Virgin Cay

by Basil Heatter

  “It’s hot work in this sun,” Caldwell said. “How about a cold beer?”

  “Have you got some?”

  “I picked up a carton at that grocery when I called Marple. Let’s sit in the cockpit while we drink it.”

  Robinson shook his head. “She’s not mine yet. We’ll drink on the dock.”

  “What a scrupulous devil you are.”

  In his mind Robinson made a mocking bow in his own direction. Scrupulous is the word, he thought. He thinks nothing of milking twenty thousand bucks from a poor old widow (what’s a slight case of murder between friends?) but he won’t drink a can of beer on board a boat until he is the legal owner.

  They sat on the pier with their feet over the edge drinking the beer. An hour later the owner, a heavy-chested man in shorts and a flaming sport shirt, arrived in a monstrous projectile of shining steel and flamboyant fins. He unlocked the hatch cover and Robinson stepped down the companionway ladder into the cabin. Apart from a slight mustiness from being closed up the yawl was as fresh below decks as above.

  “You keep her shipshape enough,” Robinson said approvingly.

  “I can’t claim much credit for it,” Marple said. “I have a paid hand who does the work. If I couldn’t afford to maintain her properly I wouldn’t keep her. You want me to show you around or would you rather go by yourself?”

  “How would it be if you and Caldwell have a beer together while I look her over?”

  “Fair enough.”

  The yacht was ready for sea, even to all the small items such as dishes, towels and fuel for the alcohol stove. He pressed the starter and listened to a satisfactory rumble from the small diesel. The bunks were carefully made up with fresh linens and he was pleased to see that instead of the four rather skimpy bunks that were usually found on a yacht of Senegal’s dimensions, there were only a pair of vee bunks up forward and a large double berth in the main cabin. He was a big man and he would enjoy the luxury of a big bed. Then, too, one never knew what the sea or the land would turn up and it was nice to be prepared.

  Gwen would have looked marvelous in that big bed. Like a child. Dark hair spread out on the pillow, sparkling eyes watching him as he fussed over the galley stove. Was she all right on that sandbar? He supposed so. A little lonely and scared perhaps. Well, she had plenty of courage. How many girls would have gone so blithely into such an adventure? He wasn’t angry at her any more. We each have to do what we feel is necessary. No matter how phony her reasons were for wanting Dino she was still entitled to the free choice.

  He went back up to the cockpit and said to Marple, “Did you bring that bill of sale?”

  “It’s right here.”

  Robinson took out the envelope Clare had given him and counted out eighteen thousand dollars. Marple took the money and held up each bill individually and examined them all very carefully. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Robinson, “but, after all, this is a damned funny way to do business. I mean all of it in cash and you being in such a tearing hurry.”

  “I don’t mind. Take your time.”

  When Marple had finished examining the money he said, “Okay, you’ve bought yourself a boat. She’s a sweetheart all right but personally I think you’re nuts to have paid that much. However…”

  “Is there anything you want to take off the boat?”

  “I don’t think so. How much of a hog can I be? At that price she goes as is, right down to toothpaste and binoculars. Here are the keys.”

  “Where do we get the bill of sale notarized?”

  “There’s a place a couple of blocks from here. Let’s drive over.”

  When they came back to the boat Caldwell said, “I’ve been in this business for fifteen years but I’ve never seen anything go as fast as that. Now seriously, Gus, isn’t there some place where I can write to you? You must have a general idea of where you’re going.”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about going back to the Pacific but now I’m not so sure. Anyway, I’ll be going south and I’ll call in for mail when I get to the Canal Zone. General Delivery in Panama ought to reach me all right.”

  “I know I threw all that stuff at you too fast today and I guess I scared you off with all that talk of marriage and kids. Hell, that’s no business of mine. Forget it. But if I write to you concerning our broad thinking on the type of boat we want to build will you look it over and drop me a line?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then happy sailing and for God’s sake check those toilet connections this time.”

  “I’ll do that. So long, Ed.”

  When he was alone he checked over the galley and found a can of sardines and a tin of salted crackers. There was still one can of beer left. He sat on a blue cushion in the cockpit and looked at the beautifully joined teak deck under his feet and at the bronze winches shining as softly and expensively as gold and let the slow realization that all this was really his now soak in. He had achieved his life’s ambition, to own a supremely beautiful yacht capable of going anywhere in the world. But, strangely, he felt no real excitement. The flavor seemed to have gone out of it. What was wrong was that he was no longer a true singlehander. He wanted to share it all with someone else, and the girl he wanted to share it with was sitting on a sandbar on the other side of the Stream and thinking of another man.

  He pulled himself out of it by casting a practiced eye at the sky. The sun was setting behind a heavy bank of clouds that had a peculiar purple sheen. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. The clouds looked swollen, as if they carried a belly full of wind and rain. If they were in for a change of weather he would have a mean crossing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He awoke early and at six-fifteen he tuned in the first marine weather report of the day. The forecast called for southerly winds of ten to twenty knots. Not good. A strong southerly at this time of year meant that they were on the advance edge of a northwesterly front. The Stream flowed north at roughly five knots and when it bucked head winds of twenty to thirty knots the result was a very formidable chop. He would much rather be out in the open sea in a gale than have to cross the Stream against even a moderate northwester.

  And apart from his own troubles there was the question of Gwen on her tiny spit of sand. At no point did the reef rise more than three or four feet above sea level, and in a really good blow the entire bar might be awash. Sitting there alone at night and listening to the wind and watching the water rise would be no joke.

  There was a strong temptation to head out right then and beat across while the weather still held. He could make it across the Hump in ten or twelve hours and pick up Gwen the following morning, a full day ahead of schedule and probably well in advance of the storm. But it would not do to rush. Senegal must have a shakedown first. If a turnbuckle or stay let go he could find himself dismasted in the Stream in the face of a northwester and in serious trouble.

  He ate a big breakfast of ham and eggs and when he had done the dishes and squared away the galley he started the engine and let it run for ten minutes to check any tendency toward overheating. At the end of the test run the gauge held steady at 140 degrees. He shut off the engine and checked the oil and found it full up. Then he opened up the floorboards and checked the stuffing box and found it leaking slightly. Using a hammer he took up a turn on the gland nut and stopped the leak. Then he took off the sail covers and raised the main and mizzen and let the sails flap in the wind for a few minutes while he checked the various blocks and sheets. Satisfied that everything was in order he lowered the sails again and let go his mooring line and edged the yawl away from the pier. He worked carefully down the channel and twenty minutes later he was approaching the inlet, where the rising wind was already kicking foam over the jetties.

  Senegal pitched madly in the wicked chop inside the inlet. Spray poured over him, soaking his clothing and matting his hair. He might have put on foul weather gear but he disliked the restricted feeling it gave him and he never minded being wet. He let the spr
ay pour over him and sucked the damp sea air into his nostrils. The feeling of toughness and independence that he had enjoyed for so long on Charee began to come back to him. He flicked the ignition switch off and went forward to hoist the jib. He had already made up his mind that someday when he had the time he would set fair-leads in the deck and lead all his sheets straight back to the cockpit so that in really severe weather he would not have to go forward at all.

  When he had the jib set up he hoisted main and mizzen. The sails were new and made of dacron and beautifully fitted. Senegal lay over and began to drive. He had found a patent log coiled in one of the stem lockers and now he got it out and streamed it from the stem cleat. Eight knots and hardly trying. She was a dream ship all right

  He spent the morning putting her through her paces. Satisfied at last that he knew enough about her to take her to sea he sailed back in through the inlet on the rising tide and then motored back to the pier. He had decided to change his plans. Instead of waiting for morning he would cross the Stream at night.

  As soon as he had made the decision he felt a sense of relief. Although he had done everything he could, in the short time allowed him, to make Gwen comfortable, he was still concerned about her. Apart from any physical danger it was probably the first time in her life that she had ever been so completely alone. The mind could play strange tricks. Alone in a house at night you were apt to imagine footsteps on a stair or the creak of an opening door. Who knew what a girl of Gwen’s age might imagine coming up at her out of the sea. Inwardly he was still raging over her decision to stay with Dino but he could not let that affect his obligation to her.

  He locked the hatch behind him and went ashore to a supermarket two blocks away and stocked up with enough groceries to last him for several weeks at sea. When he had stowed the various cans where they could not work loose even in a heavy sea he topped off his fuel and water tanks and took in his dock lines.

  The yawl was ready for sea. He was going out again where he belonged. The world, or at least the three quarters of it that was water, lay before him. The wonderful feeling of excitement and anticipation that came over him when he cleared the land was with him again. But this time it was tinged with just a hint of sadness. He was leaving his own country, perhaps for years, and there was no one to say good-bye to. No pretty girls standing on the pier and throwing leis into the water. No scream of whistles or shriek of horns. Just the gray stone jetties dropping away behind him. No sound but the creak of Senegal’s rigging and the murmur of her bow wave.

  As he passed the jetty he saw a solitary fisherman sitting on a slab of granite. He waved at the man, thinking that even if he was a stranger he was at least someone to say good-bye to. The fisherman, apparently a misanthropic soul, did a curious thing. Instead of waving back he raised one arm with finger extended in an obscene gesture.

  Robinson threw back his head and laughed. He was laughing partly at the loony on the rock but mostly at himself. It seemed so fitting. He had chosen to cut himself off from the world of conventional men and now this world was not even saying Aloha to him. It was saying, Up yours, Jack.

  Starting from the center of her small domain which was marked by the green tarp, Gwen walked fifty paces to the right and then a hundred to the left. That was as far as you could go in any direction. By walking to the limits of the land and by observing the small sea creatures that lived along its edge, she had been able to overcome her initial feeling of claustrophobia. At first the reef had seemed utterly lifeless but now she saw that there were tiny pink and white crabs that scuttled away into their holes at the sound of her steps. One little chap, braver than the others, stayed close to his doorway but refused to go below. He stood there, claw raised and stalk eyes glaring. The creature made such a comical picture of indignation that she found herself smiling. She kicked a little sand in his direction and with a final glare of rage he scuttled away.

  Besides the crabs, something else had visited the island. On the lagoon side, where the sand sloped down into the shallows, she found the tracks of some huge creature. The prints of four great paws edged out at forty-five degree angles and at least two feet apart. For a moment she felt a chill of fear. What could it be—dragging its armored belly low in the sand—that had crawled ashore here and might return again? A montage of horror scenes from science fiction movies flashed across her mind. Giant squids and unknown monsters of the deep. If it had come once might it not come again?

  She had taken several steps back from the water’s edge before she suddenly realized what it was that had made the tracks—one of the great sea turtles that she had sometimes seen floating lazily on the surface of the Gulf Stream. More than likely the turtle, harmless enough despite its size, had crawled up here on the sun-warmed sand to lay its eggs. The thought intrigued her and she decided to stay up late in the hope of seeing one of the creatures emerge from the sea.

  Gus had told her a story about watching turtle hunters at work on a small island off the coast of Ecuador. At night, under a full moon, the beasts would lumber onto the sand to lay their eggs. The hunters waited until the eggs were laid, a matter of forty-five minutes or an hour, and then grabbed the turtles and flipped them over on their backs. It was not always easy to turn over an angry five-hundred-pound turtle, but once it was on its back the great beast was helpless. At that point, said Robinson, the hunters dug up the eggs and at the same time something strange and disturbing began to happen. The mother turtles, upside down and helpless inside their armor, would see the eggs being dug up and they would begin to weep. Great, gelatinous tears shining silver in the moonlight dripped from their leathery brows.

  “But that’s absolutely heartbreaking,” she had told him. “How could you stand it?”

  “There wasn’t much I could do about it. Turtles constitute the main source of meat in those islands. For me to try to stop them would be like walking up to some bird in a restaurant and snatching a seven-dollar sirloin from under his nose. Only more so, because at least the guy with the steak could order another.”

  “But my God, those tears. Didn’t they feel anything when they saw the mother turtle weep?”

  “Not a thing. In fact they seemed to think it was damned funny.”

  “I still think you should have stopped them.”

  “How?”

  “Well you could have bought the turtles and their eggs from them.”

  “I’m not the New York Museum of Natural History, you know. I was more broke than the turtle hunters.”

  “Then you should have stopped them by force,” she said angrily.

  “Gwen, honey, there were roughly fifty of them to one of me and it was late at night on a lonely beach and they were all carrying machetes. In about two seconds I’d have been in the soup along with the turtles.”

  “Did they really cry or are you teasing me?”

  “I swear it. Big fat tears as large around as the end of your thumb.”

  “I thought only man could weep.”

  “Turtles cry and hyenas laugh. Raccoons wash their hands before eating and wolves marry for life.”

  “And tell me, Doctor,” she had said, “what do young girls do who are hopelessly in love with dirty old men?”

  “Why they can do this… or that… or that…”

  “I’m afraid I like all of them. Oh, I’m shameless.”

  “You remind me of an iguana.”

  “A what?”

  “One of those big lizards.”

  “Well thank you for nothing. And you remind me of a…”

  “Careful now. No, it’s just the way you burrow in.”

  “Where did you ever burrow with iguanas? I thought they lived in the desert.”

  “There are marine iguanas too. They live in the Galapagos Islands. I swam in a little bay there with baby seals and penguins and iguanas, and the sea birds came down and rode on my shoulders.”

  “You’re making all this up.”

  “Am I? Come with me and see for yourself.”r />
  She did not answer because she was suddenly remembering that Clare had actually paid to have her murdered. The shock of it kept coming back to her and setting up a tight hard knot in the region of her heart. It might have seemed a dream now except for the tangible evidence of this stick of sand and the limitless sea and sky.

  Yet there had always been a streak of viciousness in Clare that had been hard to explain. She had walked softly enough around Gwen’s father but she had probably been thinking of the inheritance even then.

  There had been that summer long ago when Clare had come to visit them in the house on the lake. It had been a great twelve-room log cabin set on an island in the middle of a smoke-gray Maine lake. Just thinking about it now brought back the odors of fresh-cut logs and of sun-warmed pine needles on the forest floor and of wood smoke in the chill of evening. And at night there were northern lights flickering across the sky and the mournful calling of the loons. Someone, some boy from across the lake—she could no longer remember his name—had a saxophone and in the evening they would sit on the dock and he’d tootle to the loons and the birds would answer. He played very badly and the loons were the only audience he ever had.

  Then Clare had arrived. It was typical that there had been no announcement beforehand. She just came. They had not heard from her in more than a year and they had thought she was still in Europe, but then they heard the mutter of an outboard and saw the boat and the woman in the bow and realized with a slight shock that it was Clare.

  As always, she had looked ravishing. How she must have staggered those dour-faced Maine types in their wool shirts and rubber moccasins. Gwen had been only thirteen then and she had felt awkward and lumpy by comparison with her cousin. She had suffered a small case of hero worship and within a few hours caught herself unconsciously imitating Clare’s hair style and the way she walked and even the affectation of her speech.

  Then there had been the strange business of the boy with the saxophone. She remembered him now as a lanky towheaded boy with the stigmata of adolescence on his downy cheeks. It had seemed a daring thing for them all—there were three or four other teen-agers as well—to sneak ashore and to drive over to Greenport to that place where they had the band.