Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

calm myself. I had suggested calling for help, but he had refused, and I had seen no point in arguing. If he had rabies, there was no medical cure at this stage, but at least I could get him palliative care to make his last days less painful. We needed to find a port.

I sat in the cockpit with my laptop and checked the wind and weather forecasts. I found nothing specific for our location, but they forecast no storms for the northern Indian Ocean. I Googled “no wind in the Indian ocean” and a dozen articles about the doldrums popped up.

“Shit.”

The doldrums described a windless vacuum, occurring within five degrees of the equator, especially north of it, where we now floated. The doldrums lay between the East and West trade winds, on both sides of the equator, where the sun’s radiation heated the air and forced it straight up. Windless conditions could persist for weeks and flash storms were possible.

We have to get out of here.

I climbed into the cabin, laid a chart of the Indian Ocean over the navigation table, and compared it to the computer screen showing our GPS location. It was fifteen hundred miles from Banda Aceh, at the tip of Indonesia, to the Maldives. We had been averaging eight knots, before the storm pushed us close to the equator. Crossing the Indian Ocean should have taken us seven or eight days, and we were almost halfway there, so if we had a consistent wind, we could make it in about four days. Unfortunately, the wind had died three days ago, and the current carried us in the wrong direction.

I estimated we had eight hundred fifty miles left to go. If some wind returned and we could increase our speed to three knots, it would still take eleven days to reach the Maldives. If the bat had infected Brad, he did not have long. I could burn our limited fuel, but we did not have enough to make it. Turning on the engine could get us closer, but it could also attract the shark.

A shiver passed through me, and I decided not to worry about irrational fears in the face of a genuine crisis.

I checked the fuel gauge, which showed 260 gallons of diesel fuel remaining from the 264 we loaded in Bali. I opened the Beneteau manual and confirmed we would burn three gallons of fuel per hour, at 2,000 RPMs, which should give us a speed of 8.5 knots. At that rate we could motor for 86 hours. I read the reference chart. One knot equaled 1.15 mph, making 8 knots 9.2 mph. I scribbled some quick calculations on the edge of the chart. We could cover 791 miles before the fuel ran dry, but I would need to save some fuel—at least three gallons—to navigate through a channel and dock. We could motor at 8 knots for 85 hours and get within 7.5 hours of the Maldives.

I could also motor due north and try to catch the trade winds, but that would take me in the wrong direction, and I may not find them, which could waste fuel for nothing. Motoring against the current would slow us, and if the wind increased, I could use the sails too, but those were unknown variables.

Brad may not have rabies, but I had to assume the worst and get him to a hospital. If I used the motor, and he did not have rabies, I would only have wasted our fuel.

I read the motoring instructions, climbed the stairs, and started the engine. The vibration rumbled through the bare soles of my feet as I throttled the engine. The sails flapped wildly, and I furled them. I confirmed the autopilot had us on a western heading—straight for the Maldives—and went below to see how Brad was doing.

He sat upright in bed with his head cocked, listening to the motor.

“What is that?” He asked. “What’s that noise?”

I hesitated for a moment. Did he not recognize the sound of our engine?

“I’m using the motor to escape the doldrums.”

“What? We don’t have enough fuel. You’re wasting our diesel.” He shook his head back and forth in a feverish tantrum. “Don’t do it.”

“Brad, listen to me. You’re sick and I need to get you to port. I’m heading for the Maldives. We can admit you to a hospital there.”

“Hospital? I don’t need a doctor. I have the flu.”

Should tell him I suspected rabies. He would probably know it was incurable at this stage. It seemed cruel to worry him, but as a doctor, I believed a patient always had the right to hear the truth. It was not my decision to protect a patient from facts about his health, even when the patient was my husband. I sat on the bed next to him.

“Honey, I don’t want to frighten you, but there’s a chance you contracted rabies from that bat.”

“Rabies? Impossible.”

“I could be wrong, and I don’t want you to stress out. It’s only a possibility, but the wound on your head isn’t healing, which indicates a rabid bite.”

“I scratched it. I’m bleeding, because I scratched it in my sleep. I have the flu.”

“You may be right.”

Hope swelled my chest. Maybe he had the flu and had scratched off a scab. Even if the bat had bitten him, maybe it did not carry the virus.

“If I’m showing symptoms of rabies, I’m dead,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Don’t think about it. Try to stay hydrated and get some rest. If this is the flu, you’ll recover in a few days. Let me plan for the worst.”

“Who’s on watch?” he said, panic flashing in his eyes.

“What do you mean? I’m here with you. There’s no one else.”

“Who’s on watch?” Brad yelled.

“Brad, try to focus. There’s nobody else onboard.”

“We need to watch for tankers. I’m going on deck,” he said, and slipped his leg off the bed.

I put my hand on his knee to stop him. “I’ll go. I’ll take the watch. Get