We were packed into the basket of the spanking new silk balloon like sardines in a can, except sardines are relatively uniform in size and shape and line up in neat rows. We were tall and short, thick and thin, all bellies, boobs, hips, shoulders and elbows vying for real estate. The temperature was 98.6 and I wished I left behind the jacket I'd worn to ward off the pre-dawn chill when sweat mixed with hair gel began burning my eyes. It wasn't the best wetting solution for contact lenses and there was absolutely no hope of wiping it away.
I felt a hand grasping for mine through the mass of bodies and took it. It felt slender and soft. I twisted my head and found her face as she stood by my side grinning at me. My claustrophobia eased. For a moment, the others melted away and it almost felt like the two of us were alone. She gave my hand another squeeze and I remembered why we were there. I had to believe we were doing the right thing.
The sun blazed red along the horizon as we crossed the border into Antarctica's territorial waters. Below, a sentry dropped his binoculars and sounded the alarm. Since the sun began illuminating the South Pole year-round, resurrecting its verdant splendor, the change in weather and wind currents always brought with it unwelcome refugees, desperate for relief from the endless desert summer and dust storms circling the earth. "Mainlanders!" the sentry yelled, as sirens shrieked across the airbase and two helicopters leapt from the ground on an intercept course.
We never stood a chance, but then, each of us knew that. We were here because it was our only hope, our last escape, however thin. Above us, bullets shredded the silken balloon, ripping it apart like the flesh of a newborn. I pulled my Maria to me, jostling the others, feeling her bulging stomach crush me. Amidst the screams and the guns and the roar of wind and fire, all I could feel was this pulsing warmth between us. Then she screamed.
"Jesus, there's no more time. It's coming!"
In that instant, clutching Maria, feeling the sum of us pressed ripe and taut against me, I was just another expectant father, anxious about the impending birth and eager to see the face of my child. I wanted to hear its cries, count its fingers and toes, gentle it to sleep in my arms. All the thousand small things a man like me must scorn; all the thousand things a man like me cannot begin to think of. Even Maria didn't know all I'd seen and done; she could read the scars on my body, I knew, but it wasn't the same without the details, the names and the faces, the numbers. Yet for all my strengths and flaws, for all I'd done in the name of survival, I was nearly undone no, be honest, I was undone, for a moment by a creature no bigger than a bucket of sand, a creature that hadn't yet drawn its first living breath, and never would.
Then Maria looked at me, eyebrows lifted in question, and I nodded, and the man I might have been was crushed under the boot of the man I had to be. It was coming.
We were falling fast now, and our future did not look promising. Our number had thinned by about half, between the violent swaying of the basket and the helicopters' machine guns. The pilot cranked the huge directional propeller to its maximum speed, but there was just too much ocean left to hope we'd make it far inland. If we landed on the beach, the helicopters would just pick us off there. Maria cried out as another contraction ripped through her. I looked over the edge as the ocean drew dangerously close. The pilot's grin grew wide as he scanned the shore to the west. The helicopters returned to the shore, waiting to clean up whatever the ocean didn't swallow. We'd hit any second now, and I lifted Maria into my arms to spare her the jolt. I kissed her forehead and closed my eyes, waiting for the water to swamp us. Our basket slapped the water hard, and I expected to feel water climbing my legs within moments, but it didn't happen. The pilot scrambled to open a small box fastened to front of his pulpit, pulling out a bundle of parachute silk and nylon lines. I put Maria down and whispered, "Hold on." As the pilot swung the propeller around to reverse the flow, I ran to the box and threw the parachute high into the air. Its billows caught the wind from the propeller and opened to full size, a huge parasail pushing the basket parallel to the shore. The helicopters watched for a minute or two, probably trying to understand why we weren't feeding the sharks. It gave us time to head toward a sea cave to the west, and by the time the helicopters were in position to shoot at us, we were safely inside. I walked back toward the pilot and gripped his hand. "Dan Fernholm," I said. "Bless you."
"Turner Jones," the grinning pilot nodded. "Thanks for the help." Maria screamed again, and I ran back to kneel at her side.
"I know what to name our baby," I whispered, and smiled down as she began to push.