The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1)

by Pendelton Wallace

The three sat motionless in the cockpit for a long minute. Ted finally looked around at the flat ocean, then looked back at Meagan. He saw impatience in her face.

  “Goddamn it, I knew I wasn’t ready for this trip.” Chris turned from the steering wheel, both hands on his hips. “I don’t know why I ever let Dad talk me into it.”

  Ted and Meagan exchanged glances. For the first time, Ted felt that she was on his side.

  “Cowboy up, Nancy. We’re here.” He pointed towards the cockpit floor. “We gotta get there.” He pointed towards the dim outline of San Juan Island. “We just need to figure out how we’re gonna do it.”

  “I’m giving up,” Chris threw his hands in the air after two more tries. “We’re going to have to sail in.”

  “How long’s that going to take?” Meagan asked.

  “Fuck, I don’t know.” Chris looked up at the mast-head wind direction indicator.

  Ted read the despair in his face.

  “If the wind doesn’t pick up,” Chris’s spoke in a low monotone. “We could be out here for the rest of our lives.”

  “We didn’t have this kind of problems on my Dad’s boat,” Meagan said.

  “Hey, the Defiant’s an old boat,” Chris snapped. “What can I say? Let’s unfurl the jib.”

  The light breeze was just barely enough to billow out the sails.

  “Are we having fun yet?” Meagan asked.

  Chris scowled at her. “Yeah, this is fun.” He pointed towards at the knot meter on the after cabin bulkhead. “We’re doing about two knots.”

  This was not a good time to pick on Chris. Ted could see the steam venting from his ears.

  “We’re at slack tide now.” Chris clung onto the wheel, his lips pursed into a narrow line.

  Ted thought that Chris was going to leave impressions in the stainless steel from his iron grip.

  “When the flood begins,” Chris continued, “we should pick up another couple of knots with the current.”

  “How far do we hafta go?” Ted asked.

  Chris looked towards the distant San Juan Island. “I’d say about twenty miles.”

  “At four knots, that’s going to take us five hours.”

  “Yeah, sounds right.”

  “Jesus, Ted could swim faster.”

  “Let me hold your shoes for you.” Meagan held out her hand.

  Ted wanted to smack her.

  “Maybe we should call the Coast Guard,” Meagan whined. “Can it get any worse than this?”

  “Shit, it can get worse.” Chris’ eyes looked up and to the right.

  The crazy hermano was accessing his photographic memory.

  “When we get there, we still have to pick our way through Cattle Pass.”

  “Cattle Pass?” Meagan looked forward towards the distant islands.

  “It’s the opening between San Juan and Lopez Islands.” Chris’ anger seemed to drain away. “The current can run up to eight or nine knots through the pass. If we’re going against the tide, the boat can be going full speed ahead and still be going backwards over the bottom.” Chris pointed at the far-away island across the Straits. “If we don’t make Cattle Pass before the tide changes, we’ll have to sit out here in the Straits for six hours until the tide changes again.” He wiped a drop of moisture from the corner of his eye. “Damn that engine.”

  “Hey, dude, it could be worse.” Ted placed a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “We got food, we got cerveza, we got tunes.” He cast an icy stare at Meagan. “The only thing we ain’t got is my hat.”

  ****

  Port McNeil, Canada

  This has got to be the God-forsaken end of the world. Ahmad sat on a hatch cover looking at the fishing village clinging to the shoreline as Hani piloted the Valkyrie into the harbor. The small towns along the B.C. coast were all beginning to look alike. The rock break waters, the small marinas, the ferry landings. Tiny stores and a cluster of clapboard houses connected to the outside world by ferry boats and telephone lines. Ahmad had spent his whole life in the city. These tiny hamlets seemed isolated and dreary.

  It took the cell three days to make their way the two-hundred and fifty miles north from Vancouver. As the sun began to sink low over the hills to the west, the Valkyrie slowly inched her way around the breakwater and into the marina.

  Ahmad stood on the foredeck with the bow line as Hani brought them up to the float. The short, dark Mohammed waited on the dock to receive their lines.

  “I have the truck,” Mohammed told Yasim as they tied up.

  “It is good one?”

  “It’s not much to look at, but it runs well and will serve our purposes.”

  “And the Sea Loader?” Ahmad knew that this was central to their plan.

  “That was a little harder to find. It cost much more than we planned.”

  “No matter, as long as you got it,” Yasim said to Mohammed as they tidied up the dock lines.

  “We’ll stick out like sore thumbs here.” Ahmad looked around the docks at the other fishing boats. “But at least we’re far away from the authorities.”

  “If we go about our business quietly,” Mohammed replied, “no one should pay much attention to us.”

  “We buy the materials we need, then move to unoccupied island as planned,” Yasim interrupted in heavily accented English. “Qayyum, join us later.”

  ****

  Around two the next morning, Ahmad heard shouting on the dock.

  “Hey, rag heads, you in there?”

  Ahmad, whose bunk was in the deck house, looked out the darkened window. Three roughly dressed men stumbled up the dock.

  “We’re talkin’ to you, you lousy terrorist sons a bitches,” shouted the small one.

  There was the clang of beer cans flying against the deck house. The three ripped fresh cans from a six pack and began downing them noisily.

  “You Allah worshipers in there? C’mon out. We want to have a little talk with ya.”

  “I feared that this would happen.” Mohammed was at Ahmad’s side. “Kalil, keep down.” Kalil appeared with a gaff hook in his hands. Mohammed pulled his K-bar fighting knife from its sheath.

  “We must remember mission.” Yasim said as he and Hani joined the group. “Call no attention to ourselves.”

  “We call attention to ourselves just by being here” Kalil looked out the window. “We don’t have to put up with this.”

  “Hey, you bloody A-rabs, c’mon out an’ fight.”

  Ahmad felt the movement of someone boarding the boat. His heart stopped. Would they have to defend themselves? The small, loud one was standing on their rail.

  “Here’s what I think of you,” he shouted as he unzipped his pants and sprayed the deck.

  “These are Americans.” Ahmad sweat heavily, despite the cool night air. “I saw them on a boat from Salmon Bay when I went up to the harbor master’s office.”

  “Whatsa matter? You camel-fuckers chicken? Gowan back to Iraq where ya came from.”

  “They’ll pay for this.” Mohammed brandished his knife. “Allah be praised, they’ll pay. . .”

  Chapter 17

  The Straits of Juan de Fuca

  The Defiant crept towards Cattle Pass as Ted watched the sun sink in the west. They were going to miss their chance to negotiate the pass with the tide.

  “OK, guys.” Chris’ voice was full of frustration. “We need to try firing up the engine again. We have to make it through before the tide turns.”

  Ted went below to bleed the fuel lines. Chris pushed the starter button and the engine fired. As they came opposite the gong buoy marking the Salmon Banks, the engine petered out again.

  “Jesus Christ.” Chris ran his hands through his long blonde hair. “We can’t just sit here. It’s too dangerous. When the tide changes, it’ll run us up on the rocks.”

  “We gotta bleed the engine again, dude.” Ted began to lose his normal unshakeable demeanor. “If we can only get it to run ten minutes at a time, we can still creep forward.” He dropped do
wn into the cabin again. “OK, turn her over,” he shouted up to Chris.

  The engine fired. Ted washed his hands and climbed back up to the cockpit.

  “I think that’s Long Island over there.” Meagan, holding the chart in one hand, pointed to a small island off the end of the much larger Lopez Island.

  “Yeah.” Chris replied. “There’s a bunch of rocks between Long Island and King’s Point. We’ve got to stay out of that bay.”

  With the engine running, they made seven knots as they moved northward into the pass.

  The engine died again as Cattle Point loomed to their port side and Davis Point was close to starboard.

  “Christ!” Chris spat.

  Ted started to head below to bleed the fuel lines again, then felt a slight movement of air against his face.

  “Wind!”

  “It’s the Venturi effect.” Chris brightened up

  “The whaty-whoosy?” Ted looked at him like he lost his mind.

  “Haul out the jib.” Chris barked out orders. “We’re going to be able to tack through the pass.” The return of the wind seemed to rejuvenate him. “The Venturi effect. As the breeze moves down San Juan Channel, it gets bottled up where the two islands come together. It has to speed up to get through the pass. We’ll have enough air to sail through.”

  The breeze freshened. Chris held the Defiant as close to the wind as she would sail.

  “Chris, we’re heading straight for the island,” Meagan’s voice wavered.

  ****

  Port McNeil, Canada

  The next morning Ahmad saw no traces of the three drunken Americans. After morning prayers, he rolled up his prayer rug and went about his day. Resentment seethed in him as he hosed and scrubbed down the deck that the small American had violated. How could these men behave like swine, worse than swine?

  The others went to work removing the seine net from the after deck. Next they removed the huge drum and hydraulic equipment used to haul in the net. They dumped the net and drum in an open field with piles of fishing gear from other boats. Ahmad hoped it would go unnoticed. Many boats stored their gear there as they changed from one fishery to another.

  With the deck cleared, Ahmad began ripping the bin boards out of the fish hold under Hani’s direction, leaving a vast, empty space below decks.

  When the hold was empty, Ahmad took the battered old Ford pickup up the street to the sheet metal shop. Praise be to Allah, they had what he needed. By late morning the crew was stowing long rails of extruded aluminum, sheets of steel, hydraulic pumps and hoses and various mechanical parts in the hold next to the boxes of electronic parts that had come aboard in Horseshoe Bay.

  Ahmad couldn’t find an acetylene torch and welding gear in Port McNeil, so Yasim sent Mohammed to Nanaimo to finish their purchases. After several days of hard work, Ahmad and his friends began bringing aboard groceries and stores for their mission. Their final acts before leaving were to hoist barrels of diesel oil into the hold and lash the pickup down on the afterdeck.

  “This boat is old, but very strong. I believe that it will hold together for our purposes,” Hani said, a grin of satisfaction spreading across his face.

  “Where’ll we be going?” Ahmad asked Yasim, looking through Hani’s pile of charts on the chart table.

  “I cannot say at this time,” Yasim replied. “Only that will be required to go far out to sea.”

  Chapter 18

  Cattle Pass, San Juan Island

  “Chris, we’re going to run into that island.” Megan grabbed Chris’ arm.

  Chris held his course for one of the biggest, rockiest island’s Ted had ever seen.

  “Don’t worry.” Chris smiled. “We’ll never get that far. We’d pile up on Whale Rocks long before we got to the island.”

  Ted swallowed and kept his calm. “That makes me feel better, smart ass.”

  “Prepare to come about.” Chris switched to command mode. The Defiant charged along at six knots, directly towards Whale Rocks. “I’ll get as close to the rocks as I can, then we’ll tack and head back across the wind.”

  “I don’t suppose it’d hurt if we had three-sixteenths of an inch to spare?” Ted watched the distance between them and the rocks rapidly diminish. They were close enough that he could see the fronds of kelp floating on the surface, the wavelets crashing against the shore.

  “Shouldn’t we tack now?” Meagan’s voice quivered. “We’re getting awfully close.”

  “Hold on, we still have plenty of water.” Chris held his course.

  “You’re going to have to make this sharp,” Chris warned.

  Ted counted in his head. Uno, dos, tres . . . When he reached diez, Chris said “Ready about . . . helm’s a lee.” Chris spun the wheel and the Defiant responded instantly, wheeling into the wind.

  Ted started to haul in on the port jib sheet.

  “Hold on! Not yet. Hold it . . . hold it . . .” Chris’ voice had an edge to it.

  The sails fluttered wildly. Ted thought that the boat was going to shake herself apart. The bow came into the wind, then crossed the wind’s eye.

  “Now! Let go and haul!”

  Meagan flipped her jib sheet off of the starboard winch. Ted hauled like a mad man on the port sheet. The huge Genoa jib began to fill on the port side of the boat. It billowed out like a great parachute.

  Ted hauled with all of his strength. Finally, the power of the wind was too strong for him to overcome. He grabbed the double-handed winch handle and began to crank.

  “Keep her coming,” Chris advised. “Bring her in as much as you can. There, that’s good.”

  Ted looked astern. Already the vicious looking rocks were fifty yards behind them. The whole episode had taken less than thirty seconds. The Defiant settled down on her new course and charged along towards Goose Island.

  They repeated the maneuver three more times until Chris brought the Defiant opposite Cape San Juan. Santa Maria, they were through the pass. As they entered the protected waters of San Juan channel high islands blanketed them. The wind all but died.

  ****

  The wind barely billowed out the sails. Sometimes, the tide carried them backwards, sometimes Chris managed to find enough wind or little eddies in the current to inch forward.

  Ted didn’t have the patience for this. He sat on the cockpit coaming watching the sun paint the western sky brilliant orange. In his present mood, he didn’t appreciate the magnificence of the scenery. Then a slight puff ruffled the surface.

  “It’s finally here.” Chris looked up at the sails. “We’re going to catch the evening breeze.”

  Gracias a Dios. The wind picked up until the Defiant surged along at seven knots. They charged around Brown Island and entered Friday Harbor like they were headed to a four-alarm fire.

  “Let’s get the main in,” Chris shouted over the wind. “We have to sail into the dock, and it’s easier to douse the jib.”

  Ted followed Chris unto the cabin roof and helped furled the sail while Meagan took the helm. Once done, Chris descended into the cabin and spoke into the VHF radio.

  “Port of Friday Harbor, Port of Friday Harbor, this is Defiant.” Chris’ voice came up through the open companionway.

  “Defiant, Friday Harbor. Let’s switch to channel 65.”

  Chris turned the radio dial to channel 65 and broadcast again.

  ‘”We’re a forty-foot sailboat drawing seven feet of water. We have a slip reserved for tonight.”

  “Roger that Defiant. You’re in D-36.”

  “We’re coming in under sail. Our engine is out. Can we sail into D-36”

  “Negative. Why don’t you tie up to the Customs dock and we’ll figure out how to hand line you over.”

  “Roger, Friday Harbor. Defiant back to one-six.”

  With the sun gone, the lights in the marina produced more than enough light to illuminate their path. Chris brought the Defiant into the harbor and rounded up opposite the Customs dock.

  “Ted, get the jib
in,” Chris roared. “Meagan, stand by with the spring line.”

  The boat’s momentum carried them up alongside the float as Ted hauled in the jib. Meagan took the spring line and leapt over a four-foot expanse of water. Damn, she looks like an Olympic broad jumper. She looped her line around a cleat and brought the heavy boat to a stop. Chris grabbed the stern line and jumped for the dock. Ted tossed the bow line to Meagan.

  “Well done, Laddie.” A stooped old man, with a Meerschaum pipe clinched between his teeth, clapped his hands. “Yez made that look easy.”

  He looks like some character out of an old movie. Ted studied the old man up and down. He sported a full white beard and a Tam O’Shanter covered his white hair. In spite of the warm weather, he wore jeans and a thread-bare blue sweater. A gray bearded Scotty terrier sat at his feet.

  “Thank you.” Chris coiled down the dock line. “Now I have to get her around the float and onto D dock.”

  “That’s no problem,” the old man said in his heavy Scottish brogue. “We c’n hand line her around. Do yez have a hundred-foot line aboard?”

  Chris paused for a moment. “Let’s see, we have a six-hundred-foot line we use to tie to a tree when we’re anchored in a tight spot.”

  “Good-oh. I have me skiff in the water. I c’n take the free end across to D dock for yez, then we’ll haul yez over. Come along, Robby.” The aged Scotty slowly dragged itself to its feet and followed the old man with pained, arthritic steps. Ted wasn’t sure who looked worse, the man or the dog. Oscar, who had come on deck to supervise the landing, hissed at the elderly dog.

  With the help of the diminutive Scotsman, they managed to get the Defiant first over to D dock, then to her allotted slip.

  “It looks like y’ young ‘uns have had a hard day of it.” The old Scotsman leaned against a piling. “What happened to yer engine?”

  “We keep getting air in the fuel lines.” Ted pointed down the companionway hatch. “It’ll only run for ten minutes or so at a time.”

  “That sounds like a problem. Have y’ three had dinner yet?”