by D. F. Jones
“C’mon, folks! There ain’t no trains to no place! Go home and let’s all get some sleep!”
A woman screamed…. Bette gripped my arm; she had had enough. “Look at that, Mitch! They’re not even hurt yet—and look at them! How about your Boy Scout notions now? How many of that crowd would hesitate over a chance like Mayfly?”
We got back to the car and left, silent and depressed. We had another bad moment when a patrol stopped us near the dock, but Bette’s uniform, the windshield sticker, and Bill’s accent got us through without trouble, except for another knot in my nerves.
Bill and I got out; it was raining again. In the silence of a warm, still night, I could hear the distant, regular crash of the breaking swell, a sinister, chilling sound.
“Thank you, Bette, for a lovely meal.” Bill bent down and kissed Karen. “Go carefully, and don’t be late in the morning!”
As I kissed Bette, she pushed a small package into my hand and whispered, “Don’t drop it, darling.” She kissed me. “It’s the best I could do in the time.” They drove off; I watched the taillights in a bemused sort of way….
“Yes.” Bill’s voice was suspiciously flat, unemotional. “Shall we be moving?”
After a lot of climbing, stumbling, and cursing we reached the yacht, gaunt and ghostly in the moonlight. We clambered aboard weary and filthy, and that did nothing for Bill’s temper. He was nearly as bad as Bette about cleanliness. The dock smell was just as strong, but different. The seaweed component had eased off, giving pride of place to urine.
Bill lit a small lamp and cleared some more space in the cluttered cabin to give us room to stretch out on the cushions. I edged around the table to my side. Bill sat down, grinning at me. He was a great grinner.
“Now you know why I don’t bother about changing!”
I. opened the package Bette had given me: a fine, chrome-steel watch. Bill eyed it appreciatively. “That’s a nice present, chum.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It all comes of being a good boy.”
Morning came for me, chill, damp, and misty, at a quarter of eight. Bill had struggled through to the galley and made tea, which helped iron the kinks out of my neck. We decided to skip the ablutions; we also decided that the sanitary regulations could stand the strain.
I had never been in a drydock before, and that one experience is enough for me. A couple of baulks of lumber, lashed fore and aft at right angles across the deck, had us wedged between two ugly, rusty lighters. There were a lot of other shores and props under the hull, which, Bill explained, had to come out in stages as we floated free.
The flooding was quite exciting, and I completely forgot the impending problem that faced us, and me in particular. Bill had acquired a large number of old tires, and these we draped carefully over the sides. The water rose swiftly, unpredictable eddies pushed and pulled us, and until the turbulence subsided, Bill was going like a mad organist. Anyone believing that English English is a dull old parent of virile American English would have had to revise his opinion after ten minutes of Bill’s colorful flow.
It was ten-thirty by the time we were properly afloat, our lumber secured to the dock wall. I thought Bill had miscalculated the time, but I was wrong. Our turn to move out came at eleven-fifteen.
Bill has a US flag at one yardarm and the California state flag at the other, and at the stem was the British mercantile red ensign. It was, he said, only common courtesy —and good policy. No one should be in any doubt about Mayfly’s nationality. As he swung the engine he said in his usual, level voice, “Okay, Mitch. This is where you do your disappearing act. Get below and stay there until I call.”
Our tiny engine thumping with my heart keeping time, we moved out. Down below, standing quivering gently in the galley, I knew as soon as we cleared the dock entrance; we started pitching in that nightmarish swell. A bump, a screech from our tire fenders, and the cutting of the engine told me we were alongside. I dared not look out of the tiny porthole. I fiddled around in the galley, trying not to think. By nature, I’m a law-abiding citizen. The screeching and groaning of the tires went on and on, setting my teeth on edge. I managed a quick, oblique glance out of the port. We were berthed alongside a fishing boat, also fresh out of dock. I could hear Bill padding back and forth, getting our lines secured. He took time out to stick his head down the hatch.
“So far, so good. Girls here!”
I waited, sweating. Above the general din I heard him calling. Suddenly Bette appeared in the cockpit, dressed in her seagoing rig: tight jeans, shirt, and sweater. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her face flushed; she looked a thousand times better than she had the day before. There was no doubt that afloat she was a different person and, incredibly, getting an added kick out of this situation. Overhead more bumps indicated someone else had got aboard. I only hoped it was Karen.
Bette came down the ladder, then turned and took a carton from some invisible person. As she passed it to me, I got a big smile and a passing peck of a kiss.
“Take this, Mitch. Stow it in the forrard cabin. Lots more to come!”
Cartons fairly rained down on me. All three were getting the stores off the pontoon, across the fishing boat to the yacht, no easy job in that swell. I stowed the stuff with desperate speed, not caring much where it went, sweating with exertion and anxiety.
Karen came down, bright and cheerful, with two bulging bags. “Hi, Mitch! That’s the end.”
“Are we off?” I was very eager.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Have to fill the water tanks and get a few drums of gas aboard.”
“For crying out—”
She laid a hand on my arm and gave me the full benefit of those large sympathetic eyes. “Take it easy, Mitch. It won’t take long.” Then she left me. Just then, my idea of a long time was ten seconds. I sat down amid the general shambles, angry and frightened, yet I knew Bill was right in keeping the wraps on me. In a quiet way, Mayfly was a local celebrity. The USN had a shack on the pontoon, and must know all about Karen. Another girl on board would not be as suspicious as another man, although they might wonder what Bill was doing with two dollies, and figure that another male must be around. Still, they had a lot to do, and the USN was not the FBI.
To stretch my nerves that much more, we had to wait for the fresh-water hose. And just in case I should happen to doze off, the fishing boat decided to go. This meant passing our lines to the pontoon as the fishing boat went astern out of it. About the only improvement was that the fearful screeching of the fenders eased considerably. Bill and Bette hauled us in, Karen staggering round with an extra fender.
About three lifetimes later we had got the gas aboard. Karen was busy with the fenders, Bill was presumably lashing down the fuel drums, and Bette was ashore ready by the faucet to turn off when we had topped up with water.
A large, red-faced sailor, armed, cap tilted forward, ambled out of the shack. Bette had turned off and was walking back.
“Just a minute, sister!”
My heart froze. This was it.
At no time did Bette care for familiarity from anyone, and that included gum-chewing gobs. Her expression said it all. “What d’you want?” She appeared very calm, cool, even frosty. Too chill, I thought; no point in riling the man.
“The Lootenant would like to see you.” He jerked his head toward the shack, never taking his eyes off her. “In there.”
Expressionless, she turned and went into the shack. The sailor followed her.
Bill’s head appeared in the hatchway on the pretext of dumping a sweater. “Easy, Mitch, easy! Stay there.”
Another lifetime passed with me watching, biting my lip. Bette emerged from the hut followed by the officer and the sailor. They all walked toward us. I could hardly breathe,
yet found enough to curse the rolling which interrupted my vision.
Bette disappeared from my view, and I heard Bill say the nicest thing I had ever heard him say.
“Stand by to cast off!”
I saw the sailor, cap still tilted impossibly forward over his eyes, poised easily, holding our bow line.
“Cast off forrard!”
The line was tossed aboard and the engine revved; the lieutenant smiled, stiffened slightly, and saluted.
I could have cried. We were off!
Bill slipped the afterline and got it inboard fast. I watched this through a crack in the door of the hatchway. Panic seized me again—suppose the free end of the line got wrapped around our screw!
It didn’t, and I hastily got forrard into the main sleeping cabin, in case I might be seen as Mayfly’s stern swung toward the pontoon, and stood waiting, hanging on as we rolled. Karen came bouncing in.
“Relax, Mitch!” She looked damned cheerful, and I got a sisterly kiss before she returned to the galley. Some of her immediate problems had been solved too. I stayed below, straightening things up with slightly more interest. The rolling increased and I guessed we were clear of Hunter’s Point.
Bill shoved his head down the hatch once more, and he looked cheerful too. “That went off pretty well!”
“I damn near died when they hooked Bette in—what did they want?”
He gave me a big, toothy grin. “Conscience making cowards of us all, or whatever Shakespeare said! The lieutenant explained the control system to Bette. They’ve got patrol boats off the north side, mainly to discourage looters, now they have this order to enforce as well. All vessels cleared have to hoist the code flags of the day. He wanted to make sure we carried the full International set, and to explain the procedure. If you don’t have the right signal, they board.”
“For Chrissake! Why not tell you?”
“For a start, I had my hands full being alongside in this swell—and I don’t suppose they get many chances to talk to pretty girls on that pontoon!”
As simple as that.
His head disappeared for a moment as he glanced around, then he bobbed down once more. “No reason why you shouldn’t come on deck now. You can sort the flags out, but we don’t hoist them until told to do so. It’s flags M and N. M’s blue with a white diagonal cross, N’s blue and white check.”
I got on deck, feeling very exposed, located the flags, went forward and lowered the California flag and got the code flags “bent on,” as Bill quaintly put it. Then I joined Bette amidships; once more we reviewed our city.
Superficially, it looked much as it had when we last saw it, but a closer look showed the results of a lot of the emergency work. There was a cluster of lighters and boats around the damaged Bay Bridge pier—the freighter had been moved further out and anchored, well down at the bow, clear of the working area. A web of scaffolding had gone up, showing that work on restoring that lifeline, now more vital than ever, was going ahead under appallingly difficult conditions.
There were more boats about, more life. Navy launches bounced importantly across the swell, and the clanging thud of piledrivers came off shore on the light breeze.
North of the Embarcadero, now fully exposed, Bill turned into the wind and we got the sails set. There was a fair breeze, the yacht’s head paid off, the jib cracked and flapped, then set hard as Bill brought her round for the Golden Gate.
Fisherman’s Wharf and the yacht harbor were still unrecognizable, but much of the clutter had gone. With our engine off, more sound could be heard from the shore. No longer was there that deathly silence, that dreadful smell. Life was stirring again along the waterfront. I watched with very mixed feelings: pride, that our city should be fighting back, a good deal of shame that I should be running away, and, above all, fear that this vast effort was a complete waste of time….
We were close to the bridge when a patrol boat came rumbling up on our lee side. A signal lamp flashed.
“K” muttered Bill. “Not bloody likely—Mitch, get that flag hoist up!”
I did so, watching anxiously. “What does K mean?”
“Stop instantly. I suppose that’s the challenge.”
The patrol boat closed with us; a loud hailer swung round.
“What ship?”
“Mayfly of London, England—outward bound for Los Angeles!” Bill could do quite well without electronic aids. “Okay, Mayfly—good luck!”
The patrol boat’s engines took on a deeper, more powerful note; she roared away, stern well down, turning. Ahead, through the soaring filigree of the bridge, lay the open sea. We were free.
Chapter 13
We were so busy, there was no time to feel elated, and in any case, neither Bette nor I really saw it that way. Once clear of what we both regarded as a trap, my chief feeling was one of shame, but what use was I in San Francisco?
Bill kept us at it: the remaining tire-fenders had to be tossed overboard, then we had to pour four of the eight gasoline containers into the tanks and ditch the empties. That was a good game, played slow. Holding the big funnel while Bill poured. I had a final glimpse of the white top of Coit Tower, bright in the sun….
We lashed the four remaining jerricans right aft, and with his usual thoroughness Bill secured a knife on a lanyard with them, so that they could be rapidly cut loose in the event of fire.
There was an awful lot to do down below, as well. Most of my feverish stowing had to be done over. It is true that once under sail the rolling was to some extent dampened, but not that much, and shifting cases, cartons, and bags was tough. It was past four o’clock before we realized we hadn’t eaten. Karen started preparing food, and we had recovered sufficiently mentally to have a mildly celebratory meal around six o’clock. However guilty one might feel, it was hard to suppress the sensation of release and freedom. The weather was fine, we had turned south with a favorable wind, the swell was astern and, subconsciously at least, we were aware that each minute took us that much further from SARAH. It was better to think of that than Suffren and San Francisco, much better….
After the meal and the inevitable washing of the dishes, we crowded into the cockpit. It was chill, but after the city, the air was wonderful. I had a shrewd suspicion we had been gently got together by Bill. It was nice I could be right sometimes.
“I’ve been doing what you Yanks call ‘heavy thinking.’ ” His face was rudding in the glow of the setting sun. “We have one or two problems to sort out. Watches, sleeping arrangements—”
I cut in; this was a subject I also had mulled over. “This is no time to be coy, Bill. You should know Bette and I—”
“Quite!” He avoided Bette’s gaze. “That does—er— simplify matters.”
Karen directed a wicked look at me. “Yes. It does.”
“Yes,” repeated Bill unnecessarily. “In that case, if you are agreeable, I suggest we work the same watches as before, but to save the saloon being in a constant state of turmoil, we could work the ‘hot-bunk’ system—”
“The what?”
“Hot-bunk system. In two watches, only two of us will have our heads down at any one time, so we could all use the double bunk. If you don’t like the idea, say so.”
I nodded agreement; Bette said nothing, content to leave it to me.
“Fine! Karen—can you clear a couple of drawers? Next —” He worked methodically through: water economy, keeping the boat tidy, distribution of chores. It sounded fierce, but chaos can be a killer, and the next worse thing to fire that you can have in a small boat.
The sun was setting; Bill turned over the con to Bette, and lit the navigation lights. After poking around for a few more minutes, he announced we had started watchkeeping, and that he and Karen would take over at midnight.
They went below, and the warm yellow light of the oil lamp came through the hatch. A little later he stuck his head out. “Nothing new on the radio. Weather looks good; hold this course. If in doubt, call me.” He nodded, ducked, and slid the hatch with a bang. The light disappeared; Bette and I were alone.
“Bill sure has loads of confidence in you, honey.”
“In both of us, Mitch.” She changed the subject. “You han
dled that very well, darling.”
“There was no need to spell it out. Sure?” I said anxiously.
She squeezed my hand. For a long time we said nothing, happy in companionable silence. I was lookout, Bette steered. The wind held, and with SARAH’s swell astern, the pitching was not unpleasant, once you got used to it, and it helped to know that every minute we were that much further from the source…. Bette spoke.
“It’s strange, being here like this. I thought we were dead ducks when that sailor called me!”
“You can say that again!”
“You know, Mitch, I’ve an awful feeling that officer knew I was on the run, and let me go.”
“Bully for him! Better than that boot-faced young West Pointer back in San Bruno. God! Was that only yesterday?”
Bette was no girl to dwell on the past. “What d’you think we do when we get to L.A.?”
“We’ve plenty of time to think that over.” That reminded me. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you properly for this watch, darling. It’s great! My old one was never the same since the bang I gave it on the Tuscarora’s bridge.”
“I’m glad you like it. I did think of a ring, but I don’t see you as a ring-wearing man, somehow. But L.A., Mitch—”
“Aw, honey, let’s wait till we get there!”
“Oh, I don’t know; we have to start sometime. Accommodation is going to be tough, that’s for sure—we may even have trouble getting ashore. Don’t forget, we broke that emergency law.”
“Don’t worry, Bette. They won’t have a file on us! We could have sailed before the order came into force-—we damn near did! Just relax, enjoy your vacation—there’s a lotta time to think of L.A.—and Texas.”
