriers. It would not be an accident. The deck with the lifeboats would have removable guardrails for loading in the event of an emergency, but these are locked into position.
Again, Cutler took out his notebook and wrote, ‘Check logs for the lifeboat drill that day,’ just in case someone had not locked the guardrail in position.