The Maiden Voyage of the Last Adventure
March 10th, 2010

When the doctor returned to exam room six, he didn’t open the door right away. He clutched the test results to his chest, pausing to take a deep breath before turning the handle. He hated this part of the job, though it was not the first time he’d had to deliver bad news. When he finally pushed through his hesitation, he willed his tingling fingers push down on the handle and open the door. The doctor entered the room with his lips drawn into a tight line caught in limbo between a “bad-news” frown and a “there’s still hope” smile. His patient, eighty-year old Walter Jenkins, was sitting on the exam table wearing the light blue cotton hospital gown he had been given. For his age, Walter was in good physical shape and he filled out the gown rather well. His steel gray hair was neatly trimmed, immaculately combed, and lightly shellacked with thin pomade, making it shimmer like an apple at the super-market. He watched the doctor through once-stylish thick-rimmed glasses, his sharp blue eyes frosty, but kind. On the hook behind the door hung his gray flannel suit, crisp white shirt, and striped black necktie.

This exam room was like the rest in the Sacré-Cœur Hospital, a small fifteen-foot square box, arranged neatly so everything that was needed could fit inside. There was the exam table, draped with the sheet of sterile white paper, a rolling stool for the doctor, and two plastic chairs for any guests who might accompany a patient. Taking up one whole wall was a counter stocked with various medical supplies, like tongue depressors and gauze, and a built-in sink with foot pedals. On a shelf next to the counter was a small computer, its monitor displaying the Hospital’s name and logo, a heart wreathed in flame. The doctor closed the door behind him and crossed the short distance between himself and his patient. He held out his hand, the sleeves of his white lab coat hanging short of his wrists, and the two men traded a shake. Walter’s gold watchband jingled quietly, the only sound in the tiny room. The doctor crossed his arms and turned his body slightly away from Walter, holding the test results on his far side.

“Mr. Jenkins -” he began, his voice soft.

“Please, call me Walter.” he said, his own voice a gruff, rumbling growl, unrefined compared to the cut of his suit and his groomed appearance.

“Walter,” the doctor continued with a forced smile, “the results for the test that your primary physician ordered came back, and the prognosis is not good.”

“I thought not. Tell me.” Walter said.

The doctor took another deep breath, “He was correct in his original thinking, of which he previously explained to you; it is a malignant brain tumor.” Walter pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. The doctor continued, “ It’s located in one of the parts that is responsible for understanding written and spoken languages, which explains the trouble you said you’ve been having with reading. Unfortunately, it’s considered inoperable because it would render you completely unable to understand anything written or spoken, thus leaving you unable to communicate.”

He stopped again and examined Walter’s face, trying to judge his reaction to the news, but the older man wore a stoic mask. His only response was a casual hand wave that one might use to encourage someone to continue telling a story about one’s day, an out of place gesture considering the gravity of the situation. “In addition, the tumor is highly developed and likely to spread to the rest of your brain. Even if you’d come in sooner, there would be no way to treat it. Considering your general health and the condition of the tumor, I estimate you have less than one month to live. I’m sorry, Walter, but there is nothing that can be done.” Walter nodded along to the last of the doctor’s prognosis and was quiet for many moments before he reacted. He took a deep breath that started at his toes and reached the top of his head. He exhaled slowly and looked at the doctor with dry eyes. “Thank you, doctor. I’ll make the necessary preparations.”

The doctor’s jaw dropped slightly and he was taken aback by Walter’s seemingly unconcerned reaction to the news of his imminent death. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me or talk about?” he asked. Walter shook his head, “No, I understand what you’ve said, but I don’t feel the need to talk about it.” “Alright Walter, call us if you do.”

The two men exchanged grips again and the doctor smiled weakly before leaving, the door shutting quietly. The doctor would later note to his fellow physicians, and to his wife, that Walter Jenkins must be a brave man, for he seemed to have dealt with the five stages of grief at a pace that would make Doctor Küber-Ross spin in her grave. In truth, Walter knew, rather he felt, as if he had been dying for some time, ever since his wife, the only family he had, passed ten years prior. It was as if she had taken a piece of him with her when she died. Because she was unable to conceive, they had no children, so Walter felt no guilt surrounding his last wishes.

While he redressed, he went over the plan he had made in the time following his wife’s cremation. Being a bold man in his youth, and having met his wife on an African safari some sixty years ago, Walter had decided to embark on one last jaunt. He would purchase a small sailing craft that he could operate alone and sail northwest from a marina on the coast of Washington, his home state, to the Gulf of Alaska, just in sight of the southern coast, in order to see the Northern Lights before he died.

His grandfather, who was raised in Alaska but moved his family to Washington, often spoke of the beauty of the Aurora Borealis, which he could see from his father’s oil fields just outside of Anchorage. Walter had longed to go back to his roots in Alaska and experience the phenomenon himself, but time had always led him astray.

When he returned to his modest manor-home, he wasted no time in calling the men he had originally located those ten years ago, in order to help fulfill his last requests: a ship maker, a local marina, and various stores that delivered their wares. Within a few hours he had purchased himself a small sailboat and had it outfitted to his specifications and delivered to his pre-determined marina to await his arrival. With another call, Walter had his new boat it stocked with everything he would need, like food and sundries, and anything he might want, like recordings of his favorite crooners, Sinatra and Martin, and classic literature, mostly Hemingway and Faulkner.

By the end of week, Walter had checked himself into a Four Seasons hotel, planning to stay for a few days until he was ready to leave. While he was staying there, his home was emptied and was listed for sale, its contents sold at auction, given to acquaintances, or simply donated. After he arranged and paid for a car and driver to take him to the marina, he donated the rest of his vast monetary holdings to charities he and his wife had given to before, like the Make-A-Wish Foundation, UNICEF, and the Global Hunger Project.

On the morning he had chosen, the car and driver picked him up at the hotel and drove him to the marina. It was a bright day with fluffy white clouds pasted on the vibrant azure sky. There were not many people around the marina, but Walter didn’t mind. After the driver departed, Walter walked down the sun-faded dock to the end where a glossy white, thirty-foot, double sheeted sailboat bobbed up and down with the movements of the ocean. On its stern, in bright red italic letters, it read ‘The Last Adventure.’

Walter boarded the boat and cast off the main mooring line. With a long gaff, he pushed the boat away from the dock and set sail. He turned the rudder northwest and caught the wind in his sails, embarking on his nautical voyage. As he sailed away from his homeport, he passed many other boaters out enjoying the clear sky and calm ocean. A few motorboats ripped across the water, dragging water-skiers in their wake or parascenders in the air. Just on the edge of his vision, Walter could see a gang of jet-skiers racing around, weaving around each other in precise formations. Above him hung a flock of white and gray seagulls, wafting on the air currents, flying aimlessly, or diving at the water for food.

Early the second day, under an orange sky, The Last Adventure passed by a small fleet of fishing vessels. Each crew of fishermen appeared to be having a good morning, pulling aboard vast nets full of tuna and salmon, their scales sparkling diamonds in the orange sunlight. Walter passed by one ship while its nets were being hauled up, and he was showered lightly with cast off water. Along with the droplets raining upon him, a thirty-four inch salmon fell onto the deck and flopped around. When the sailors noticed the escaped fish, they laughed heartily and encouraged Walter to keep it. That night he dined on seared salmon fillets, and in the morning, salmon patties.

Five days into his trip, Walter came upon a great stirring just below the ocean’s surface. Huge, dark shadows, larger than his boat, passed beneath him in great numbers. As they went by, a few of the shapes broke through the ocean’s surface in uncannily small splashes, despite their size. When their mass moved out of the water, Walter could see that the emerging shapes were the graphite gray backs of humpback whales. The pod of whales seemed oblivious to the presence of the small sailboat, surfacing and diving at ease. Occasionally a whale, just before diving, would release a spurt of air from its blowhole, the water vapor reaching nearly twenty feet in the air. As they swam by, Walter could hear the low moans and deep groans of their “song” echoing through the water, carried on the waves.

For seven days he sailed on the deep blue ocean, riding the waves and crashing through the white foam caps. The weather was generally fair and he sailed all during the day, not stopping until the last light of the day disappeared over the horizon. While anchored for the night, Walter slept easily rocked to sleep by the gentle ocean’s motions.

Just before dusk on the seventh day, the thin line of the Alaskan coast came into sight. Walter maneuvered The Last Adventure into a position parallel to the coast, just close enough to make out some of the geographical features of the mainland. For the last time, Walter dropped the boat’s anchor. As the last rays of the setting sun faded away, he opened a bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne and a tin of Russian Beluga caviar.

While he dined, stars began to appear on the purple-blue backdrop of the sky, one at a time, and before long the sky above him was sprinkled with twinkling lights. Directly above his head, in the center of the vast open sky, a thin line of light began to appear, green in color. Soon the line widened and bent, like a ribbon, until it filled the sky with its luminescence. The ribbon of light wafted and shifted colors. Blues, reds, and yellows mixed with the green. It was by far the most beautiful and majestic thing Walter had ever seen in his entire life, one of the world’s most amazing natural wonders.

From the cabin he retrieved a polished bronze urn, containing the ashes of wife, and set it on a chair on the deck. He smiled to himself, knowing that soon he’d be with her.

“Well Edna, I made it. It’s beautiful, I wish you could seen it; you would love it.” He said, a single tear welling in his eye. For a few minutes he gazed at the urn, its buffed surface reflecting the lights from above. When he finally tore his eyes from the metal, he turned toward the boat’s bow, where several five gallon red jugs were lashed to the deck rails. With an unwavering hand Walter began pouring the clear gasoline on the boat’s wood frame and the cloth sails. When the boat was sufficiently doused, including the cabin’s interior, Walter sat back down next to the urn.

He gazed back up at the light above him, soaking in the sight one last time. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a gold cigarette lighter, engraved with his initials “W.N.J,” and a brown plastic vial. With a flick of hand, he opened the lighter, and with another flick, he lit it. With his other hand, he opened the pop-top lid of the vial and raised it in a toast to his wife’s urn. A relaxed sigh escaped his lungs as he drank the liquid from the vial, his mouth contracting as the bitter-almond liquid washed over his tongue. While he swallowed the poison, he tossed the lit lighter onto the deck, as close to the bow as he could. Before the lighter hit the boat, Walter clutched the urn to his chest in a tight hug. As the boat caught flame, he slipped into a peaceful unconsciousness. The light flared from the fire, dancing underneath the light in the sky, a glowing duet in the dark.