“Did they say where they were going?” Beth asked.
“No, miss. But they sure in a hurry to get there. When their mate had trouble untying one of the dock lines, the man, he yelled at him, and then the woman, she be yelling at the man for yelling at the mate.”
Max looked at his watch and shut off the engine blower. “It’s five o’clock now. You figure they left about noon?”
“Twelve thirty, maybe one o’clock. They left here so fast, they nearly run down Berris Christopher rowing out to his fishing boat. Poor Berris did not know whether to be bailing or rowing, but he sure be cursing them all the while.”
Beth restarted the engine. “Well, we’re going to try to catch up with them. Will you throw off the stern line for me?”
“Yes, miss.” He bent down to grab the line.
“Ready the bow line, Mom.”
As soon as the stern started to pull away from the dock, Andi slipped the line off the cleat and climbed back over the lifelines onto the deck. Beth backed Red Sky away from the dock, shifted into forward, and slowly pulled out into the harbor. Max walked aft, coiling the bow line he was carrying, and stowed it in one of the cockpit storage lockers, together with the stern line that Andi handed him and the big blue air-filled fenders. He sat across from Andi while Beth, at the wheel, motored out of the harbor.
“Dad, we should be taking the direct route to the Canal. It’s the only way we can make up for the lead Atrophy has.”
“Forget it,” Andi replied emphatically, answering for him. “It’s too dangerous.”
“But they have a five-hour head start and a bigger boat than ours,” Beth insisted. “We’ll never catch them otherwise.”
“Look, Beth,” her mother continued, “I’m willing to try to nail them, but I’m not willing to die in the effort.”
“They’re running scared now, Mom. Suppose they decide to head straight for the Canal. We’ll lose them.”
“They’re not heading straight for the Canal and we’re not going to lose them. The route through Aruba isn’t much longer. The prevailing winds are more favorable and there’s less likelihood of a bad storm.”
“I want Sloane so badly I can taste it.”
“Then let’s get started,” Max interjected. “All the waypoints programmed?” he asked Andi.
“All done. The GPS and the autopilot are all set.”
“What’s the first course?” Beth asked.
“Take the Sandy Island Channel out of the harbor.” She pointed over to her left. “The first marker buoy is right there. See the flashing red light?”
“I got it.” She turned Red Sky toward the buoy, a half mile or so away.
“When you clear the Sandy Island light, head 249 degrees until we reach Redonda. As soon as we raise the sails and you’re happy with their set, we can turn on the autopilot.”
“If you want to take the wheel, Dad, I’ll raise the main. We can unfurl the genny after we clear the harbor.”
Max steered while Beth grabbed a winch handle and climbed on top of the cabin. She took the sail ties off the mainsail and stuffed them in the pocket of her shorts. Then she unhooked the main halyard shackle from the lifeline stanchion and attached it to the eye in the headboard of the mainsail before taking several turns with it around the starboard winch attached to the mast. “All ready,” she announced to Max.
“Okay. Haul her up.”
Beth began vigorously cranking the winch handle, and the mainsail climbed rapidly up the mast, exposing the builder’s logo and the boat’s racing numbers. Beth watched the sail reach the top of the mast, gave the winch one extra tug for good measure, and then secured the halyard to the cleat below the winch. The main filled with air, adding its powerful thrust to the auxiliary power of the diesel engine.
Max hesitated for a moment, then looked straight at Andi, his expression serious, his face suddenly creased with doubt. “Andi?” he asked.
She saw his concern. “What is it, Max? What’s the matter?”
“Am I being a total idiot, risking us all this way?”
“Yes, Max.”
“Is that a vote of confidence?”
“It is. It’s enough for me that you’re trying to make things right for Beth. I’ll absolutely back you.”
“Thanks, Andi. I needed to hear that.” He pressed her hand between his and got up. “Take the wheel, will you, Beth? I’m going below to turn the GPS on and see if I can pick up that signal from Atrophy.”
Beth jumped down into the cockpit. “Want me to unfurl the genny?” she asked.
“Wait until I’m back. We’ll be in the lee of the land for another ten minutes anyway, so there’s not much wind. Let’s stay under power until we clear that buoy out there. I’ll be back up before then.”
He went down into the cabin, turned on the GPS tracker, and adjusted its tuning dials for a few minutes, looking for a signal, any signal, without success. “Nobody said it was going to be easy,” he muttered. He turned the VHF onto one of the weather channels, listened to a local report, and turned it back to channel 16.
He went back up the ladder into the cockpit, sat next to Andi by the big self-tailing primary winch on the port side of the boat, and took a deep breath of air.
“What’s the weather look like?” Beth asked.
“Not bad. Winds from the northeast at seventeen to twenty-two knots. I checked the weatherfax. There’s a nasty-looking low developing to the northwest, but we’re far enough south to avoid most of it.”
“There’s that channel marker, Dad. Let’s raise the jib.”
“Okay.”
He uncleated the sheet, gave it a few turns around the winch, and began unfurling the sail. He then trimmed it in until satisfied and sat back down next to Andi. Beth turned off the diesel and Red Sky charged ahead, propelled only by the silent thrust of the wind’s power.
It should have been a beautiful sunset to honor the noble chase they had undertaken, but it wasn’t. The sky should have been filled with stars, but it wasn’t. It should have been a peaceful watch for Andi, but it was not going to be. Something is wrong with this picture, she thought as she sat behind the steering wheel.
She stepped up onto the cockpit seat to increase the visibility, and then, looking around the horizon one last time, she called down to her husband through the open hatch, “If you’re not sleeping, Maximilian, come up topside, will you?”
While Beth was fast asleep in the forward cabin, Max was lying on a berth in the aft cabin, working on a chapter of his Guide for Antique Camera Collectors. “Coming right up,” he answered as he put down his manuscript and got off the bunk. He climbed the gangway ladder into the cockpit of the sloop.
“What’s up?” he said. The question became rhetorical as he took a look around. Clouds that had been pure and innocent when they left Antigua that afternoon had become nasty and dark gray. Waves that had been a comfortable height were building up. The once steady wind was now gusting, and he saw lightning off in the western sky.
“Looks like fun and games tonight,” she said.
“I’m glad you called me. We’ll roll up the genny and take a reef in the main.”
“Okay. I’ll wake Beth up.”
“Yes, better get her up here. The sailing’s been too calm to suit her today anyhow. Turn off the autopilot and I’ll take the wheel.”
Andi went below and returned in a minute followed by Beth, still wearing the women’s varsity lacrosse sweatshirt she’d put on over her tank top that afternoon. Stimulated by the prospect of rough weather, Beth climbed the gangway ladder two steps at a time and jumped into the cockpit.
“It’s about time we had some excitement. Nothing like a little wind to get back some of that head start we spotted Sloane.”
Max was paying close attention to the approaching front. “Andi, take the wheel, please.” His voice was all business.
“You’re not going to shorten sail, are you?” Beth protested mildly, more from force of habit, well aware of her
stepfather’s cautious nature. “With this wind, we’ll catch Atrophy in no time.”
“I don’t want to meet this squall with all our sails up. Head her up into the wind, Andi.”
“You got it.”
“Beth, give me a hand. We’ll roll up the genny first and then reef the main.” He exchanged places with Andi as she stepped around him.
“I’m with you, Dad.”
Andi turned the teak steering wheel to port. Red Sky quickly pointed toward the west and stopped dead in her tracks as her two sails lost the wind’s support and started flapping wildly. Beth untied the furling line and, with Max’s help, pulled on it smoothly, hand over hand, causing the genoa sail to wind itself up onto the forestay. Then she cleated down the line.
As soon as Beth had the genny securely wrapped up, she and Max went over to the mast and began reefing the mainsail. When it had been shortened to their satisfaction, they returned to the cockpit. Andi then turned Red Sky back onto her northerly course. They were nearly ready.
“Dad, I’ll go check the anchor locker and the forward hatches if you’ll handle the kitty.”
“That’s some trade-off.”
Beth climbed out of the cockpit and walked confidently out to the bow again, followed closely by her mother’s watchful eyes.
“Hold on tight, Elisabeth.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I guess I might as well go down into the cabin and wrestle Marylebone into his life preserver.” Max was not enthusiastic.
“Good luck!”
“Pray for me.”
Reluctantly, he went down into the main salon. After he finally cornered the big Persian under the oven and strapped him into the vest, he checked the last weatherfax and the radar and then rechecked all three cabins to make sure that everything was secured or stowed away. He then went up the ladder and closed the hatch behind him.
Beth opened the locker underneath the portside cockpit seat and pulled out their bright yellow foul-weather jackets with the built-in personal flotation devices. She tossed the extra-large to Max, handed the small to her mother, and put on her medium.
“Might as well let me take over the wheel now, Andi,” Max said. “It’ll give me a chance to get into the spirit of things before the real fun starts.”
“Okay, love,” she said, moving away from the wheel. She pretended not to hear the tension in his voice or the little cough that exposed his concern. His kind of person succeeded despite fear, not without fear, and that was a trait she admired.
As Max got behind the pedestal, he hooked the line from his safety harness onto the base of the column and continued to scan the horizon. Andi and Beth each hooked their tethers onto one of the guardrails that surrounded the deck and sat down under the Bimini.
“Let me know when you want me to take over,” Beth said hopefully.
“We’ll see if it gets bad enough for you,” he said, both proud and envious of her confidence.
Now they were ready, and the storm was still at least twenty minutes away to the west. Plenty of time for each of them to be alone with thoughts of their own mortality. The wind and the waves continued their preparation.
“I took a look at the radar and the weatherfax when I was below,” Max said. “This is going to be a bad one, but it looks localized. We shouldn’t be in it for long.”
There was no comment from his passengers.
The storm continued to build as it approached from their port side. Boiling clouds were closer. The anemometer dial on the bulkhead wall showed the wind speeding up to 35 mph. It was raining hard.
Max thought of his father’s admonition never to take a storm at sea personally, because the ocean applied all its laws equally and indiscriminately to those who imposed themselves upon it. It was incapable of compromise. Let your concentration lapse or wander for one moment and know with absolute certainty that the shit will hit the fan.
His glasses were becoming hopelessly caked with salt. “These are useless, Andi,” he said as he handed them over to her. “Get rid of them for me, will you?” Involved with the task of controlling Red Sky, he made the request an order and talked without looking directly at Andi. In the early days, this had intimidated Beth, then a teenager not used to having a father. She knew now that it was only a sign of his total absorption.
“You okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine, puss.”
“I’m ready to drive whenever you say.”
“You can take her, if you want.”
“The wheel’s mine.” Beth changed places with Max and got behind the wheel. She felt the adrenaline pumping, all her senses acute, as she maneuvered the sixteen tons of tossing sailboat through the mountainous waves while trying to maintain some semblance of their original course. The wind and waves slashed at her from opposite directions. All of nature’s forces were ganging up in an effort to broach Red Sky or knock her flat down into the water. She had no time to worry about yesterday’s unsolved problems or tomorrow’s anticipated headaches. The storm required total concentration, and that’s what she gave it.
She felt water working its way under her jacket collar, down her neck, and through her sweatshirt. The waves had crests of white foam being blown off by the force of the wind. She continued to steer through the sea, surfing down the biggest waves, fighting to stay on course through the others.
The storm created an emotional anomaly for her between the terror and the exhilaration. She was singularly responsible for placing her family and Red Sky in the situation. Now that she was here, all she wanted to do was swear to all concerned that if they survived this storm, she’d park the boat on the beach and never sail again. But she knew they’d survive this one and another one and another one after that, and it would never become routine or second nature. Each storm was different, new and intoxicating, so she just kept on sailing.
As the time passed, the weather continued its intimidating efforts. Beth now needed two hands to control the boat. The wind was blowing needles of cold salt water into her face. She could barely make out the soft red glow of the dials on the bulkhead only ten feet away. The wind was gusting close to 50 mph. It felt like more. It was dark. She was getting cold. She was wet. She was, at the same time, up for the storm and anxious about what it would do next.
“Better let out the main a little bit, Dad.”
“Okay.” He reached over and uncleated the mainsheet, allowing the sail to spill some of the wind. Red Sky straightened up momentarily as he eased the sail out and then heeled over again as he recleated the line.
“Thanks, Dad.” She kept her eyes on the situation in front of her.
Even with the shortened main and no jib, Red Sky was soon heeled over at an uncomfortable angle. The full power of the storm must be upon them, Beth thought. The bow and leeward railings were buried with each passing wave. Red Sky was a heavy boat, designed for cruising, and managed to push on steadily through the confused water. Beth was able to maintain control; the rudder was still responsive to her touch. Andi took a deep breath and relaxed her grip on the stanchion.
“How’re we doing, Beth?” Andi asked from under the Bimini cover, where she and Max were trying unsuccessfully to avoid some of the weather.
“We’ve been through worse,” she confidently answered her mother, sitting a few feet away.
The sea heard her and replied without hesitation. A man-eating wave climbed over the bow and destroyed her visibility, threatening to drown her as it smashed its way back toward the stern. Blinded, coughing, and spitting salt water out of her mouth, Beth screamed back in anger at the sea. The sea, more than her equal, was not impressed. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she looked over at Max, ready for another turn at the wheel, and motioned for him to take over.
Leonard was unhappy with the decision. “The direct route to the Canal is too dangerous this time of year,” he argued with Erica. “If we have to go, let’s at least go by Aruba.” The thought of sailing directly across the Caribbean in the middle of Decembe
r frightened him.
“It’ll work out fine.” She was a pragmatist and a good sailor. The first step was to empty the safe-deposit box waiting for them in Panama. She’d decide then what to do next and whom to do it with.
Len was sitting in Atrophy’s cockpit, laptop on the bench, charts on his lap, making notes of the waypoints he needed to program the GPS and autopilot. He put his sunglasses on, looked at his watch, and noted the time on the chart.
He glanced at her in her flowery orange bikini, standing calmly behind the wheel, one foot up on the windward cockpit seat, steering the heavy boat, plodding slowly along at only 6.8 knots. Because of her missing mizzenmast and sail, the 15-knot breeze couldn’t push the unbalanced and ponderous boat any faster. “I’m telling you we should go to Aruba first. We can leave the boat there and catch a plane to the Canal.”
“No. Aruba’s even smaller than Antigua. They’ll have it watched. Look, I tell you there’s nothing to worry about. We save two days or more this way, and a little spray won’t hurt. Once we get finished with the bank in Panama, we’re home-free.”
“But we didn’t have time to get ready,” he argued. “The radar’s not working properly and the weatherfax is completely down. All I get out of it is blank paper.”
“So use the weather channels on the VHF.”
“That’s local only. It doesn’t tell us what’s doing a hundred miles out to sea. The direct route to the Canal is tough enough, close-hauled all the way. The last thing we need is to run into a tropical storm on top of it.”
“Stop worrying so much. Just plot the course and I’ll get us there. Vincent will give us the extra hand we need if things get sloppy.” She motioned with her head toward the husky youth sitting placidly up in the bow of the boat, legs dangling over the bowsprit, his face pointed directly into the wind, nose up in the air like a sculptured ebony figurehead on an old three-masted schooner.
“He doesn’t know squat about sailing. All he knows how to do is clean the boat badly and spill drinks. He’s lazy and he’s got an attitude like all the rest of them down here.”
Noble Chase Page 19
