Thrown off balance, all four of us ended up draped over furniture and on the floor.
I pulled myself onto all fours. “What in the holy hell was that, Fabio?”
“Our anchor bridle broke, I think. That means only the beenchi brake is holding us.”
I didn’t even know we had a beenchi brake. “Beenchi brake?”
Chino broke in. “Yes, the beenchi brake. The brake on the windlass, the winch.”
Silly me. The ween-chay, of course. And that was really bad news. If the brake stripped, three hundred feet of anchor chain could play out, maybe ripping loose when it hit the end. The boat would first be blown out into treacherous waters, then, without an anchor to stop us, who knows where. Even if the anchor held, the rough water where we’d end up would quickly chafe through our gear and we’d be on the move. Probably up onto some rocks, or even right into Golden Odyssey.
“You want me to go out and get the other anchor ready, Fabio?”
“No, no one is to go outside. The other anchor, without the chain, would not hold in this wind. We must take the pressure from the chain, now.” He started one engine, then showed me how he played the throttle and gear controls to hold the boat, ease strain on the anchor chain. Then he handed me a walkie-talkie, looked somberly into my eyes, said, “This is it, Ay-tah,” and disappeared.
It had turned cold, but I was sweating bullets. I had to jockey the boat, hold it in place, try to second guess the wind gusts. Panic, while not the ideal venue for one’s learning processes, at least speeds them up. I kept on just enough forward motion to compensate for the wind’s force pushing us backward. Oh, once in awhile a blast would mess me up, but Jan tried her best to help out by watching our increasingly useless instruments. We got an intermittent GPS readout, but the storm was also messing with Uncle Sam’s satellites on high, so the alarm system on our GPS was not reliable. And the depth sounder was useless, as the muddy water all looked like bottom.
“Raymond Johnson, are you still with us?” Saint Stephanie’s voice, like that of a distant angel, asked. We had the ham radio at full volume, but even so we barely heard her over the hammering wind and waves. The eerie, hysterical shrieking of the gale never let up now, it just rose an octave or two now and then. The keening sound was nerve-wracking enough, but add in the pounding water, which was now seeping through every possible seam in the boat, and hail. It was like being inside a careening steel drum, under attack by a thousand pissed off cats with baseball bats.
We had long since given up trying to keep things in place. Everything that could move, did. At one point the refrigerator door flew open and Jan rushed to shut and lock the door, but let the mess lie. In another terrifying moment, the heavy teak dining table, which we thought was secured to the floor, came scudding toward me. I jumped out of its path just in time to prevent a hip fracture. I made a mental note to add Depends to our safety gear.
“Raymond Johnson, are you there?” Stephanie repeated.
“Jan, go ahead and answer her. I can handle things here for a second. Tell her what’s going on and get back over here, pronto, okay?”
Jan dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the galley steps, then held onto the rail until she could reach the banquette and swing herself in. “This is Raymond Johnson. Sorry, we’re a lit-tle busy about now.”
“I’ll bet. What’s all the noise?”
“Wind. Rain. Furniture. Hetta. You name it.”
“Jeez. Okay, the net is over, but someone will be monitoring. We will call you every fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Okay. I have to crawl to get here, but we’ll try to answer.”
“Good luck.” She didn’t say, “You’ll need it,” but I could hear it in her voice.
Jan crawled back just as the temperature began to rise on the port engine. I called the guys on the walkie-talkie, started the starboard engine and shut down the port. I learned one lesson the hard way when I shut down one engine before starting the other, then panicked when neither would start again. Fabio saved the day by starting us up from the engine room. My hero. He deserved an unsuitable reward.
Tension and fatigue crawled up my spine. My shoulders and neck throbbed. I wanted a drink and an aspirin.
Jan and I think alike. “I’d kill for a drink,” she screeched over the din. I glanced at the clock and felt like crying. According to NOAA, we had another hour before the eye passed over us, and my muscles were already cramping from the strain of bracing myself while maneuvering the controls.
I took a deep breath, began a set of mind-over-matter relaxing exercises that Pamela, bless her little black heart, drilled into me. When the storm was over I needed to find out what she did with my VW, and who died. But right now, I had to save my boat. In less than an hour, the real fun would start.
Chapter 21
The storm headed due north. We, at the moment, were on the north east side of Isla Margarita, hiding, non too successfully, from the south wind. Huge waves broke on the other side of the island, the only thing between us and certain disaster. But as the eye passed over us we’d have a short window during which we must move before the wind changed direction and blasted us from the north. Finding another hidey hole, fast, was a must. Yeah, right, on one engine.
Earlier, after pouring over charts, and figuring in the information from the ham nets, we saw the eye was forty miles wide, Chino and Fabio decided we’d make tracks for what looked to be an area protected, somewhat, from the north. We couldn’t make the run at full throttle, what with all the debris in the water, nor could we use both engines at the same time. Running on one engine, we could make eight knots, at best.
Under other circumstances, we might have had the luxury of simply scooting to the other side of the island, but not this time. Once in awhile, a wave actually broke over the thirty-foot high rock and sand pile that was the only thing standing between us and the furious open Pacific. Sheer hell had broken loose on the other side.
Chino, a wealth of local knowledge, wanted to dash through the shallow waters of Bahía Las Almejas, hunker down behind Punta Lengua on Isla Mangrove, ten miles away. Fabio vetoed it, fearing we’d run aground, as we couldn’t see the channel and our depth sounder was useless since the storm churned the bay into chocolate pudding.
“Look,” Chino said, pointing to the chart. “Here, is the navy base at Puerto Alcatraz. If all else fails, perhaps we can get in there. Or at least behind Punta Cisne.”
“Uh, Chino, didn’t we see the navy take a powder? If their harbor is so safe, why did they leave?”
He didn’t have an answer for that, but we all agreed that was the direction to go.
“Why is it called Clam Bay?” I asked Chino.
“It is very shallow, with a sand bottom and many, many clams. If we do hit something, it will at least be soft.”
Somehow, I didn’t find comfort in that. I also wondered what would happen to those many, many clams if Tanuki decided to dump tons of fresh water on them.
Alternately cramping up and then deep breathing the pain away, I continued to fight the wind. I’d lost all track of time, but just when I thought I’d go crazier than I already am, the wind suddenly dropped. Hot, bright, blinding sunlight instantly cooked the water saturated air to a nearly un-breathable steam. The Turkish bath zapped us further, but for the first time in hours we were able to shut down the engines, clear both sea strainers, and walk out on deck.
Golden Odyssey, gleaming in the radiant light, was already steaming northward for protection in the mangroves. We had to get going ourselves.
Getting our anchor up was no mean feat. After the first time we started to drag, it had reset, and I do mean reset. Precious time was lost as we struggled, finally having to resort to the risky move of using both engines. If they both overheated and we didn’t have time to clean the filters before the impending north wind stuck, we’d be screwed. For once, though, luck was with us, and as soon as the anchor broke loose, we cut one engine and Chino charged below to man the
strainers. I motored slowly, putting the waves to our aft so Fabio could clean and finish raising the anchor. He finally gave up getting the anchor completely free of mud and simply locked it in place. Now, with each wave, mud sluiced from the bow onto the deck, where it dried like cement in the intense sunlight. Patty cake, patty cake, baker man, screw up my boat, please, as fast as you can.
Fabio, well aware that our window of opportunity was slamming shut soon, took the helm and drove as fast as he dared.
We could already hear the distant keen of wind. Jan braced herself on the muddy bow pulpit, watching for debris, while I had a quick conversation with Stephanie and Brent, letting them know we were on the move, and where we were headed in case a dredging crew needed to know in the future.
Halfway to our new anchorage, we got broadsided by cocoa crested, breaking waves. Thrown from side to side in a sickening succession of lurches, it was a miracle Jan managed to get safely back inside. We clung to whatever we could, fighting nausea.
A jarring chirping startled me as both Mexican cell phones—mine and Chinos—plus the Satfone, all rang at the same time. I crawled on my stomach to the desk, lodged myself in the stairwell, and answered one at a time. I asked Chino’s caller to standby, checked the caller ID on mine, and answered it, leaving the Satfone to take a message.
“Hi, Mother,” I said, in what I hoped sounded like a cheerful voice.
“Hetta, Honey? Your father and I were just wondering, is that hurricane anywhere near you?”
Right over us. “Uh, well, we’ve had some wind and rain. But right now it’s sunny and the wind has dropped.” That’s what happens when you’re in the eye of a killer hurricane.
“Oh, good. Are you and Jan alone? We can’t help but worry, you know.”
No, Mother, we’ve got two very handsome Mexican men on board. “No, Mama, our captain is here. He has everything under control.”
“Okay, then. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye, Mama.”
Jan, who had scooted down next to me, gave me a look under her eyebrows.
I shrugged. “Hey, why worry them? There’s nothing they can do from Texas, except make sure our gravesites are paid up.”
“You’re right, I guess.”
Chino’s caller had hung up by now, but the Satfone chirped again. I grabbed it and said, “Hurricane Center.”
“I told you, you would pay.”
“You sent this hurricane? Gee, how’d you do that?” I snarled, but my clever sarcasm was lost on a dead line.
“Who was that?” Jan asked.
“Wrong number?”
“Bullsh—uh, the radio. They’re calling us again on the ham radio.”
Stephanie gave me the coordinates and present size for the hurricane’s eye, confirming that the north wind was gonna clobber us, soundly and soon. I peered out, and sure enough, a bank of black clouds scudded our way. Just as I put down the mike, a cooling northern zephyr wafted across the deck. Had we not known what it heralded, it would have been blessedly refreshing.
As it was, though, the breeze sent a chill of dread down my spine.
Fabio, when given the latest Russell update, seemed pleased. “I think we will be anchored before the bad wind. If we do not run aground.”
As we neared our chosen refuge, we got a break in the wave action. No longer broadsided, we could actually stand without risking major bodily injury. Chino, although slipping and sliding on the slimy spots on the deck, expertly guided us to our anchorage in the nick of time. Just as the anchor dug in, the first blast of Russell’s trailing edge knocked him off his feet. Sliding along the deck, he grappled for something, anything, to stop him.
As we watched in horror, Jan screeched, “What’s wrong with Chino’s left arm? Why isn’t he using it to hang on? Has he broken it, you think? Fabio, do something!”
Chino, in danger of being blown overboard, managed to grab onto a hatch cover. Fabio, who was anxious to dive into the bilge and prepare to clean strainers, uttered a curse, crawled outside on his stomach and, with Jan and I pulling on his feet, managed to haul Chino to safety.
Inside the cabin, Chino sat dripping gooey mud and filthy water onto my once-beautiful carpet. With his left arm still tucked inside his jacket, he sat grinning from ear to ear.
“What the hell are you so happy about?” Jan demanded. “And what’s wrong with your arm?”
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with my arm. I have never, ever, been so joyful in my entire life.”
Jan rolled her eyes. The wind had begun its banshee shriek, rain and hail pounded us, and Chino was joyful?
I twirled my finger near my temple, but Chino, who looked as though he had just won the lottery, didn’t even take notice. He rushed to the galley sink, turned on the fresh water, then evidently thought better of it. He rolled whatever he had in a kitchen towel, one of my brand new kitchen towels, I might add, and yelled, “Salt water. I need salt water.”
A huge wave broke over our bow and sluiced down my decks.
“Gee, Chino, I just don’t know where we’d get any.”
Chino looked so frantic we began to take him seriously. Fabio, risking a nasty bruise or worse, made his way down to the galley, grabbed a bucket from under the sink and zigzagged his way aft. Muddy salt water slopped from the bucket as he made his way back to Chino.
“Hey, my carpet!”
Practically shoving me out of the way, Chino lunged for Fabio and, with a carpet-drenching splash, released whatever he was holding into the bucket.
Jan and I eyed each other, wondering if the wind had gotten to poor old Chino. Inching forward, a little worried about what a marine biologist might hold so precious he would risk his life for it, I was relieved that the thing and the bucket wasn’t moving. “You ruined my carpet for a Frisbee?”
Chino, gazing at the object in awe, didn’t acknowledge me at all. Instead, he gently wiped away a layer of mud, handling the disk like a wounded bird. When he finally looked up, he had tears in his eyes and a look of wonderment on his face. “It is true. All the stories are true.”
To paraphrase Raymond Chandler’s opening in, Red Wind, I worried that the storm had driven him into a state such as that when “meek little wives felt the edges of their carving knives, studying their husbands’ necks.” I moved between Chino and the cutlery.
“What is that?” Fabio asked.
“It is,” he said reverently, as if announcing the second coming, “an astrolabe.”
“Well, heck, Doc,” I said. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Another sudden gust jolted us and Fabio yelled. “Everyone back to work. You all know what to do.”
Aye, Aye, Bligh. We were way to busy for the next hour to find out what Chino held so dear.
Chapter 22
An astrolabe, it turns out, was the early precursor to the sextant.
I never learned to use a sextant, but I know the theory of how it uses celestial bodies for navigation. It has to do with measuring sixty degrees, which is a measure of latitude. As a civil engineer, I’m so supposed to know this stuff, but if you don’t use learned skills, they get un-learned in a hurry. Not that I’d admit it to a prospective client, of course.
Jan openly admitted ignorance. “Okay, so it’s an old fashioned GPS, so what?”
Chino rubbed a little more mud from his treasure. “It has not been used for centuries.”
“And?” I asked, but it was dawning on me that our anchor had dredged up an artifact of some value, at least to Chino.
“And this one, it could have been on the very Manila galleon that brought my ancestors here.”
“Four hundred years ago? How could it have survived?” Jan wanted to know.
“To hell with that,” I said. “Who cares why? What I want to know is whether this was a treasure ship. Like the ones found off Florida?” Visions of doubloons danced in my head. I could get a bigger boat. A Rolls. I could live at Elizabeth Arden. I’d be rich. Rich! I eyed my fellow crewmembers susp
iciously until Jan reached out and slapped me on the head.
“Hetta!” she yelled, “snap out of it.” To Chino and Fabio she said, “Too many found-treasure movies.”
Chino shook his head slowly. “You two are really something. Anyway, to answer your question, Hetta, I think you are talking about the Atocha in particular. And no, compared to that find, the San Carlos was not a treasure ship.”
My bullion bubble burst. “No gold?”
He shrugged. “Probably some, but according to my studies the San Carlos was loaded, probably overloaded, with valuable cargo of the time: silks, spices and oils. Maybe some jewelry on its way to Spain, as most galleons coming from the Philippines carried such things. And there would have been silver coins. They may have survived, along with Chinese porcelain. Vases, bowls.”
“No treasure?”
“It could be. The Spanish were famous for skewing the cargo lists, and most Mexican coins were minted in the Philippines. To a non-marine archeologist, this find would be puny compared to the ships that left the east coast of Mexico, bound for Spain. Those were loaded with gold, jewels and the like.”
“You’re a marine biologist and a marine archeologist?” Jan asked in awe.
“Yes. My concern for whales became a way to make a living, but my interest in sunken ships, especially those of my ancestors, has long been my passion.”
Passion, phooey. I wanted doubloons and I wanted them now. “So, no real treasure?”
Chino was amused by my obvious disappointment. “In my mind, yes. But since gold bullion was usually shipped to Spain via the Atlantic, the treasure ships are found on that side. But this, this could be a virtual mother lode for our friend Lonesome and his fellow whales.”
Now Fabio looked as puzzled as the rest of us. “A sunken galleon in the bay is good for whales?”
Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2)) Page 16
