by Cap Daniels
I could see for fifteen miles in every direction, but there was no sign of land or any manmade object other than my boat. Sometimes I enjoyed the feeling of isolation. I liked relying solely on my skill to stay alive and find my way on the ocean. I looked forward to someday feeling that confidence when it came to life ashore. I felt as though I had a long way to go before I could safely and confidently find my way with my feet on the ground.
“Will that boom hold both of us?” Clark yelled from the deck.
“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me . . . sleeping beauty. If I climbed up there, would it hold both of us?”
I stomped twice on the boom and surveyed the stainless steel topping lift cable holding it to the top of the mast. “Sure it will. Come on up.”
Clark scampered up the rigging and joined me, barefooted, on the main boom. “Now walk backwards out the boom, and don’t let me knock you off.” He balanced like a gymnast on the aluminum boom.
The fall would be less than seven feet to the deck below if he managed to knock me off, so I thought his little game might be fun to play. I was wrong.
He had the balance of a cat and advanced toward me as I waved my arms like a high-wire walker in a hurricane. My balance had been great since my days in Little League, but I’d never tried balancing on a three-inch-wide aluminum boom. Clark lunged at me and I leapt backward, falling immediately across the boom with one leg on either side. That particular landing was possibly the most painful stop I could’ve made. I would’ve much preferred to land on my head on the fiberglass deck below. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried not to vomit, but the sickness in the pit of my stomach was impossible to ignore.
Clark reached out to help me back onto my feet, and I took his offered hand. As soon as I started rising to my feet, he yanked my arm to start my body moving to his left. I countered the move with a palm strike to his shoulder, stopping my fall, and forcing him backward and sideways. He hooked his right foot beneath the boom and quickly regained his balance. We fought it out for fifteen minutes on the boom until I’d fallen seven times and learned that my balance wasn’t nearly as good as I thought it was.
“That’s lesson number one, grasshopper. Find a way to stay balanced. If you can’t maintain your balance on your feet, you’ll have to learn to grapple. That’s jujitsu. I can teach you that as well, but I’d much rather you learn to fight on your feet.”
I caught my breath. “Yes, master,” I said in mock submission.
“I’ll make you think ‘Yes, master’ before this is over. You’re going to learn to fight no matter how long it takes me to teach you. How are you with a knife?”
I remembered my first day at The Ranch when Gunny had driven a Ka-Bar fighting knife through the sleeve of my shirt and into the side of a metal filing cabinet.
“I hate knives,” I said, almost embarrassed to admit it.
“Good. There’s nothing worse than a knife fight. No matter how good you are, you’re going to get cut. That’s what happens. I’ll teach you some techniques to get cut as little as possible, but you’re going to bleed if you play with knives. It’s good that you understand the dangers of getting into a fight with something sharp.”
My lessons had only begun, but I would learn more from Clark Johnson than anyone else in my life, about how to stay alive in face-to-face confrontation. He taught me daily, and I learned well and quickly.
We climbed down into the cockpit and pulled a couple bottles of water from the cooler. The cold water and the shade of the upper deck felt nice after our balance beam battle.
Vessel traffic was increasing as we got closer to Charleston. I checked my watch and our position to find it was after two in the afternoon, and the channel into Charleston Harbor was less than five miles away.
* * *
We lay alongside the dock at the Charleston City Marina and shut down the engines at three forty-five. Clark managed the fenders and lines as if he’d been a lifelong sailor. I hoped I could catch on to his hand-to-hand combat training as quickly as he caught on to seamanship.
We paid for one night and topped off the fuel and freshwater tanks. The shower at the marina was a welcome luxury. Although the head and shower aboard Aegis II was adequate, it was nice to take a real shower without any fear of running out of hot water or bumping my head on anything. At six feet four inches tall, I didn’t fit comfortably in many marine heads.
Clark and I were sitting on the upper deck, watching boats come and go, when we noticed a gentleman who appeared to be in his seventies, eyeing my boat.
“What’s he doing?” Clark asked.
“I’m not sure, but he looks perplexed.”
I stood and looked down at the old man. “Good afternoon.”
He shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted up at me. “Oh, hello, young man. Beautiful boat you have here.”
“Thank you. Do you see something unusual back there?”
“Well,” he said, “you might say that. It’s the name. Aegis II.”
I glanced at Clark, and he stood to get a better look at our visitor.
The old man noticed Clark. “Oh, hello to you, as well.”
Clark nodded but didn’t answer.
“So, what is it that you find unusual about the name of my boat?”
As if he had some secret knowledge, the man said, “It’s not so much that the name is unusual . . . as it’s impossible.”
I was intrigued. “Impossible, you say?”
“Well, yes.” He replied as if I was supposed to know what he was talking about. “Do you know what aegis means, young man?”
“It’s from the Iliad,” I told him. “I think its literal translation is goat skin, but it’s believed by many to have been Athena’s battle shield.”
“Yes,” he said, “but there’s a great deal more to it.”
“Wait right there if you don’t mind,” I said. “We’re coming down.”
I motioned for Clark to follow me down the ladder. “I’d like to hear what this old guy has to say.”
“I don’t like it, Chase. Something doesn’t smell right about this guy,” he whispered.
“Just don’t let that him kick my ass, okay?”
“With your history of losing fights, I can’t make any promises.”
We stepped onto the dock, and I shook the man’s hand. “I’m Chase.”
“Marcus Westwood, but call me Padre. Everybody does.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Westwood.”
“And you as well, Chase.”
Clark kept his distance and offered no introduction. Padre gave Clark a long appraising look. “Strong silent type, I see.”
“So why is it you say the name of my boat is impossible?”
Padre gave a long, thoughtful glance at my boat. “Perhaps impossible is the wrong term. Perhaps misunderstood would be more appropriate.”
“Are you a priest, Mr. Westwood?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens no. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“You asked me to call you Padre. I thought you might have been a priest with a name like that.”
“No, no, not a priest at all. I’m a theology professor of late, and before that, an army chaplain. They took to calling me Padre way back then, and it stuck.”
“Theology professor?”
“Indeed,” he said. “I taught many a young mind to question what he thought he knew about the gods, and to look at the world as a grand experiment.”
“An experiment?”
“Sure, son. Everything’s an experiment to somebody. Look at your friend back there. He’s listening to everything I say and trying to decide if I’m a con artist, a crazy old man, or a spook . . . like the two of you.”
“Spook” was a term used by Cold War-era intelligence operatives and spies to describe themselves. I was feeling less comfortable with the conversation by the minute, but I wasn’t ready to shove the old man into the harbor just yet.
“A spo
ok?” I furrowed my brow. “What does that mean?”
“Indeed,” Padre said again. “That’s exactly what a spook would ask.”
He flashed a toothy smile and walked away, but he turned around before he made it ten feet. “Aegis was no shield, Chase. Aegis was the eternal force that protected Athena and Zeus in battle. Think about that, son . . . an unending, immortal force lives on forever. No matter who dies or who lives, the force goes on forever. You named your boat Aegis II. There can’t be a two if the first one can never die. That’s what makes the name of your boat impossible . . . or at least misunderstood.” As he passed Clark on the dock, the old man touched the brim of his hat. “Nice to see you again, Master Sergeant Johnson.”
We watched the man walk away.
Clark threw his hands in the air. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I don’t know, but if you ask me, it sure was weird. Do you think he’s dangerous?” I asked.
“I think everyone’s dangerous until I have a reason to believe otherwise.”
Something told me we hadn’t seen the last of Padre Westwood. I didn’t think he was a con artist, but I definitely thought he was more than just a crazy old man.
11
Hope and Faith
Before we left the boat for dinner, Clark pulled out a small plastic medicine bottle and a mirror the size of a nickel, and placed them on the deck ten feet apart. I watched him closely.
“There, that should do it,” he said, stepping back to survey his work.
The bewildered look on my face must have prompted him to ask, “Haven’t you ever read Travis McGee?”
“I have no idea who that is,” I said, still wondering what sort of contraption he’d set up on my boat.
“It’s a simple device to let us know if anyone’s been aboard while we’re gone, like on the Busted Flush.”
“What’s a busted flush?” I asked.
“Oh, grasshopper. I have so much to teach you. I’ll introduce you to Travis before this trip is over, and a whole new world will be opened up for you.”
“Whatever you say.” I chuckled and motioned him toward the main salon. I brought up the navigation display and pressed two keys. This is a BDS, a boarding detection system. It’s built into the deck. If anyone comes aboard while we’re gone, an amber LED is illuminated by the helm. You and your friend Travis McGee are a little behind the times.”
We settled on Padre’s Cantina for dinner. Somehow, that seemed appropriate. It was burritos and margaritas galore, followed by sopapillas, which Clark insisted on calling soapy pillows.
“You don’t really think that old man is dangerous, do you?” I asked.
“That’s why you lose so many fights, rookie.”
Did he call me rookie?
He swallowed the last of his third margarita and motioned for another round. “The only thing more dangerous than an old guy is a second lieutenant with a map.”
I gave him a blank look.
“Okay, civilian, it’s like this. Second lieutenants don’t know shit, but they think they know everything. In the infantry, if a second lieutenant somehow gets his hands on a map, he’s going to do something to get his platoon lost, hurt, or killed.”
The fourth round of fishbowl margaritas arrived, and Clark spit out something that sounded like gracias, but an extremely Southern gracias. It made me laugh to hear his Tennessee accent float to the surface when he had one too many cocktails.
“Back to what I was saying. Old guys are old because they learned how to stay alive. They’re smart, experienced, and sneaky. Maybe you and me will be old guys one day.”
“You and I,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly, college boy.”
“So, before you interrupted, I was telling you why I think Padre Westwood is dangerous. He obviously knows what we are, or at least he has a pretty good hunch. That means he knows more about us than we know about him. Man, these margaritas are good.”
I had a lot to learn from Clark, but the more he drank, the less I understood what he was talking about.
“Anyway,” he said, wiping salt from his lip, “he wanted us to know he knew what he knows, you know?”
“What?” I was thoroughly confused and perhaps a bit intoxicated.
“You know what I mean. The dude is messing with us. He wants us to know that he knew we were spooks. I think we’ve got to figure out his endgame. He’s up to something, and somehow, we’re involved.”
“We should’ve followed him earlier.”
“No, I don’t think we should’ve followed him,” he said. “If he’s playing some sort of game, he’ll be back. I don’t get the feeling he’s a huge threat, but I do want to know what he’s up to.”
“We should probably finish this round and get back to the boat,” I said, admiring my gallon-sized glass.
“Yeah, that’s probably what we should do, but have you noticed the number of unaccompanied ladies in the bar?”
I peered into the bar area of Padre’s and discovered that Clark was correct. The girl-to-guy ratio was highly askew. From the look on his face, he had already spotted his prey for the evening.
“I think I’m going to head back to the boat,” I said. “Feel free to show the ladies of Charleston the night of their lives, but I’m going to see what I can find out about the mysterious Padre Westwood.” I tossed four twenties on the table. “I’ll see you back at the boat, Romeo.”
He glanced down at the cash. “Okay, man. Thanks for dinner. We need to have a talk about the whole money thing sometime, you know. I don’t feel like I’m keeping up my end of the bargain.”
I chuckled. “You’re keeping me from getting killed, and teaching me how to avoid getting my ass kicked every other day, so I think we can call it even.”
Clark raised his glass and I touched mine to his. “Cheers!”
I swallowed the remainder of my cocktail and took one more look into the bar. Clark was going to have a very good night.
Charleston Harbor was dead calm when I reached Aegis II. There wasn’t a ripple on the water as far as I could see, and not a single boat was moving. Summer nights in the South Carolina Lowcountry are seldom without a warm breeze off the water, but a puff of wind couldn’t be bought that night.
It had become my habit to never board my boat without walking as much of her waterline as I could access. We were tied in a slip with finger piers between my boat and the boats to the left and right. That gave me access to the entire length of both hulls. She appeared to be exactly as she had been when we’d left for dinner.
I stood on the dock, looking for the old man, but he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there were only three other people in sight at the marina: two women and a man sitting on the stern deck of a sailing catamaran that was surprisingly similar to mine, four slips down. They waved and I returned the greeting.
“Nice boat, man!” the guy said, barely loud enough to hear. “Why don’t you join us for a beer?”
It was ten o’clock, and I thought one beer couldn’t hurt. Besides, they might’ve known something about Padre.
I strolled down the dock and introduced myself. “Thanks for the invitation. I’m Chase.”
“Come aboard, Chase. I’m Kip, and this is Teri and Penny.” He dug a bottle from the cooler and handed it to me.
“Nice to meet you guys,” I said, and thanked him for the beer. I sat on the settee between Penny and Teri and opened my beer.
“Where’s your friend?” Penny asked.
I must have stared at her with a puzzled expression because she raised her eyebrows.
“The other guy who came in on the boat with you this afternoon.”
“Oh, that’d be Clark. We had dinner, and he decided he’d stay and . . . let’s say, enjoy the scenery.”
“Ah,” the women said. “He’s trying to get laid.”
I laughed. “Something like that.”
“He certainly shouldn’t have any trouble,” said Teri. “He was pretty cute.”
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br /> “Yeah, but don’t tell him that. He’s cocky enough already. This is a beautiful boat,” I said. “Do you guys live here in Charleston?”
“Oh, hell no. We’re from Houston,” Kip said. “We’re doing the Loop.”
“The Loop?”
“Yeah, man. The Great Loop.”
Kip clearly expected me to know what the Great Loop was, but I shrugged my shoulders and waited for him to explain.
“Dude, the Loop is awesome. It’s a route up the east coast, most of it in the Intracoastal Waterway, and then up the Hudson, into the Great Lakes, and back down the Mississippi to the Gulf.”
“That sounds incredible. How long will that take?”
Penny said, “We don’t really care. We’re hanging out and partying our way through it. Maybe a couple years or whatever. It’s an adventure, you know?”
I envied the trip they were on. “Isn’t the mast going to be a problem on the inland portions?”
“Yeah. We’ll have a boatyard unstep it when we get to New York, and either lash it to the deck or put it on a truck and have it hauled to a boatyard in New Orleans. We’ll motor the inland portion from there and have the mast restepped once we get back to the Gulf.”
I subconsciously inspected the boat that had to cost a million bucks or more, and then the three of them, none of whom could’ve been older than me. I’d earned my money finding and killing one of the world’s most notorious hit men, but I couldn’t imagine what those three could’ve done to afford such a magnificent boat.
“Oil,” said Teri.
“What?”
“You’re wondering how we can afford this boat and spend a couple of years looping. The answer is oil. My granddaddy died and left me the only thing he had: a dusty, dried-up, hundred-and-sixty-acre chunk of Texas that happened to be sitting smack-dab on a trillion barrels of good ol’ Texas crude. Now I can’t seem to spend the money as fast as it shows up in my bank account.”
I smiled and raised my glass. “To good ol’ Texas crude and dear old Granddaddy.”
“Cheers!” came the trio of replies.
Teri asked, “So, what do you do, Chase-who-don’t-know-nothing-about-the-Great-Loop?”
“I’m a writer,” I told her, leaving it at that.
