The Legend is exactly where we left her, moored at the closest pontoon in Dieppe harbour, covered in a large tarpaulin and rocking gently with the incoming tide. It’s the first day of September, and today Clare and I are returning to England, our seven-month odyssey at a close. We’re both dressed in appropriate clothing for the sombre mood that this has put us in – Clare in black cargo pants and a thick black sweater, me in the same but with khaki pants. Even after the fall of civilisation, I still like to get my clothes from the same stores.
We haul the tarp from the boat, a process that takes a lot less effort than putting it on, and go about the task of loading the boat up our belongings. Clare struggles under the pile of dresses and jewellery that she liberated from the State Hermitage, adamant that leaving such things of beauty behind would be the act of a philistine. I help her with the long flowing gowns, careful to keep them from touching the salt-encrusted wood of the jetty. She repays me by pouring drinks whilst I haul our dwindling supply of food and survival gear onto the deck. When I’ve finished stowing everything she drags me to the large double bed of the Captain’s quarters, and we pass a blissful few hours working out the stiff muscles from the morning’s drive and enjoying an early afternoon nap.
It’s late in the afternoon by the time we emerge from the bedroom, Clare looking for food whilst I spend some time starting up the boat’s systems and re-familiarising myself with their operation. I suggest that it will likely be dark by the time we reach England, and that we might be better off waiting until the next morning before attempting the crossing. Clare barely even pauses before agreeing with me, and wanders of to rummage through the DVD collection to select an evening’s entertainment.
I take my time plotting the course to Newhaven harbour, the navigation software recognises our route as an established sea-lane, and has a number of options pre-computed which I check against whilst trying to duplicate them myself. It takes me over an hour, but I get there eventually, and satisfy myself that we’re not going to end up attempting an impromptu crossing of the Atlantic.
On a whim I flip the radio on and run through the short wave bands until I hit nine thousand five hundred kilohertz. Sure enough, the crackling tones of Alice Reynolds spill from the cabin’s speakers. Clare wanders in to the small bridge, places her arm around my shoulders, and we listen together. Alice’s message has changed, but only terms of the date and minor details. The rest of it remains the same. A thriving community in New York, over five hundred now. Come to us, you don’t need to be alone.
Clare and I exchange glances. The risk is too great in this boat, but with a larger yacht and a little more range, it might be possible. It would be the gamble of a lifetime, enduring the open ocean for over a week, no hope of rescue if we run out of fuel, or capsize, or get lost. A thousand things could go wrong, any one of them leading to a quick death by drowning, or a long, slow death by dehydration or starvation. We discuss these things and more, skirting around rejecting the idea, finding a potential solution to every objection except the one we can’t control – sheer bad luck.
And yet… the idea has taken root with us, and we spend the rest of the evening and much of the night talking around ideas. What if we made it to New York? Would we be happy trying to integrate with a community that we know nothing about? Our dependence upon each other has become so great that the idea of sharing that with strangers is almost too difficult a concept to grasp. There’s no doubt, however, that the challenges of survival that we will have to face in the years to come will be that much easier if there are more of us. Neither of us knows anything about agriculture, medicine, or much beyond the basics of plumbing or engineering.
Most of these problems are surmountable with time and effort, but the issue of medicine is a big one. We’ve been lucky so far, neither of us suffering more than the odd cut or scrape, and with the end of civilisation communicable diseases aren’t a problem any more. Some problems worry me more than others – the issue of birth control is one that we’re both exceptionally strict on no matter what the circumstances. If Clare ends up pregnant the various complications could easily kill her without professional medical help. By the same token we avoid unnecessary risk with everything we do, and are rarely out of sight from each other for more than a few minutes at a time. In a previous lifetime such constant contact would have been oppressive, even claustrophobic to me, and driven me away from our relationship sooner rather than later. Now, every glance, every touch, even just the sound of Clare nearby is a constant reassurance that I am not alone. She’s told me on several occasions that she feels the same way.
We talk around the issue for hours, unable to decide on a course of action. I fall asleep still conflicted, my dreams filled with visions of months at sea aboard an ancient ship, distorted imaginings of Columbus sailing to the New World.
I awake to the sound of Clare’s breathing in the darkness of the cabin, her hand tracing patterns over my chest. She’s awake, and something is obviously weighing on her mind.
“Hey, what’s up?” It must be some time before dawn, there’s no sound of sea birds, and the sky is only faintly tinged with light on the eastern horizon.
“I can’t sleep. What are we going to do?”
“What about?” I know she means the transmission, Alice Reynolds’ beacon of hope that hangs tantalising just beyond our reach, but I am not quite awake enough to answer her question yet.
“The message, dummy.” She kisses my forehead, absent minded affection puts the onus of conversation back on me. I guess I am going to have to make a decision.
“Oh, that thing.” She giggles, and I roll over and across her, so that I am sat over her hips, kneeling with my legs either side of her body. In the dark we’re just a pair of dark outlines, our tanned skin reflecting little of the pale moonlight that the two portholes admit into the room.
I just don’t know if I can risk losing her. It’s the simple truth of the matter, I am sure that we can find a boat capable of making the journey, but for the first time I am afraid of the unknown. Five hundred people in one place is a viable community, more than enough of a mix of ages and skills to sustain themselves and flourish, maybe even make an attempt at rebuilding. It would be the work of generations, centuries even, but the human race might not be finished. What a glorious thing that would be, to stand up against the universe and declare that we’re not done yet, that whatever happens to us we’ll keep fighting.
I know what we’re going to do, the idea blossoming in my mind even as the words spill from my mouth.
“Let’s do it. Let’s go to New York.”
Clare squeals, a high-pitched scream of excitement that fills the tiny cabin. “You mean it? We’re really going to go?”
“Yes, and I know just how we’re going to get there.” I didn’t realise that this means so much to her, and I worry for a moment what she’s been holding back.
“How?”
I don’t answer her, because before I can say another word we’re kissing, and we don’t get any more sleep until the sun’s high in the sky.
Our return to England is uneventful, but carries a sense of importance, even urgency that our travels have lacked in the past. I guide the Legend into Newhaven harbour shortly after lunch. Clare has spent much of the last two days repeating the message over and over, until I can hear it echoing around my head even when the radio is switched off. She only stops playing it when I convince her to compose a reply, a task that she takes to with the enthusiasm of a child composing a christmas letter to Santa Claus. She is on her fourth or fifth revision when we reach Newhaven, which raises the issue of needing a short wave radio transmitter. We agree to hold off on broadcasting a reply until we reach London, and can establish ourselves for a few days.
Clare disappears to find us some transport whilst I unload the boat, and returns ten minutes later in a burgundy Jaguar that looks straight out of an Inspector Morse episode. I applaud her taste, and she admits it was the only thing she could find the keys for. I dread to think what monstrosity of a Japanese street racer she would have chosen if she had the chance. We load up the car, not bothering to secure the boat against the weather. The Legend has served us well, but I doubt we’ll be seeing her again. Clare waves farewell to our boat, and I step on the gas and start us on the road back to London.
Around Europe the signs of nature’s return were everywhere, but nowhere was the lack of humanity’s presence so obvious and startling a transformation as on the Sussex roads towards the motorway. Once pristine tarmac is now covered with a lace-work of moss and clumps of grass, and brambles and hedgerows have bulged out into country lanes to the point that they will soon be impassable. I am forced to drive down the centre of several roads, and once on the motorway I keep my speed deliberately low as the car threatens to slide across the increasingly green surface. A journey that once would have taken only an hour now takes two, and I make a note that we should switch to four wheel drive cars from now on.
From a distance, the eighteen months of neglect have done little to London’s grim facade, but as we pass around the M25 and around the west of the city, the extent of her burgeoning transformation becomes clear. Clare and I point out with wonder the signs that nature has staked her claim on the city. Gardens and parks are spilling over their boundaries, paving stones are universally bordered with grass and weeds that provide a surreal contrast to the flat, grey tiles. Barely a block passes without some sign of fire damage.