by David Manuel
“You don’t like it, because it’s true!” She came up behind him and hugged him around the middle. “You know, you really are getting thinner,” she said appreciatively.
“Well—maybe you’re right,” he capitulated.
“Oh, come on! Think how much fun you’ll have! You love to fish! And drink beer and tell war stories and go around with your shirt hanging out!” She laughed, and he joined her.
“You’re amazing!” he said, shaking his head. “And you know what? Now that I’ve got my mind wrapped around it, I’m beginning to look forward to it.”
“You should! You might even run into Brother Bartholomew down there.”
Dan shut the cupboard door and hung up the towel. “I’d forgotten he’s there. I called the friary to see if he wanted to do some fishing, and they told me he was down there. Maybe we can get him out on the boat.” He paused. “No, probably not.”
“Why?”
“They said he was on some kind of personal retreat or something.”
On Saturday afternoon, four days later, Dan and Ron got off the plane in Bermuda. It was 3:15 by the time they checked in at Sandys House, overlooking Sandys Cove in Sandys Parish.
“That’s pronounced ‘Sands,’ by the way,” Ron explained, as he filled in the guest card for the day manager, “not the way you’d think from its spelling.” He smiled. “The British enjoy doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Mangling pronunciations.”
“You mean, like Wooster, for Worcestershire?”
“Yeah,” replied Ron, “or Lester, for Leicestershire.”
“Aloowishus for Aloysius.”
Ron was stumped for a moment. “Chumley for Cholmondeley.”
Both men laughed.
The first thing they had to do, announced Ron, was line up motor scooters at Oleander Cycle. There were no rental cars on Bermuda, only scooters. If you were going somewhere beyond walking distance, you took taxis or buses or ferries. Or rented a scooter.
The manager called the cycle shop, which offered to bring two over on a truck. But Ron said no, they’d come over and pick them out.
“The newer, the faster,” he explained to Dan on the way.
“Well, we certainly want the fastest,” the Chief agreed with a laugh.
“Oleander specializes in Ergons, from Taiwan. Young locals tell me they’re the best.”
Ron picked out two candy-apple-red Ergon doubles. They were made to carry two people, or one large man. Ron and Dan were both in the latter category. There was a little practice track—a good thing, because Dan’s machine took some getting used to. But once they got out on the road, he found he could keep up with Ron. The trick was getting used to staying on the left.
As they roared past Ely’s Harbour, his friend signaled for him to pull over. Dan pulled up alongside, and Ron pointed out Goodness at her mooring and then extended his arm to the sun, cupping his fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Old Indian trick,” Ron explained. “There are still four fingers between the sun and the horizon. We’ve got about an hour before it sets, and maybe twenty minutes of usable daylight after. Let’s go over to the Bennetts’ and see if we can take Goodness out. Just to check out her rig and tackle, you understand.”
“Of course,” said Dan, understanding.
They motored over, and found Nan expecting them. She gave Ron a hug and said, “It’s good to see you.”
Before he could mention the boat, she said, “I expect you’ll be wanting to take Goodness out.”
He grinned, and threw a knowing glance to Dan.
But Nan wasn’t finished. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Ron, would you mind taking Eric out with you? He’s the reason I’m not up on the Cape with Ian.”
“What’s the problem?”
“That’s just it; we don’t know. His headmaster called us in a couple of weeks ago. Eric had been on track for an outstanding senior year, after which Oxford was a possibility.”
She looked quickly around, to make sure her son was not within hearing distance. “Suddenly he’s not paying attention, dropped off the football team, and has started having ‘unexplained absences’ in the middle of the school day.”
Ron looked concerned, but had nothing to offer. Dan shook his head. He had a hunch what it might be and did not want to pursue it. They were down here on a vacation, he reminded himself.
“We’ve tried to talk to him,” Nan concluded. “It’s no use. It’s like he’s not even there.” Her voice broke, and she bit her knuckle.
“Of course, we’ll take him, Nan. No problem.”
Actually it was Eric who took them out. The blond, blue-eyed, rail-thin seventeen-year-old handled the boat with consummate skill, though to Dan he did not seem to be particularly enjoying himself. He had, in fact, a haunted look about him—a look Dan had seen from time to time on other kids….
“Eric?” Ron called from the cabin, where he had taken the wheel, “help my partner understand the finer points of game-fishing.”
The boy came back to familiarize Dan with the finer points of a big ocean reel and fighting chair. “You hook a marlin, you’re going to have your hands full,” he said with authority, as if he were a charter captain addressing a client. “You put the brake on here, and you keep the tip of your rod elevated—always—up in the air, so it bends. Like this,” and he demonstrated the rod’s extreme flexibility.
Pointing to the swiveling socket in the middle of the chair, he said, “And you keep the butt anchored here—always—and keep both hands on the rod, at all times. The last thing you want to do is lose a $1,500 rod and reel.”
“You got that right!”
Eric smiled—for the first time since they left the harbor. “Mom said you’re from Cape Cod—whereabouts, exactly?”
“Well,” said Dan, extending his arm and bending it up at the elbow, as if signaling for a right turn, “if my ear were Boston, and this elbow’s Chatham, we’re right here on the inner crook—little village called Eastport.”
Eric nodded. “I know what he does,” he said, nodding toward Ron in the cabin. “What do you do?”
“I’m the chief of police.”
Eric froze. Then quickly unfroze, hoping that Dan hadn’t noticed.
But he had. “Don’t worry, son,” he said with a smile. “I couldn’t be more off duty. Anyway, Bermuda’s a little out of my jurisdiction.”
Eric didn’t smile and soon found a reason to go into the cabin.
“Hey, Dan,” Ron called back to him, “You want to try her?”
“You go ahead; you’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not getting a free ride here. You’re going to have to drive, while I’m landing the one that’s going over my mantel. So you’d better get in here and see how she runs.”
Dan laughed and came in, taking the wheel. He tried a few turns and was surprised at how responsive the boat was. “She seems awfully”—he sought the right word—“agile. And powerful.”
“She’s hot, all right,” Ron nodded. “Hotter’n Lucinda, my boat,” he explained. He paused and added ruefully, “Kinda makes me wish I had a spare hundred thou.”
Eric emerged from the hold and went quickly aft to stow the gear.
Watching him, Dan said quietly to Ron, “His mother’s right to be concerned.”
“I know,” Ron murmured, nodding. “What do you think’s the problem?”
“Tell you later.”
They stayed out till the sun went down, then headed back to Ely’s Harbour. As they approached, Eric took the helm and guided them to the mooring, maneuvering adroitly to avoid two boats parked nearby. At the last moment, he reversed engine and backed down, so they just glided in to the buoy.
“You know,” Ron said to him, as they got in the dinghy, “You’re probably the best driver your age I’ve ever seen. Your dad’s taught you well. He must be proud of you. I don’t imagine it’ll be too long before he’ll have you taking
your own charters out on Goodness.”
The boy said nothing. But Dan noted the tears that came before he could turn away.
8 the white horse
As Saturday afternoon dissolved into Saturday evening in the harbor town of St. George at the other end of the island, Ian Bennett’s younger brother Colin sat at the bar of the White Horse Tavern. He preferred the outside bar in back, but a cold snap had brought everyone indoors.
Normally he would be at one of the small round tables, flanked by mates who were adding to the forest of empty green bottles on the table. But on those rare occasions when he chose to be alone, he took the stool at the end of the long bar, with its back to the front window. This afternoon—and evening—he preferred his own company and was working on his fourth “Dark ’n Stormy.” Made with Bermuda’s Black Seal rum, it was the drink of choice among local sea-faring types, when they weren’t knocking back Heinekens.
He cast an eye around the place. With the exception of the six guys over by the fireplace, it was quiet. They were the crew of the big schooner that had come in earlier that afternoon, Laventura, out of Newport. All in white, right down to their Topsiders, they seemed like decent sorts. No Rolexes, though. Gentleman sailors.
Except one. Even with four drinks in him Colin possessed a sailor’s eye—that could pick up the slightest hint in wind or weather that might presage a sea change. One of the six was older than the rest. And didn’t seem really comfortable in their company.
Grateful for the momentary distraction from what had brought him here to drink alone, he observed the man. He did not move with the graceful ease of the others. And he forced himself to smile, when the others were laughing. The thought crossed Colin’s mind that he was not really a sailor at all. Studying him now, he noted the hardness around his eyes.
All at once the man looked up, caught Colin eye-balling him, and gave him a malevolent stare that made Colin’s blood run cold. He was definitely not a character one would want to encounter on a dark night! That reminded him that his glass needed refilling, and he signaled Mike for another Dark ’n Stormy.
Normally on Saturday night the White Horse would be rocking. But the Norwegian Majesty had just sailed from the terminal on Ordnance Island and taken with her most of the tourists who’d been wandering the town. The White Horse regulars were not sad to see her go. Her departure signaled the approaching end of the cruise ship season. In two more weeks, they could come in here and count on getting a table and not having to wait half an hour for their food.
The other reason for the quiet was that tonight was the beginning of Race Week. Over in Hamilton, the match-race regatta known as the Gold Cup was about to get underway. Tonight there was a posh reception at the Bacardi Building in honor of all the skippers who had just arrived, and every nautical type who could wangle an invitation was there.
Colin had two invitations, actually. But he was in no mood to party. On the bar in front of him was a legal document of several pages. He started to scan the top page, then stopped; reading it again wasn’t going to change what it said.
Well, if he had to be miserable, it might as well be here. Sailors, captains, mates, boatyard workers, sail-makers, pilots—all regarded the White Horse as their place. The only reason to go anywhere else would be for a little privacy or to impress a potential client, in which case they might go up the wharf to the more upscale Carriage House, or to San Giorgio’s, whose Italian cuisine was superb and not too pricey.
Mounted above the tavern’s fireplace was the rear end of a wrecked police boat. The ceiling over the bar was festooned with buoys and old sailing caps, and the walls were covered with photos and graffiti that meant a great deal to regulars, and nothing at all to visitors. The former were remarkably tolerant of the latter, however, knowing how much the island’s economy depended on their cash.
They were especially so, if the visitors happened to be young and female and reasonably pulchritudinous. Indeed, local mariners were not averse to investing a fair amount of time and Heinekens, convincing them of their seafaring charm. Occasionally it actually paid off—just often enough to keep the ball in play.
Colin never had to buy more than one round for visitors of that persuasion. His flashing dark eyes and dazzling smile qualified him as what women considered “cute.” Men never knew exactly what constituted “cute,” but women always did—and Colin was its definition.
He was not feeling particularly cute tonight, though; he was well on his way to feeling nothing. For the moment, all he felt was devastated. The documents in front of him were divorce papers.
Amy, his wife of eight years, was suing him, from her family’s estate in Georgia, where she’d taken their eight-year-old son Jamie. He’d been staring at the papers for two hours and still couldn’t believe it.
“You finally got to her, didn’t you,” whispered Colin bitterly, waving to Mike for yet another. “And now you’ve got her.”
His father had been a charter fishing captain, and his mother had inherited just enough for them to keep the family home in Somerset and send their two sons to good schools off-island. Colin, who had just turned 30, had followed his older brother to a prep school named Deerfield Academy. But he’d not followed Ian to Williams College, as after Deerfield had come Lawrence Academy and Tabor Academy (twice).
Williams might still have been receptive to an application from Colin, as his combined SAT scores were 1470, and his older brother had compiled a sterling record. But he was more interested in ocean racing than college. In the cockpit of a 12-meter America’s Cup challenger, his concentration was absolute and sustained (as it had never been at the various academies). All things being equal, he was one of the finest sailors the island had produced, and Bermuda, like New Zealand, was renowned for its sailors.
In the days when Rolex used to sponsor the America’s Cup, they traditionally awarded each member of the winning crew a stainless steel Submariner. In the back of Colin’s desk drawer was a green presentation box containing a Rolex he’d won but never worn. The other was on his wrist.
His father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack when Colin was 21. As lung cancer had taken his mother six years before, there was a modest estate. Ian got the house and his father’s boat, Goodness, both of which were heavily mortgaged. Colin got the money—$82,000, all that was left after the tuition bills. With it he bought the boat of his dreams—a Venus 34.
Designed and built in Bermuda, the broad-beamed, gaff-rigged Venus was a superb ocean sailor. Other transoceanic sailing vessels that dropped anchor at St. George’s Harbour might be bigger, but in heavy weather, none did better than a Venus.
Colin paid top dollar for her and named her Care Away. He maintained a one-room apartment in town, which he used mostly as an office, or a place to live when the boat was out of the water. The rest of the time, it was mainly convenient for stowing stuff, plus it had a shower, which the boat didn’t.
When it came to fitting out Care Away, he decided to go for minimum maintenance rather than authenticity. Stevie Hollis, one of the few sailmakers left on Bermuda, might have brown “tan-bark” sails on his 34-foot Venus, but Colin’s were white. And his bright work was polished stainless steel, not bronze.
Similarly, following the advice of another captain friend, Stuart Lunn, he decided to go with the best radar, radio, GPS (Global Positioning System), and autopilot money could buy. As Stuart said, “If you’re going to put in technology, don’t skimp. When it saves your life one day, you’ll be glad you didn’t.”
But Colin also had a good brass sextant aboard. In the event of a lightning strike, all electronics would be fried anyway—even the handheld, backup GPS unit in a drawer under his bunk. If that happened, he could still get across the Atlantic the old-fashioned way, using his Rolex (which gained seven seconds a week), as a chronometer.
He’d spent the last of his inheritance on the tools he would need to support himself as a shipwright. For Colin had a real knack for putting broken boats b
ack together again. Whatever nature messed up, he would set right again, and he gradually earned a reputation that would ensure he always had work if he wanted it—which most of the time, he didn’t.
Except during hurricane season, roughly September through November, when he would work nonstop with relentless intensity. Wherever a major weather event knocked boats around, Colin could be expected to arrive in its wake. His prices were high, and while the boat owners and marina managers might object, they always paid. When Colin Bennett fixed them, they stayed fixed.
After that, he took the rest of the year off—dropping down to the Caribbean in January when Bermuda got too cold or beating up to Bar Harbor in July, when it got too hot. The rest of the time, St. George’s was just fine. Unless or until the spirit moved him to go somewhere else.
He liked to think of himself as a gypsy of the sea. And then, along came Amy.
9 the gleama
It was her roommate Pam’s fault. Amy would never have gone to Bermuda on spring break; Bermuda was where their parents used to go. Their friends all went to Barbados that year.
But her roommate had this thing about Bermuda. Her parents had fallen in love at the Coral Beach Club, dancing under the stars to the calypso music of the Talbot Brothers. Pam felt compelled to go there, and she could be extremely persuasive.
It turned out better than Amy expected. A lot better. They, too, stayed at the Coral Beach Club, and while there were a number of old fuds around, and a layer of younger fuds, there was also a younger, with-it group. They played tennis (well) and swam and did the beach thing, and scootered everywhere—and included Pam and Amy. It was surprisingly fun.
Two days before they were due to leave, they’d been to Hamilton, done the shops, spent a day at the Dockyard and another at Horseshoe Bay. The only place they hadn’t gone was St. George. But that was a long haul, out to the east end of the island. “You go ahead,” she begged off. “I’m going to hang here by the pool.”
