Tidal Rage

Cutler had spoken to his father courtesy of the consulate satellite phone before leaving the building in Munich. Stephen, his father, had stated that the last time anyone saw Elisa was 11:30 pm on her way to her cabin, which was next door to theirs. Cutler concluded that any lifeboat drill would have been completed in daylight hours. To him, it was kind of inconceivable, but again not impossible, that the guardrails could have remained unlocked for such a period, considering the inspection systems on-board. He took out his pen and wrote, ‘Check inspection log aboard vessel.’
“Sir, can I offer you a drink?” asked the stewardess who had escorted him onto the airplane.
“Erm, sorry, yes, can I have a malt whisky. Glenfiddich if possible, no ice, make it a double, please,” Cutler replied, as he finally made eye contact with her.
“Sir seems very preoccupied; is everything all right? If you are afraid of flying maybe I can get you something,” she offered.
For the first time in many hours, a shadow of a smile crossed Cutler’s face.
“Thank you. I am not afraid of flying. In fact, I have over eighty parachute jumps to my name. I’m going home to a family crisis; my sister is missing,” Cutler said, not really knowing why he was opening himself up to this stewardess.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry. I don’t know what to say, apart from forgive me for interfering,” she said, embarrassed.
“No, it’s okay. In fact, thank you. I needed to tell someone before I burst. I don’t mean to come over as someone in need of your pity, or vulnerable at the moment. I’ve had a long trip back with this on my mind,” Cutler said.
“She may well have turned up by the time you get off this plane,” the stewardess added hopefully.
“Somehow, I do not think so; she has gone missing off a ship, just off the coast of Alaska. I think in all probability she is dead. There are two possibilities: she has gone overboard, either alive or dead. If she went into the water, she’s dead. If she was kidnapped, there is a possibility she is still alive,” Cutler said, finalizing the logic and fear that he had been dwelling on.
The stewardess sat down in the empty business class seat alongside Cutler and put her slim, light hands over his large, left masculine hand, ever so lightly. It was like his hand had a feather resting on it.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. This may not be the time to say this. When you’ve been flying for as long as I have you hear all sorts of things, and sometimes missing people turn up in places you would not have dreamt possible.”
Cutler half-turned towards her and looked deeply into those beautiful, dark eyes. He could tell she had honest eyes, beautiful and soulful.
“Have you come across people going missing on ships?” Cutler asked, without any hint of sarcasm.
“Actually, I have a couple of times. It’s more common than you would think,” she replied.
“And did they find any of them alive?” he inquired.
“Once, a lady in the Bahamas with dementia wandered onto a supply boat. She had wandered off and gotten into a restricted area. Once in the area she had access to and got on the boat unseen, only to turn up in Nassau three days later, not knowing who she was and what country she lived in,” the stewardess explained.
“My sister is eighteen years old and in control of all her faculties. The others you mentioned; what happened to them?” he pressed.
“Oh, I don’t really know about all of them, just a few,” she said, somewhat flustered.
“All of them; how many is all of them?” he asked, with a growing sense of bewilderment.
“Well, you understand it’s not all me, it’s other flight attendants as well. When something like this crops up on a flight, you typically find out because the relatives are upset and often talk to a cabin member when asked if they are okay. Well, they tell one person, who tells another, and before you know it, we are all aware. Sometimes people add a little in to spice it up, most times not. It is a closed environment in the airline industry, and we do get to know an awful lot of what goes on. All in all, I’ve heard of about ten or eleven different cases.”
Cutler sat upright at the mention of the number of instances. “And of these, how many outcomes do you know?”
“Most...” she replied hesitantly.
“And how many turned up alive?” Cutler took hold of her hand. “Please be honest with me,” he continued.
“Just that one I told you about, the lady with dementia,” she said quietly as she squeezed his hand.
“Thank you for being honest with me,” Cutler said, as he reluctantly let go of her hand. The warmth and silkiness of her skin had soothed him for a millisecond until the nightmarish thoughts returned to haunt him.
Cutler sat quietly for the rest of the flight back to Seattle, his training helping him to control his emotions, mostly. The fear in his gut, the tightness of his chest and the lump in his throat gave way to an eruption. A sob cascaded up like a flow of lava. He fought to quell the volcano of emotions until he knew he was at his limit.
Cutler took himself to the on-board toilet and sobbed for the first time since he was a child, and for the last time in his life. He washed his face and returned, in control of his emotions, to his seat.
It was not long before the flight attendant came over with another double Glenfiddich.
“Thought you might need this,” she said tenderly, looking at his red swollen eyes, guessing why he had spent so long in the lavatory. “On the