by D. F. Jones
“Suppose we quarrel?” said Karen.
“We’ll just have to kiss and make up!” replied Bill, genially.
She persisted, “But if we don’t?”
He gave her a big grin. “Then we get our little bottoms smacked—and if that doesn’t do the trick, we get dumped ashore at the next stop.”
He clearly meant it. He went on in a very reasonable, almost coaxing way. “A good half of the battle is realizing that none of us is perfect, and that however much we think we may be right, we can still be wrong.”
Karen had got a full head of steam from somewhere, and could not stop. I knew that feeling; with our sort of temperament, once you have screwed up your courage to have a go, you have to have a go. She said, “Bill—there’s something else. I—I can’t afford it!”
For once, Bill looked really sore. “Have I ever asked, or even hinted, that you should pay?”
“Gee, no! Don’t get mad at me, Bill.” Her resolution was fading fast. “It’s kinda difficult to explain. I can’t lay my hands on—”
He cut her short. “I don’t give a damn if you’re Henry Ford’s granddaughter. I don’t want your money!”
“Yes, but what if you get tired of me?”
This was getting too personal for my liking. I squirmed uncomfortably on my seat. Bette was staring hard out through the hatch at the sky.
Bill’s flash of annoyance had passed, and he smiled. “All right, my dear. You’re determined to face every possible contingency. Even if that one should arise, you would continue to be my guest, and I would be happy to arrange and pay for your passage back, you have my word on that.” He did not give her a chance to go on, regarding it as settled. “Mitch, have you any points?”
We argued about our contribution and finally agreed that we would split the expenses fifty-fifty. Bette left all this to me, so it appeared as if Bill and I were making the trip and paying for it, and that the women were part of our essential stores. It eased Karen’s position. With some relief we moved on to other angles. It was obvious that we would have to do some planning, and Bette, once we were clear of Karen’s troubles, was all eagerness to get on. Bill called a halt.
“Not quite so fast! So far we’ve been saying ‘if.’ I think this is the moment to decide. Do you accept my conditions, and do we go?”
Once again, he got his votes very quickly. He nodded, and at once began assigning tasks. Karen and Bette were to produce a food shopping list; Bette was to have charge of medical stores. I was to arrange finance, buying, and transportation. He would handle boat stores and spares. We were to be stocked for a three-month voyage. Then he turned his attention to the route, and a large-scale chart of the Pacific was spread. Bette’s eyes sparkled at the sight of it, and I was glad to see that, for the present at least, Denver and Chicago were forgotten.
Bill traced a track with his pencil. “Our best bet is to go south with the locally prevailing wind and the California Current for a couple of hundred miles. By then, with luck, we’ll be into the northeast trades and have the equatorial currents with us and we can aim for Hawaii. From there, into the Doldrums, through to the southeast trades, then island-hop to Aussieland—or New Zealand—if you want to.”
All this chat about trade winds and Hawaii and the islands was too much for Bette—she fairly glowed. I didn’t feel so bad, either. Even Karen forgot her troubles. I imagine Mayfly’s saloon was one of the brightest spots in San Diego that night.
Bill looked up from the chart and surveyed our faces. “I think we might run to a drink now, don’t you, Mitch? Don’t give the girls too much.”
It was very late when we bedded down. Scribbled lists, mostly crossed out, littered the cabin. Bill and I went on deck, leaving the girls the use of the “head.”
We stood, shoulder to shoulder on the small foredeck in masculine community. Bill said, “You do realize that this is not going to be a picnic, don’t you Mitch?”
“Yeah. I only hope you realize what you’re taking on in the way of a crew!”
“Oh, as a crew, I’m quite satisfied. Bette’s the best woman sailor I’ve known. I don’t know many men better. I wouldn’t have left the deck in that storm if I hadn’t been certain of her. No offense, Mitch, you’re a competent, reliable hand with enough savvy to know when to call out, but you’re not in her class. No, I’m not worried about any of you on watch.” He adjusted his dress to his satisfaction. “It’s off watch that things may be difficult. Well, good night, chum. Sleep well. We’re going to be busy in the morning!”
Like Suffren, Bill was not given to kidding. The girls got on with the stores lists. He and I went through the boat with a finetooth comb. Some of the gear Bette and I had brought would have to go to make room for the extra supplies. We got four suitcases full which I had to dump somewhere ashore. With the girls’ first list, tactfully amended by Bill, I took the cases and chased off to get money, unload the cases, and buy the stores, all canned stuff. It was indeed a very busy morning.
I called Suffren and told him of our decision. He merely said, “A good plan. I have nothing more to say.” In a moment of weird inspiration I invited him aboard the next evening. To my great surprise, he accepted.
All afternoon was spent loading and stowing. Bill kept vanishing ashore, returning with rolls of charts, coils of rope, fishing lines, and I do not know what else. Bette, in her medical role, made a trip. Her purchases made me think she took a very gloomy view of our future. Splints, bandages, a mask and two one-hundred liter bottles of oxygen, and an assortment of anaesthetics. The oxygen, she said, took some getting.
I arranged for Karen to come ashore with me for the second bout of shopping. I gave her fifty dollars and told her to spend it on herself; I remembered that wail when Bette cut her jeans off. She tried to thank me, but I sent her off before I got a swollen head. I was almost certain Bill knew damned well her rich background was a phoney, but it was important for her—and the rest of us—that she should think he still believed her story.
Canned food rained aboard. I had half expected trouble buying all this stuff, but the store near the yacht harbor was only too glad to oblige. Since the advent of SARAH not many yachts were going to sea; trade was lousy.
We ate a hasty, late lunch on board, during which Bill explained the water problem, which would be tough, at least as far as Hawaii. Mayfly had tanks for fifty British gallons—their gallon is slightly larger than ours-—and while he hoped we might make Hawaii in eighteen days, he was assuming it would take a month. We would be rationed to two quarts each a day, not a lot in the tropics. There would be little for washing, and none for laundry, and some of our cooking would be done in seawater. If it rained, that would be an extra, and to be ready, he had bought a good supply of strong plastic bags.
Karen was a different girl after her shopping expedition. Gay, laughing at the slightest pretext, and much given to odd snatches of song, which was an error, for her voice was flatter than a pancake. Her behavior puzzled Bette. I only hoped she did not intercept the occasional warm smile Karen threw my way.
That evening, after a rather more successful meal ashore, we held another meeting reviewing the day’s progress. Most of the stores were aboard, and Bill was satisfied with Mayfly’s trim; she would be heavily laden, and this could be very important if we met bad weather. We wrote out final lists while Bill plowed through the ship’s paperwork. It must have been a strangely old-fashioned scene, four of us clerking away under the yellow light of the oil lamp. Finally, Bill shut the log with a slam.
“Waal, folks”—his American accent was terrible—“I kinda guess we can mosey out of this l’il ole joint, day after tomorrow, at the crack o’ dawn!”
It was something of a shock although I don’t know why; Bill had not wasted a single minute since the decision was made to go. Suddenly we realized that we were leaving, running away. Also we were doing something that not many people do. We were depressed, excited, and apprehensive, all at the same time. Bill knew this perfec
tly well, and kept us moving.
“Don’t just sit there, gawping! We won’t drink much at sea, so let’s have a quick one now. Mitch, you fix, will you? Karen, my dear, I know we have to have some cases of corned dog in the sleeping cabin, but if you stow them just a fraction further aft, we’ll be able to get at the bottom drawer. No, don’t do it now; make a note for the morning.”
I handed the drinks around while Bill rattled on, “Mitch and Karen for the perishable supplies shopping first thing tomorrow—eggs, butter, cabbage, carrots, tomatoes—a good chunk of well-salted bacon, you know, Karen—oranges, apples—no bananas—I take it the long-life milk’s aboard?”
Karen, scribbling furiously, nodded.
“Good. And while you’re ashore, get your own personal bits and pieces, books, cigarettes. Bette, I thought you and I would make a final overhaul of the standing rigging while they’re ashore, then have our final bout of shopping and clear the Customs in the afternoon—okay?”
“How about filling a few of your famous plastic bags with water before we sail? If we have to ditch them, no harm done. If not it would give us a little more to play with.”
“A damned good idea, Bette! Let’s have four bags, that’s eight gallons, lashed to the guard rails, two each side. It’s another eighty pounds top weight, but that’s acceptable. Another thing, all of you. This is your last chance to use the yacht club showers, and bring your dirty laundry—up to date, completed by evening. Can’t sail festooned with step-ins and lacey bras!” He stopped, picked up his glass.
“Here’s to Mayfly, and all who sail on her!”
The next day events went according to schedule. Karen and I staggered back with our final load. I was not going to trust the delivery service at this late hour. Most of it, cabbage and the like, was bulky but light and was lashed down on the cabin top. By the time we had finished, Mayfly looked more like a market stall than an oceangoing yacht. We were very busy, coming and going, and I had just finished getting ready, bathed and changed into clean pants and shirt, when Suffren arrived.
He stood on the quay, surveying Mayfly.
“Good God! You’re not’ going in that?”
I smiled in a superior sort of way. “Don’t let Bill Visick hear you talk like that about his beloved boat!”
He grunted. “Well, don’t just stand there smirking in that most irritating way, help me down!”
In the cabin I introduced him to Karen, the only other one on board. Never at his best with women, he only said “Ha!” and looked away from her, clearly much more interested in his surroundings. “You really mean to go all that way in this? God!” He sat down heavily.
Poor Karen, left more or less in mid-air, smiled nervously at him and made her escape to the deck.
“Is that another of your harem?” He went to town on the last word, aspirating with gusto, and throwing in a couple more ee’s.
I got out a bottle and two glasses. “No! That’s Bill’s girl, Karen—a very nice girl, too.”
“Indeed.” He sniffed. “I suppose you’re still inextricably entangled with that Jakobsen woman.”
“Not quite the way I’d put it, but yes, I suppose so.”
“You suppose!” By his rules of the game, he had .scored a point. He changed direction. “This fellow, Bill—what-ever-it-is—you say he sailed alone in this—this thing, alone”—That was the bit that really got him—“across the Pacific?”
“Having first sailed it from England, via South Africa and across the Indian Ocean.”
“Incredible!” There was a grudging respect in his voice.
“At least, it is reasonable to suppose he is a proficient seaman.” He picked up his glass, peered at me. “Well, my boy, I wish you well.”
That was a great deal, coming from him.
I responded with equal sincerity. “And that, sir, goes for you, too!” We drank, and he hurried on, glad to get away from this appalling display of emotion.
“When do you depart?”
“Tomorrow morning at first light, next stop, with luck, Honolulu, Hawaii.”
“So soon…. Yes, well, you’re right to go; empty heroics are exceedingly tiresome. Such posturing may be agreeable to the actor, but it is a wicked waste.” He repeated with emphasis, “Yes,’ you are right to go, and again, right to go as soon as you can.”
“If you have Chicago in mind, I’ve heard that one.”
He stiffened. “What, exactly, have you heard?”
I told him, and at once he relaxed. “Old stuff,” he said with typical disparagement. “In fact, it would seem that the concentration there is not nearly as bad as that experienced by Denver, not yet, but the panic—! They’ve tried to throw a cordon around the city to stop this spreading, but my impression is that it is not succeeding. Ships, planes hijacked, rioting, looting.” He gave that macabre cackle of his. “But not very much burning! Even rioters practice oxygen conservation now! The city, by all reports, is in almost total anarchy; no public or private transport, hundreds, possibly thousands dead, no one knows…” He drained his glass, and sat ruminating for a while.
“So that’s Chicago, and other places. Something else: while waiting for our daily meeting with the Governor, I overheard a general talking to a Marine colonel—and from the drift of his remarks, I received the impression that our defenses are now on full alert.” He cackled again. “This could be the moment for a quick nuclear strike! And still, still that damned gas goes on, pouring out!” He gestured irritably, the old snarl was back. “Am I supposed to sit and stare at an empty glass?”
My mind had been elsewhere, and I hastily refilled. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
“Not much. There is some very fast work being done on the design and production of large-size plastic domes to enclose small living areas into which oxygen is fed to give a reasonable balance…. The whole thing is supported by a few pounds of overpressure. Sounds fine, but you can’t put the entire country under pressurized plastic.” Again, that unfunny sound. “What did the poet nearly say? ‘In USA did Kubla Khan a safety pressure dome decree’!” He cackled with all the pleasure of the academic. “For vital personnel—which is a nice point to decide—that could be the answer. Live in domes, and when outside, wear masks.”
“Surely it won’t come to that!”
“In all probability, it will. Even if SARAH builds a lethal concentration in a given area for only two days, it would be enough. Under extreme conditions, two minutes is enough. You’re well out of it!”
“I don’t like going, I feel guilty as hell, but what use—”
“My boy, I have already dealt with that aspect of your problem! You may well live to fight another day, and that could be a day when your country really needs you, which is not now. Believe me, you are right to go—and I rather think it is time I did.” He got up, ignoring my protests, fumbling in one large pocket of his baggy, drooping jacket. Finally he came up with what he sought, a grubby handkerchief wrapped around something. He placed it carefully on the saloon table, and removed the covering. It was the smoky quartz twinned crystal I had last seen in San Bruno.
“There.” He lovingly stroked its shiny surface with one finger. “A memento. I noted your expression last time you saw it—I’m not as blind as you like to think! Keep it—and don’t let that bloody woman, or any other, dust it or clean it.”
“Professor, I don’t know what to say—”
“That my boy,” he said, striking with the speed of light, “comes as no surprise whatsoever! For one so garrulous, you are remarkably incoherent. Now, put it away, and assist me out of this contraption!”
“I can only say I’ll treasure this—”
“Young man,” he snarled at me with positive delight, knowing he had me across a barrel, “please spare me your juvenilia! I do not need an impressionistic sketch of your feelings; there are other, more pressing matters. You may be old one day, and cursed with an old man’s weakness, an unreliable bladder—an organ I wish to get back to dry
land as soon as possible. No, spare me the near public indecencies of your floating washroom. At my age, one wishes to preserve at least the illusion of dignity,”
The old devil had me, although I was practically certain that he had bladder trouble like I had leprosy. The performance getting him ashore would have earned an approving nod from the shade of John Barrymore. On the quayside we encountered Bill, pink and fresh from the shower, and I introduced them. An American in Bill’s position would have said something about “pleased and honored to meet” which was guaranteed to rile Suffren. Bill just shifted his towel to the other arm, stuck his hand out, and said, “How d’ye do, sir!”
Suffren took his hand, which almost made history, and pounced. “You’re a Londoner!”
“Quite correct,” answered Bill easily. “How do you know?”
“My dear fellow, I was not always old! I spent three happy years there, dividing my time fairly equally between the University, that fine Geological Museum, and a number of shared beds, mostly sited, very conveniently, off the Kings Road, Chelsea!” He laughed so much I thought he would injure himself. Bill made some sort of answer, and invited the old man for our final dinner.
“That is most kind, but thank you, no. Goodbye, and good luck to you, sir.” He gripped Bill’s hand again. “Take care of this young fool. Given time, he may—I only say may—become a useful scientist, and God knows they are few and far between!” He turned and took my hand. “No, leave me here. I have a car arranged. Write if you can; I may even reply—Honolulu, was it not? Goodbye, my boy.” He let go of my hand as if it was suddenly red hot, adroitly side-stepped a bollard, and was gone.
“That,” observed Bill, watching the retreating figure, “is quite a character!”
“He’s a damned cunning old skunk!” But it wasn’t what I was feeling.
We sailed on schedule, at first light, a chill morning in August. And if you don’t believe the chill part, try the upper deck of a yacht at 5:30 A.M. at that time of the year. Mayfly ghosted out in the white mist, and we saw little of our native land as we left. By nine o’clock we were well clear, visibility was good, the sea and swell, slight from the north, and a breeze which kept the yacht moving at a steady three knots.
