La Tormenta (The Storm)                             
by Sam Ramirez, MS II
 
        The water boiled and foamed and washed over him as a baptism of fire and rain. It told him what he had to do to save his life. Nobody had ever explained to him it would be like this. Another wave had hit the port side, the vulnerable one, knocking everything to the right. Ensign James Mendoza got up as best he could, despite the rocking motion of the deck. The wind and the rain did not do much to help his situation either. Nausea was beginning to overwhelm him in waves. Don't pass out. Not yet. Not yet, he told himself.
        The fire had not been extinguished. The storm had not eliminated that problem but compounded it instead. It had made no empty promises. At least it hadn't reached the boiler yet. Perhaps there was still time.
        The storm was incidental. The captain had informed the crew of its impending arrival. Storms were relatively common in the Pacific rim during the spring. They would simply avoid it as best they could. It would not be the first time they weathered a storm during this, his first tour of duty. What was unexpected was the attack, unforeseen and so one-sided. The storm now came to devour all that remained of them.
        Was it proper to scream? Mendoza had never thought to ask his commanding officer or shipmates. The subject just never came up in basic training. But he was dying! And the rest of the crew had showed no such restraint. Panic a lo más puro.
        Someone was barking orders over the loudspeakers. Mendoza thought this incredible since the bridge no longer existed. Damn the Japanese! ¡Que se vayan al carajo!
        "Follow your assigned drills!" the voice insisted, useless against the chaos. Another explosion rocked the ship and everything went black. More screams beneath deck? La muerte. He again picked himself up but found he couldn't quite manage because something had lodged itself in his leg. Mendoza reached for his left calf. He found the sharp edge of bone, warm and wet with pain. "Mierda!"
        "Follow emergency drills!" the voice droned on, static building. ''Mierda! Idiom! Ya estamos muertos!" Mendoza cursed the voice for its denial of the situation...
        His father had been orgulloso, very proud. Despite his Chicano heritage, Javier (James) Mendoza was now American! He wore the naval uniform to prove it. For most of his life, he had dreams of heroísmo and patriotismo. Of being a man! Of fighting for country and honor. But for a time the problem existed that they (his family) were in the wrong country. When his father had moved them from their campesino life near Cananea, Mexico to Los Angeles, the city of angels, the dream came closer to reality. Still they were not rich, working in the manufacture of shoes. Perfect symbolism for how far they had come! But in America, "Aquí todo es posible!" the elder Mendoza fondly told his son. In Mexico, all they had known was living for the present. Now they could live for the future.
        Not much future in dying, Mendoza thought. His ship, the destroyer he thought as invincible as his dreams, was now going down llena de boquetes, filled with holes. That was how it was to be! He was not coming back a hero, if at all. How could this be, Papá? He had just shipped out three weeks ago, not even seeing one significant battle. Three weeks!
        All that remained now was to save his own life. Rata! Sharp pain stabbed at Mendoza's leg again as he picked himself up, bracing against a guardrail. A flash! The rumbling of thunder or another explosion? He did not know. Where was everyone? Washed out to sea with the last wave? If not, trapped beneath the deck in some water-filled tomb. It was becoming increasingly difficult to know up-from-down with the to-and-fro rocking and ebbing of the port side. At least he was still above water, unlike his unfortunate shipmates.
        Then he saw it, not a hundred feet away, through the rain amidst the flashes of lightning and flames. Uniforms, like his, scurried from a hatch to one of the remaining lifeboats. They were attempting to lower it; at the same time, some were trying to board. Fighting ensued. "Wait!" The boat fell and the uniforms with it. "Wait!" Mendoza scraped against the railing toward them, now oblivious to the pain. There were some now jumping into turbulent waters in hopes of salvation. "Wait for me!" Mendoza followed them in their leap of faith.
        It seemed as if he had been under water for longer than he was capable. The cold darkness that embraced him seemed singly familiar. Was this how he came into the world? His family used to say dar a luz to mean to give birth to. Literally it means to give to the light. In death, would he be going back to the same darkness from which he began? It would have been easy relief to welcome this embrace. To rest in cold comfort. To release his uneasiness with the world. He waited an eternity in indecision...
        Air! He remembered to breathe. How sweet this uneasiness could be! Through the darkness he saw the lifeboat and others swimming towards it. Mendoza kicked his legs. Only twenty feet now. "Help me!"
        "No! The boat's too full. We can't take any more!"
        Other uniforms pleaded for help.
        "We won't stay afloat! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
        Mendoza refused the advice, his voice arguing among others. "Help me. I'm bleeding! I can't keep above water for long!" He reached up, touched the boat but failed to grasp any handhold. Lurching forward, the boat responded to his pleas, striking him on the head.
        Again darkness embraced him. This time, James Mendoza decided, I will go willingly. No te preocupes, Papá, don't worry. I shall be fine. The water tasted of salt.
 
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        The water tasted of salt, but it was not sea water he tasted. Javier Mendoza wiped his brow. He had again fallen asleep in front of the television. What day was today anyway? What did it matter? Everyday was the same.
        "Time for your medication, James," the nurse who smelled of too-much-perfume said, approaching with a tray of many colored pills and little cups of water. It must be around 5 p.m., Mendoza judged. At least it would be getting cooler tonight. Humidity touched everything this time of year, lending a sticky consistency to all. Perspiration matted down his hair as it did to everyone here. Yet they all seemed calmly oblivious to it. It was not that they did not feel discomfort. (He of course did.) It was more like resigned submission to this fate.
        "Bueno, gracias," the weathered man replied coarsely, taking the pills and water with an unsteady hand. He placed them (uncertainly) in his mouth and swallowed. At least he could still do that. Many of his compatriots were fed paste through a tube in their stomachs or medicated through intravenous solutions.
        "Very good, James!" the nurse smiled and moved on to her next victim.
        "Not so good if you ask me," he muttered as he wheeled himself from the room and into the hall. Past dimly lit doorways he glimpsed the shells of men and women that were once filled with expectations, as his had been. They sat or lay in bed frozen in time, cried to others not present, waiting for something unseen. "I hope and pray I die today," a woman in gray chanted. "I hope and pray I die today….” She rocked her chair almost in time to the recital.
        "Sí, you have the right idea," Mendoza responded. She stared blankly ahead of her, not seeing him. Deliberately he wheeled himself away to the terrace, his decrepit body slow to respond. The stench of urine permeated everything. Air. He simply must have air.
 
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        He coughed up some phlegm, tinged red with blood. How much was he spitting up? He heaved one last time, after what seemed an eternity. He could breathe now. Hyperventilating, Javier Mendoza found himself hunched over on the floor of the boat. What he last remembered was looking up to the surface from beneath; the waves distorted the silhouette of the boat. He remembered something reaching down and pulling, no...lifting him up like some broken puppet. The arm was dressed in white.
        He remembered struggling with others. Others who envied him for his place. Once onboard, of course he would fight to keep his privilege! How many out there would take this from him?
        "No more! We can't take anymore!" someone yelled.
        Several uniforms' hands were now on the edge of the bow, trying to pull themselves in. Or were they pulling the rest of us down, thought Mendoza. The boat had already taken in a lot of water from the constant to-and-fro rocking of the waves. The rain showed no sign of letting up either. He decided to do something about it...
 
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        Mendoza took a breath of fresh air. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was starting to get dark and he felt the cool comfort of the early evening breeze. He rarely had the opportunity to appreciate solitude such as this. Of course he was alone most of the time. He preferred it that way. It was just that he was alone with so many people. At least here, on the terrace, he could have respite from the decay that had permeated his life. Mendoza took in another deep breath. He stared out to the city with tired eyes. Beyond it he knew was the sea although he could not see it. Still he knew it was there. It was always there. On the outskirts of his consciousness.
        Papá, how could it have come to this? A life spent in quiet acceptance of the unacceptable. His life had been long and tiring and uneventful. After the war, he returned to his family, seemingly bigger than he had been before. The American dream come true! Yet in his heart he knew the truth. In due course, he married a simple (but good-hearted) woman, had three children, and managed the shoe business his father had created during his absence. How his father took pride in giving his war-hero son the benefit of his dream! If you only knew, Papá, would you have been so generous? He accepted the gift anyway, knowing how it brought delight to his father's eyes. With his wife he raised their children, worked honestly and decently (occasionally taking vacations in different parts of the U. S.), had grandchildren. In time, he expanded their business to several stores, even managing to become somewhat profitable. So much so that he decided to retire early, passing the business to his own son. Eventually he grew old enough to watch his wife pass on before him.
        Now, after a lifetime of pretense, he waited for death. It was not a short wait either. How much better it would have been to die beneath the waves in one short, glorious instant! Instead he had to wait with his memories and the taste of salt in his mouth.
        "You better come in now, Mr. Mendoza," a young man in white orderly scrubs approached him. "It's starting to get cold. We don't want you to get sick now, do we?"
        "No. I want to stay out here for a while," Mendoza answered curtly. "Go away, joven. "
        "Now, we both know you can't do that, Mr. Mendoza," said the youth. "Remember the last time I let you stay out here. We both got into trouble."
        "I don't care. And you know nothing of trouble, joven, " the old man argued.
        "I know enough to stay away from it. Come on. Let's go," the orderly insisted.
        "No!" the old man struck at the young man. The orderly shrugged, baiely feeling the attack.
        "Mr. Mendoza, do I have to pick you up and carry you? Or are you going to come easily?" The boy in white stepped towards the elder man.
        "I wish you had never lifted me up in the first place," the old man said, his voice cracking.
        "Huh? I never had to carry you before," the young man replied. "Let's not start now."
        "Sí. Yes, you did. Don't pretend like you don't remember," the elder man pleaded for him to sit, moisture forming around his eyes. The young man sat down obligingly. "I thought you were an angel, sent down to rescue me from the depths. You dove after me... into the water. You pulled me up. I remember how you lifted me up onto the boat with the others. I hadn't realized until then that you were just another sailor, like myself"
        "Mr. Mendoza..."
        "Let me finish!" The old man calmed himself. "After you placed me in the boat, you tried to get back on. But there were other sailors too, trying to get on. Only there was no more room. The boat already had too many passengers. The ones in the water were pulling on the edge of the boat. I could see this clearly since I was right by the bow. The boat was beginning to tip..."
        The young man remained silent.
        "Lo siento, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I only did what everyone else was doing. Lo siento, Papá.." Javier Mendoza was crying now. "I kicked at their fingers! I kicked at their faces! I kicked at anything that tried to come up over the edge!"
        “And when they stopped coming up, I realized that you were not on the boat, joven. That you were not among the survivors... Dios me perdone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... Please forgive me..." The old man hunched over and sobbed as he hadn't for the past fifty years.
        The young man stood up and put his hand on the old sailor's shoulder in absolution, "I forgive you." At the touch, Javier Mendoza breathed a sigh of release. He wiped the tears from his face and straightened up in his chair. Serenity washed over him like a cool wave on a hot day.
        "You can take me back to my room now."
        The orderly wheeled the old man back to his room, picked him up gently and put him to bed. How many times did he have to deal with belligerent or psych patients today? It was close to the end of his shift and he wasn't in the mood for any more. At least this one did not put up a fight.
 
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        "He hushed the storm to a gentle breeze, and the billows of the sea were        stilled."  

Psalm 107:29