by LeRoy Clary
The distance closed between us for ten minutes. I counted the shells left in the rifle, double-checked the pistol, and waited. My breath came faster. We were going to meet the bully but had nobody to call for help. Still, we were not defenseless.
As we sailed closer, I made another determination to try and find better weapons and more ammunition. The binoculars revealed the outline of the sailboat better as we approached, one larger than ours by at least ten feet. It had two masts.
I found two people on deck, and perhaps a third who had quickly ducked out of sight. That furtive action didn’t sit well. Sue appeared from below with a baseball cap in her hand. She had a shirt that had been tied into a ball with stuffing. She placed it near the railing, put the cap on it, facing outward as if it was a person.
She placed three more in the next few minutes. To anyone on the other boat, it would look like there were six of us, with four hiding. She moved them a few feet now and then, and she sat up near the roof in clear sight, her shotgun always visible.
I started the engine. If nothing else, it pushed the boat faster and if we needed to escape, it might help. I gently increased the throttle until the engine roared and the boat raced ahead at twice the speed we had been going, which was eight or nine miles an hour.
That was one thing I was learning. On the water, in a sailboat, things tend to take a while to happen. You turn the wheel and the boat takes time to respond. The wind pushes the boat, but not always as fast as the tide. It’s like slow motion.
It gives you plenty of time to correct mistakes. That was what I was thinking as we sailed directly on course to intercept the other boat. Maybe we were making a mistake.
The mail sail on the other boat appeared as if by magic. It filled with wind, the boat turned and fled to the south as it leaned over at almost forty-five degrees. It used the wind to maximum advantage. A half-hour later we couldn’t see it.
But it might have radar and still keep track of us and attack when we were not prepared. We were not safe, not yet. Maybe never again. I shut down the engine and turned north again, still worried.
“Take the wheel?” I asked.
“What do I do?”
“Just keep us pointed that way and call me if you see anything or have a question.” I headed down to the desk and the stack of manuals in the rack.
I took the entire pile and started sorting through them, everything from automatic bilge pumps and HAM radio operations, jib furler, anchor windlass, and toilet operation and pump-out procedures. I put that one aside. We’d need to pump out the septic tanks sooner or later and needed to know how. There was a manual with red bold printing at the top that said, radar.
The image on the cover was a picture of a round hub I’d noticed high on the mast. A short while later, a small flat screen at the desk displayed images, colors, and symbols. I didn’t know what any of it meant, so with the manual open, I studied.
I gathered it could share the screen with the GPS outside, but I didn’t feel confident in losing it if something went wrong. I looked at the coastline ahead. There was a row of blips in front of us. The blips were boats, the manual said.
That meant a string of boats was lined up from Fort Ebby south, a natural choke-point where the route was the narrowest. The sailboat had been spying on us, and as long as we sailed directly at the line of boats ahead, it stayed clear of us—but it was probably in communication with the other boats the entire time. The boats ahead knew when we were arriving and where.
There were not enough boats to blockade the entire opening. Across from Fort Ebby was the state park of Fort Warden, both built because ships in wartime had to pass by them to reach Seattle. If the blockade ahead had been set five miles further south, we would have sailed right into them. If there were more boats, the blockade would have been completed. The radar revealed a possible way to sail past, especially in the dark.
In daylight, they would still see our sail as we slipped past them near Fort Warden or follow us on their radar. That gave me pause, and I changed that to maybe. Maybe they would see us. The jib was like a big white sheet on a blue sea. Lowering it meant it would be harder to see us. Only a mast six or eight inches around would be there, and we had the engine.
Going past was possible. However, a blockade of any sort needed to be avoided. That was our bottom line. My bottom line.
I turned south and let the tide carry us in the direction we’d come for, as I furled most of the jib to hide us better and waited for dark. Not just dark, but early morning. People stay awake, some of them, until well after dark. The ideal time to attack was three A.M. because nearly everyone is asleep and the watches that came on at midnight are dead tired. That tidbit also came from an army movie and had been my plan when stealing the boat. It had worked out well at that time.
But it sounded true enough. We could race past the blockade after midnight when everyone was asleep.
There was a small city on the southern coast near the fort, and I wanted to remain far from it. A speedboat, fishing vessel, sailboat, or even a kayak could reach us from there. We’d keep a vigilant watch. I admitted to myself I was becoming paranoid. There seemed to be a thin line between vigilance and absurdity. I saw enemies and organized pirates everywhere.
We anchored near a rock outcrop in sight of the coast, but away from the city. Sue came to me carrying two plates of food. I’d forgotten about eating and the sight and smells of it almost knocked me down. She had thick slices of pink salmon—caught hours earlier, and mashed potatoes with gravy to go with it. A generous helping of peas rolled around as the boat shifted.
“That is a lot of food,” I said with hungry eyes. I hadn’t eaten that good in a year.
“You’re not worried about me wasting our supplies on making a full meal, I hope,” she said as she sat across from me and handed me a fork and a cold beer. “The potatoes and gravy are from dried powders and I probably should have saved them but thought just once, we should eat like kings.”
She was right. The dried food should be saved for when we had no other choices. Canned food needed to be eaten when the can was opened—although, since our refrigerator was working, that might not be true. Still, just once, we ate like kings.
Bottles of propane gas for the stove, heater, and fridge needed to be added to the growing list. I looked at the GPS for a small harbor or bay with only a few houses, thinking that might be a good place to pull in and try raiding an empty house. Then, I rejected the idea. Too much chance of a prepper, outcast, or survivor who would want those things for himself or herself. Better to wait as long as possible, meaning until more people killed each other while we hid.
Still, amongst the hundreds of other things we had to consider and find ways to obtain, we needed a plan. One where we could go ashore in relative safety and search for the things we needed. A glance at the roof of the cabin gave me the answer.
We could sail slowly along the coast and find houses isolated from others. The anchor would keep the Truant from drifting away long enough for us to make quick trips to the mainland. The kayaks would quickly get us there where one of us could search while the other stood watch.
That idea got rejected because there was nobody to protect our home: Our sailboat. One of us had to stay on board.
The kayaks wouldn’t hold much if we gathered things like canned goods and weapons. We needed to find a small rowboat we could tow behind the sailboat, and small enough to tow behind the kayaks. The smile inside must have revealed itself on my lips.
Sue said, “What?”
“I have part of our problems solved.”
“You said, you are a planner and were certainly telling the truth. So far, every problem we’ve had has been solved by you.”
“That’s not true. You contribute at least as much as me.”
“Explain.” She clipped the word as if she didn’t believe me. Her expression had turned stern.
She was actually interested in my answer. “Easy. In contrast, I tend to plan
too much, too detailed before beginning a task and I know it. When action is required, or when things don’t go as planned, I’m poor at changing my direction. When I do, it’s often without thought or consequences and then it turns out wrong. You point out those things before they happen.”
“That’s not much.” She hung her chin to her chest and appeared totally defeated. “My only job is to correct you?”
“No, you don’t understand. This is how I see things with us. Where I’m strong, you are not. Where I’m weak, you are strong. I could give you a dozen instances to prove it. We are better together.”
She took my empty plate leaned far over the side and rinsed it in the seawater, then did the same for hers. Finished, she settled down and faced me. “You worry too much.”
“True.” I went inside and turned on the radar long enough to find the boats were still lined up and none were near us or coming this way. I turned it off again, not knowing how much power the unit consumed. The conversation sat heavily on my mind. I’d expressed my feelings but there still seemed things left unsaid.
Putting the conversation in the back of my mind, for now, a panel above the built-in desk drew my attention. Behind the cover, the myriad of dials, gauges, and switches confused me. I saw nothing that related directly to the solar panels. What I did know was that, especially in winter, there is day after day of heavy cloud cover in the northwest. Where there is no sun, there is no charge for the system. Learning about the solar cell charging system needed to be a higher priority than it was. We needed the GPS, radar, and pumps to expel water from the bilges, and to unfurl the jib. There was no telling what else was eating up our limited supply of electricity. I wondered if turning on the radar used enough power from the batteries that it would take a full day to recharge them to full.
There should be a simple formula for how much power is used and how long it takes to replenish it. I searched for that formula or a book that explained it in simple terms.
The point was that I didn’t know the answer and needed to, along with many other things.
It was what we didn’t know that would probably kill us someday, some silly little thing like not having a charged battery, lack of fuel or propane, a leak in the hull when the pumps failed, or expired food. My goal was to put that day off as long as possible.
It was a depressing thought.
Finally, I found a brochure for the solar cell storage system stapled to a thin manual that constantly suggested the reader use the Internet web site for up to date information and clear, easy to follow instructions. It would have been nice if we could do that.
In simple language, it explained we had three hundred watts of flexible panels mounted on our roof. That assured me that the system produced more electricity than we would need—if the sun came out. The brochure said two twelve-volt batteries would be more than enough to supply our needs for two or three days if we didn’t waste electricity. It also said the system accommodated four batteries, at an additional cost, of course.
I found the controller unit. The digital display on the face told me we had it charging at 13.6 volts, which was optimal. Below the charger was a square seat mounted on the floor. I moved the cushion and found a thumbhole for a removable panel. Below that were four large batteries bigger than those in a car.
If two supplied the typical boat user enough power for a couple of days of frugal use, we had double that. Enough for at least four days after a full charge, longer if we took it easy on things that use electricity. And I was right about the engine producing more electricity. Running the engine charged the batteries ten times as fast as the solar panels.
My mind went back to Asian music, now that we had all the power we needed—and understood that what we used would be replaced the following day. The Internet was down, and the radio should supply us with news if we could find a station that broadcasts in English. We needed to find a waveband that had American stations.
Turning it on, I watched the voltage meter to see if there was any change. There was not. I rotated the old-fashioned dial slowly. For much of the cycle, there was nothing. When there was, it had static, faded in and out, and was always Asian music or talk.
I switched to the FM band and found nothing. Not even static. Then SW, which I assumed was short-wave. Snippets of English crackled from the speaker, not enough to make out much, and what I did seemed to have accents. After an hour, I snapped it off and noticed a marine radio, and another similar unit was stacked on the shelf above, microphones in the holders, coiled cords drooping. A dial on one indicated forty stations.
I turned it on and was instantly greeted with squeals and howls. I changed stations slowly and waited a short time at each station to listen. On one channel we heard a man talking. He seemed to be instructing or ordering someone in a gruff tone. He spoke in English, his voice clipped and harsh, but I didn’t understand the direction he gave. A new voice, one much louder and clearer replied, “We’re in position.”
“What are you waiting for?” The reply was sneering with contempt. “Go get them.”
Sue called out, “Something’s going on, better come up here.”
I ran up the ladder and looked where she pointed. The small city on the shore crackled with gunfire. An explosion sounded and a plume of gray smoke rose into the air. More gunfire, not just ten or twenty shots, but hundreds, from many different weapons.
We stood transfixed. Another explosion, then another. More smoke. More gunfire.
Sue hissed, “They’re killing each other. It’s a war. The people still alive are trying to kill everyone else. What are they thinking? Has the whole world gone crazy?”
I turned on the radar and found we were still alone. That last radio message bothered me, and my mind returned to it time and again. Could we be what they were supposed to go get? It was late in the day. My plan of waiting until three in the morning didn’t seem as good as it had a while ago. The gunfire continued, sporadic at best, broken often by either silence or bursts of shots. I estimated several hundred rounds had been fired by an unknown number of weapons.
“It’s a war,” I said in agreement. “They should be pulling together instead of killing each other.”
“There’s crazy people over there if you ask me,” she said in a voice that was almost a sob. “Don’t take us near them.”
She was right about them, and probably there were dozens of them, judging from the amount of gunfire. No telling what or who the sighting of our boat might attract. In my experience with the flu so far, a few hundred survivors would account for nearly all the people alive in the town we watched, and it seemed every one of them was busy trying to reduce that number by half. It was depressing. Soon, there would be fewer people everywhere. Darrington, Marysville, Everett and probably everywhere else.
My experience also said to stay away from people. All of them. I was about to tell Sue to start the engine and get us away.
However, another glance at the radar showed the line of boats hadn’t shifted and a sweep with the binoculars confirmed no boats from the city were coming our way. However, a new blip on the screen was approaching us from the front. I looked up and found a small white sailboat, maybe twenty feet long, with no sail raised, using its outboard motor to steer directly at us. It did nothing to hide its approach.
“What do we do?” Sue asked in a hushed voice.
“Nothing. Keep our guns where we can get to them. In fact, let them see the shotgun, that should keep them from coming too close.”
“Why not run?”
“To where? Besides, it’s small, big enough for maybe four people, at most. If they were planning an attack of some sort, they wouldn’t be coming right at us like that, and it looks like the man at the helm is waving to us. Let’s just see what this is all about.”
She placed my rifle on the seat beside me, and her shotgun cradled in her arms. The boat slowed as it approached, then came to a stop a hundred feet away in a non-threatening sort of way. It matched our speed to re
main stationary. A man in a tank top waved empty hands and called, “Can we talk?”
His voice was friendly, his actions conservative and cautious. He hadn’t dropped his anchor but used the engine to maintain his distance. I called, “How many of you are there?”
After a slight hesitation, he answered, “Two.”
Either he was hiding the true number, or there were two and he was reluctant to admit how few there were to defend his boat if needed. It was that simple. Or, he might not wish to announce he was alone, or he might have five armed pirated in his cabin. I called back, “Talk about what?”
“That blockade up ahead. What’s your take on it?”
Another sailor term, one I was familiar with, but instantly I knew he was talking about the line of boats across the channel. “I don’t like it.”
He seemed to accept my answer. The man was in his thirties, tall, looked fit, and had an air of financial success about him. He probably owned the boat he was on.
And he didn’t trust me any more than I trusted him. He looked into the boat’s cabin where we suspected the other person lurked. His actions were stiff and awkward as if following the directions of another person. He called, “I don’t mean to offend, but we’re scared to come closer, with the flu spreading and all the killing going on.”
“Makes sense,” I responded.
He said, “Were you going north to the San Juan Islands?”
It seemed silly not to tell the truth. “Yes. Same for you?”
He nodded, after glancing purposefully at the cabin again. If he was trying to hide the presence of the other person, he couldn’t have been more unsuccessful. It was as if he asked permission to speak.
I said as I tried to understand the situation, “We think maybe we can sneak past the blockade on the west end of that line at night. It does not extend all the way across the channel, but it seems too easy. Like a trap.”
