Rough seas. I may have to rethink this. “We're sailing south through the Markermeer to Amsterdam, then through the North Sea Canal, which bisects the country from Amsterdam to IJmuiden, on the west coast. We will pass through the Schellingwoude Bridge, and one lock, the Oranjesluizen. From there we just have to keep out of the shipping lanes until we get to the North Sea.”
“Will we be searched?” Again, our meek volunteer.
I don't expect to run into the Nederlandse Kustwacht, the Dutch Coast Guard. The Islamists prefer to do inspections from land. “They might stop us at the Oranje locks,” I say. “There are no locks for the thirteen miles between Amsterdam and IJmuiden, so we should be fine once we get through Amsterdam.”
“Why aren't we moving?” asks the little girl. She grips the safety lines with both of her small hands, and peers over the side.
“We'll get going again soon. I wanted to let everyone stretch their legs a bit. Once we enter the canals, you'll have to stay in the cabin. Marta gave you new passports and travel documents. Memorize your new identities.”
“It's like a game,” Kazan adds, tightening the life vest straps on the little boy. “You get to pretend you're this new family.”
I smile at him, lost for a moment. “We'll stay here for about a half hour. You're free to walk around.”
The moon is so bright, we have no need for lights. I dip into the cabin. The navigation and switch panel is on the right. I switch off the red and green navigation lights. No reason to draw attention to ourselves sitting out here.
The Allegro zigzags very slowly. There isn't much to do right now. Kazan comes up behind me and puts his arms around me, and we look at the stars. I glance to the side, and see his affectionate gesture immediately relaxes the family. One of the women opens Marta's basket and passes out food.
“Do you think you could get used to this?” I ask.
“Holding you?”
“Sailing.”
“With you? Absolutely.” He nibbles on my ear. “You love this, don't you?”
“I didn't realized how much I missed it.”
“I love watching you. You transform.”
“Transform?”
He nuzzles my neck. “Once when I was in London, I went to see a famous cellist play at Kings Place. He was old—shuffling through the orchestra to his seat, lugging his cello. But when he started to play, he immediate appeared fifty years younger, vigorous, bowing with vitality. Passion and authority spread from his vibrating strings through the chamber orchestra, through the concert hall. Like his whole body was filling the hall. It was amazing. That's you on a sailboat . . . transformed.”
That Kazan can see it moves me tremendously.
It should take no more than three hours to sail to Amsterdam, two hours to get through the lock and bridges, another three hours up the North Sea Canal, making Zeehaven at the port of IJmuiden at around dawn. I can hardly wait to see the open sea.
Around 8 PM, I reset the sails, and we're underway again. We are making about 6 knots. I am pleased.
#
The Schellingwoude Bridge, which spans the entrance into Amsterdam, opens on the hour. We immediately come to the main lock, the Oranjesluizen. Kazan tosses out the buoys; Jean-Luc ties up to the side, and helps the other boats come up around us. The rest of the family is fast asleep in the cabin.
About twenty boats crowd into the lock, three across, bow to stern. We'll sit here for about forty minutes until everyone is loaded in and the water empties out. It is a good time for visiting.
“Jean-Luc, you have the boat.” He nods, apparently comfortable with the rituals of passing through locks.
“Where are you going?” Kazan calls out worriedly as I step over a bowline onto a neighbor's boat. The captain raises a coffee cup in greeting, disappears into the cabin, and brings out a fresh cup of steaming coffee.
“I'll be back. Keep an eye out for inspectors.” I notice a few lock keepers on either side. They seem relaxed, almost bored. Nobody in an IRH uniform. I imagine if they were expecting an official they'd be scrambling around trying to look busy.
I have time to visit four captains. One tells me to avoid Zeehaven, the port of IJmuiden. “Usually you can get through the small craft lock on the south side without much trouble, but they're cracking down on smuggling, inspecting every boat. They are confiscating boats for minor violations. If you go that route, make sure to dump your booze.” Another tells me the North Sea is rough, confirming reports from the weather channel. Yet another says they are doing spot inspections all up and down both Staande Mast routes. “They tend to make more inspections on the Harlem Route, but you can sail during the day. Usually the bigger the convoy, the better off you are. But sometimes, if there's just two or three boats, they'll wave you on. If you can, time the bridges during meal time or salat.”
I climb across back to Allegro before they open the west lock. Kazan's face looks so relieved, I laugh. “Change of plan,” I announce, waving Jean-Luc over. “We're going through Amsterdam.”
“What do you mean?” asks Kazan.
“We'll be taking the Staande Mast route.” I explain that Staande Mast routes are canal routes through the country on which sail boats can sail without lowering their masts. Two main routes run north and south. One goes south from Haarlem, the other through Amsterdam to Willemstad. “At midnight, eleven bridges and one lock are open for two hours to let sailboats through.”
We motor a little more than a half mile to the red marker at Houthaven. About fifteen sailboats are lined up, single-file, in front the Westerkeersluis bridge. There is plenty of room alongside the canal for mooring while we wait for the convoy to leave.
“Turn to VHF channel 22,” I say to Jean-Luc. “They will announce when the canal is open. It shouldn't be long. They'll open the bridge after the last train has arrived in Amsterdam for the night.”
Half past midnight, the bridge keeper announces on the radio that boats should line up in convoy. Westerkeersluis bridge slowly opens. The laborious rising of concrete and steel always feels somehow magical to me. Like the doors of Oz swinging open. Permission to enter the kingdom granted. Others must feel the same; in the daytime it always draws a small crowd of spectators.
Finally the boats get underway.
A few are no doubt smugglers, but this is our convoy, whether we like it or not. We have to stick with it through to the Nieuwe Meer, an inland lake just beyond the Schiphol airport. We just have to hope the authorities aren't looking for any one of us. It's likely all of the boats have some contraband. Sailors love to drink—at least one of the captains I talked to had gin on his breath.
Passing through Amsterdam's canals at night is eerie. The city looks entirely different, melancholy, filled with long shadows and dark passages, brackish smelly water, old buildings leaning against each other as if trying to keep from sinking. A low mist hides in pockets of the side canals, snaking out like worms from holes.
Beneath the stillness, I sense the tremor of clandestine life, thieves, smugglers, and Resistants darting in the shadows, breaking curfew. I think of the film noir classic The Third Man, the streets of bombed-out Vienna, the long spooky shadows, the tortuous sewers.
We motor just west of Jordan, my old neighborhood. Streetlights make long reflections on the canal water, giving a stately formality to the procession, as if through a colonnade of Greek ruins. The only sounds are the putter of twenty boat motors going 5 miles an hour, the lapping water. Police sirens many blocks away.
We pass a few barges tied up to the canal walls, windows covered, lights on. I wonder if any are barges of the Resistance.
All eleven bridges open in turn. The bridge keeper races on his bicycle from one bridge to the next to open them. We have to wait a maximum of five minutes at some bridges. The waiting is tense and agonizing.
The convoy moves slowly, inexorably, like a funeral procession. Time stands still, waiting for us to pass. I find myself holding my breath. We are the only people still aliv
e, passing among the dead, across the River Styx. As soon as we pass, ghouls will dance on the canal walls, mooning us with their wispy bare bottoms.
It takes two hours to travel four miles through the city. Once through the lock at Nieuwe Meer, the boats separate into two different directions—those looking for a marina to sleep, and those headed on. We go with seven boats two miles across the lake to the railway and road bridges, leading to Schiphol airport. The Schiphol bridges open at 5:30 AM.
About a dozen boats moor with us at the waiting pier. This is the perfect place for a random inspection, but I see no inspectors, no red turbans, no Speciale Operaties, no Landweer.
Jean-Luc agrees to keep watch. “Wake me immediately if you see anyone,” I tell him. “Anyone at all.”
There's no place to sleep in the cabin, so Kazan and I flop down on the benches in the cockpit. There is no way to lie together comfortably. We've been up all night, and my body is jittery. Kazan fidgets, and keeps on punching a sail bag he's using as a pillow. I can't worry about him any more.
Allegro rocks gently, water slaps the canal wall.
I fall asleep immediately, reliving the gloomy midnight passage.
Gouda
I wake with a jolt and sit up. Jean-Luc is missing. I am absolutely panicked. He must've wandered off. Of all places, the area around Schiphol is the most patrolled. What is he thinking?
I don't dare leave and try to find him. What if he's picked up? What if Kroots follow him back? Damn him!
Yesterday, while the family was catching some air on deck, I found my dad's Walther in a secret drawer in the cabin. I hid it under sail-mending supplies in one of the cockpit benches. I take it out now, load it, and place it by the wheel.
Just before 5 AM, Jean-Luc wanders back, arms full of bread and pastries with a huge grin on his face. “I got them coming straight out of the oven.” I want to throttle him, but hunger forgives quickly, and I scarf down two croissants. I'll lecture him later.
The VHF radio crackles awake, and the bridge keeper announces the opening of the Schiphol bridges. The boats begin to line up in convoy.
After the bridges at Schiphol Airport, the convoy breaks apart, each boat going its own speed. We'll meet again at the next closed bridge. There are twenty-three more for us to get through before Gouda. The next five bridges are open when the boats arrive, as are the six bridges in the town of Alphen aan den Rijn.
“What's wrong?” Kazan asks, seeing my crinkled brow.
“The bridges,” I answer. “When the Islamists want more control of a town, they open all the bridges to keep people from moving around freely.”
“Maybe they just didn't have anyone to open the bridges, so they've left them open.”
Another unexpected discovery about my husband. He's an optimist. As we sail past the first bridge, my uneasiness only compounds.
“I can understand them being open during curfew, but they should be down by now so people can get to mosque for salat.”
Kazan shrugs.
The family begins to move about, and I open a hatch. One of the women brings us coffee. Jean-Luc, after chatting excitedly about his sight-seeing tour, heads down into the cabin for much needed shut-eye.
Dawn brings a milky misty stillness. A mesh of moisture clings to our faces. Kazan has sparkles in his eyelashes. The eerie cry of a muezzin, calling for morning prayer echoes through the still streets.
No sign of trouble. But it doesn't feel right.
Seagulls circle above the fifth bridge. A chill runs through my body. At first it looks like large dark buoys hanging from a bridge, but there is no mistaking it.
Six bodies, suspended by their necks, dangle over the steamy water, heads blue-faced and swollen. Signs across their bodies read Verrader. Traitor. Another sign reads Smokkelaar. Smuggler.
Kazan and I exchange looks. If towns outside the big cities are cracking down, then something major is happening. There is no way to find out what. Not that there is much of anything we could do about it. I fight a nagging urgency to finish our mission and get back to Amsterdam. Fretting is no good. That's when you get caught—when you're all flummoxed and frightened. I take a deep breath and calm myself.
We float on. I'm glad our refugees are all below, and didn't have to see that.
Leaving Alphen aan den Rijn, we enter a rural area of cultivated fields, narrow canals, and old windmills. Wildflowers—yellow buttercups, blue columbine, and pink flowering grasses—line the paths beside the canal. It's the height of the tulip season, and vast ribbons of red, purple, orange, and pink lay over the land like the tails of great kites fallen to the earth. The Islamists banned the Dutch flag, but daring farmers have planted tulips and irises in stripes of red, white, and blue. It cheers my heart.
The sun breaks through the mist, a warm golden light suffuses the brilliant colors.
A lone bicyclist passes on a bike path. I see no one else.
I feel guilty about keeping the family couped up in the cabin. “Come on out and stretch your legs for a few minutes. We won't come to another bridge for forty minutes.”
It's the first I've seen them in the daylight. Tentative at first, they move about. Jean-Luc seems feisty after the excitement of yesterday. Of the other three men, the oldest is in his forties and burly. He looks like he might be good in a fight. The other two men and two women still look enervated. That's what fear does to you. I've seen it before. The two kids are curious, and explore the boat.
We arrive at the railway bridge at Gouda at around 2 PM. Supposedly the railway bridge opens every two hours, but they tell us 4:30 PM is the next opening time. There are already fifteen other sailboats waiting. Kazan settles down and reads a book on sailing, which he found in the cabin. I'm too nervous to read. Jean-Luc turns out to be a master at tying knots and teaches me some new ones. He's also better than I at answering nautical questions when Kazan gets stumped by the sailing jargon.
Two hours later, the VHF radio says there is a delay, but gives no reason.
The bridge finally opens at 6:30 PM. It's growing dark.
Everyone is beat, and we need to moor for the night, but I want to get to the small marina in Gouda. We motor on to the Nieuwe Gouwe canal, our progress stymied. The lock leading to the canals of Gouda center closes at 6 PM. We pull up alongside the waiting pier. Overnight mooring is illegal and I am nervous about it, but there are several other boats in the same position, settling down for the evening. They don't seem concerned. Several wave and call out greetings.
Sailors are friendly folk. As Kazan and Jean-Luc secure the boat, two men on a 42-foot Beneteau invite us over for a dinner of roasted eel. A sailor never turns down such an invitation. To do so is highly insulting. I am a little worried about leaving the Allegro, our family unguarded, but we are right next door. Kazan, Jean-Luc, and I take turns washing our faces in the cabin, then head over.
I am tempted not to veil, but at the last minute, I velcro on my niqab. We don't know these people. There's no reason to take chances.
They set up the cockpit table with a tablecloth and candelabra, which seems terribly extravagant. Kerosene lamps and torches glow all around. I bring over turkey sausage and fig preserves, left over from Marta's basket, which go excellently with the roasted eel.
Our hosts introduce themselves as Jan and Bert, both in their sixties. Both with the faded blue eyes of longtime sailors. They are on their way to Brugge. Charming hosts, warm and chatty. It seems remarkable to me how some people manage to live their lives totally oblivious to the Occupation. Perhaps it is the only way they can deal with it. To pretend it doesn't exist.
More often than not, when sailors visit they discover they know someone in common—a famous eccentric who haunts a village pier, a barkeep, a champion racer. Turns out they know Hans and Marta, and sailed against Hans one August during the Flevorace.
As we are feasting, another captain stops by with a wide fixed smile. He looks the part—a week-old beard, rumpled clothes that smell a bit, a Greek
captain's hat. Jan and Bert invite him aboard for dessert.
The new guest calls himself Barbarossa, which is also the name of his boat. He greedily sits down, looking at our dirty plates, not with hunger, but curiosity. “Sausage. How excellent. It's been ages since I've eaten pork sausage. The Kroots are maniacs. There ain't nothing wrong with pork. Stupid antiquated laws.”
“It's turkey sausage. You're welcome to one,” says Jan graciously.
“No, thanks. I just had dinner. Who owns the Salona?” he asks, pointing at the Allegro.
“I do,” blurts the fool.
“A woman sailor. How unusual.”
He looks at me boldly as only matuween do, testing me. I drop my eyes instinctively. “My father left it to me. The title is in my husband's name, of course.”
I get a prickly chill up my spine. Barbarossa constantly runs his right hand over his short beard, as if missing fullness and length. I realize his beard is only a week old, which means he has recently shaved. No Muslim man would dare do that, unless he had been trying to pass himself off as a Christian or a Jew. Yet only Muslims are allowed to have boats. His teeth are too white, too perfect. Old bachelor sailors never have good teeth. It's too much of a hassle to floss and brush on a boat, especially if you're manning the boat alone.
“It's a beautiful boat,” he says.
I see him glance at our closed hatch, taking note. Unless it is stormy, most sailors keep their hatch open, even if it is cold. We're right next door, so it is a little unusual for it to be closed up tight.
“She looks to be riding a little low,” he observes. That smile again. He's suspicious, alright.
Kazan senses my distress, and answers for me. “We may have a little water in the bilge. One of the through-hull fittings might be leaking a bit. Or a keel bolt. We'll have it checked out when we get to our destination.”
“Where's that?”
“Rotterdam.”
Well done, I think, squeezing Kazan's hand. He has been paying attention.
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 35
