by Stuart Woods
“You mean somebody cut it deliberately?” I asked.
“Oh, I think it’s more likely that we anchored over some sort of underwater obstruction that chafed through the line,” Thrasher said. “Some old piece of iron, I should think.” He didn’t sound very convincing.
“Looked cut to me,” Mark said firmly. “Shitty thing to do to somebody.”
“If there’d been a second anchor aboard I could have got that out right away,” I persisted, still annoyed.
“The second anchor was in the forepeak, ready for use,” Thrasher said reasonably. “But of course, the boat was locked, and you couldn’t get to it. I really do apologize for your having to deal with it all, and I really am most grateful to you for what you did. I saw the whole thing from the upper deck at the Royal London. It was a very brave thing to do, jumping like that.”
“Well,” I said, cooling off a bit with the praise, “there didn’t seem to be anything else to do.”
“I would have thanked you immediately, but I didn’t recognize you. You were some distance out and seemed to be dressed differently.”
Annie broke in again. “I’m afraid, Derek, that you owe Willie a bit more than your thanks in this case. While he was out rescuing your yacht, all his belongings were stolen.”
“Dear God!” Thrasher came back. “I hope there was nothing I can’t replace.”
“Oh, no,” I said, waving a hand, “just clothes and stuff; I had my money and passport in my pocket.”
“Both of which are a bit damp,” Annie laughed. “Willie took a spill into the river. That’s why he’s wearing your clothes, Mark.”
“And welcome to them,” Mark laughed, clapping me on the back.
We drank the first bottle of champagne, then another, and talked into the early afternoon. Mark and Derek Thrasher talked, at least, while Annie mostly listened and occasionally made a remark. She was very polite to Thrasher but somehow cool. I sat and watched and listened and gazed at Annie Robinson.
Thrasher looked at his watch. “Why don’t you all join me for some lunch ashore, and then we’ll see about getting Will some clothes of his own.”
I began to beg off, not wanting to intrude, but Annie pressed me into the company. As we left the marina and started up the High Street I noticed a man who seemed to be keeping pace with us, stopping when we stopped, watching us closely. I noticed him because he seemed so out of place in Cowes. He was big, built like a linebacker on an American football team, and encased in a tight-fitting, three-piece, blue suit. He was wearing the only necktie in sight. He seemed quite tense.
We found a little restaurant in the High Street, ordered, and Mark and Thrasher were soon into a discussion about boats.
“What’s this race you’re doing?” I asked Mark.
“It’s a singlehanded race across the Atlantic. Held every four years. I did it last time on the boat you were just on.”
“And you’re sponsoring a new effort?” I asked Thrasher.
“I am indeed, but not out of philanthropy, I assure you. I want the boat when Mark’s done with it.”
“What would you like to name her, Derek?” Mark asked.
“Oh, name her anything you like. I’ll change it when I take her over.”
Mark looked surprised. “Don’t you want a company name on her? Something you can advertise? Surely, that’s a major benefit of sponsorship.”
Thrasher shook his head. “As I said, it’s the boat I want. The last thing I want is publicity, believe me. That’s why I’ll change the name when you’re through with her.” He leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “Mark, you must understand that I do not want my name attached to this project in any way. I prefer doing things quietly, and as far as your boatyard or anyone else is concerned, you are building your own boat, not mine. Can we agree on that?
“Of course,” Mark replied.
“If it’s just a boat you want, why not just buy one or build a custom design?” I asked.
He shook his head again. “I want a very special sort of boat,” he said emphatically. “I want something that I can take two or three couples on in comfort, but something that can be easily handled by one man, or a couple, and that’s just not available in a stock boat. Take the boat you so kindly rescued today: she’s only forty-two feet long, but it takes three people to sail her properly with no self-steering and a conventional deck layout. I want a boat of sixty feet, and that would ordinarily mean having a professional crew, which I most definitely do not want. Mark, here, already has a design of that size developed, with every possible innovation for singlehanded sailing included, and with a bit more luxury built in than he’d planned, she’s just what I want.” He took a sip of his wine. “Oh, I could have something designed and built, of course, but, what with the demands of business, I just don’t have the time to work with a designer and supervise a boatyard and keep an eye on costs. Mark, on the other hand, will do nothing else, and when he finishes I believe I’ll have the finest cruising yacht of her size afloat.”
Mark and Thrasher began a discussion of equipment, and Annie turned her attention to me. “Who are you, Willie Lee,” she asked. “What brings you to Cowes?”
I told my story, probably with too much detail. She had a faculty of total concentration in a conversation, causing me to feel that what I had to say was not only relevant and important, but fascinating.
I glanced at Mark. He seemed capable of doing anything. His hard hands looked out of place on the white tablecloth.
“Mark’s been looking for a sponsor for two years,” she said. “It’s been difficult, but now he has what he needs to build the best possible boat for the race.” She looked at him and smiled. “He’s very happy. I’m happy for him.” Her face brightened. “Oh, we’ll be neighbors of your grandfather in Ireland,” she said. “The boat is being built there. You must come and see us.”
“I’d planned to buy a car in France and see the continent for a few months.”
Thrasher left the table for a moment, and Mark turned to me. “Do you sail?”
“Yes.”
“How much experience have you had?”
“Well, there’s a sailing camp on the Georgia coast; I went there every summer as a kid, then, when I was in college, I went back as an instructor.”
“What sorts of boats?”
“Everything from dinghies to cruising boats of about thirty-five feet. The camp has quite a fleet. The last couple of years I took the older kids cruising, taught them a little coastal navigation, sail handling, anchoring, seamanship, the usual stuff.”
“You must come and sail with us on Toscana,” Annie said, “and on the new boat, when it’s finished.”
“You say you’re going to France?”
“Yes, tomorrow, on a ferry from Southampton.”
“I’ve got a better idea. “We’re sailing for Ireland tomorrow, why don’t you come and sail down the Channel as far as Plymouth with us? There’s a ferry from there to France. Annie’s always a bit under the weather the first day out, and we could use an extra hand. You’d get a good look at the English Channel, with a night passage thrown in, and you’ll only be a day or two late getting to France.”
I did not hesitate even for a moment. “I’d love it,” I said.
“It’s settled then,” said Annie. “We’re sailing just before dawn tomorrow, to catch the tide in the Solent.”
Thrasher returned to the table. “I’m afraid I must be off. Ferry to catch, and we still have to get Will some new gear.”
As we left the restaurant and strolled down Cowes High Street we seemed to be watched from across the street by yet another man, this one tall, skinny, with greasy black hair and bottle-thick glasses. The earlier heavy was nowhere in sight. I would have thought myself imagining it all, except when Thrasher came out of the restaurant, last, the man quickly turned away and pretended to look in a shop window. Thrasher didn’t seem to notice; he fell in beside me. “You’re from Georgia, you say.”
“Ye
s.” I was surprised he’d picked up on that while talking so intently with Mark.
“Would you be related to the Lee who was governor a while back?”
“He’s my father. I’m surprised you know about him.”
“I try to keep up. There were those murders, too. That got considerable attention in the British press. They’re fond of that sort of thing.”
At the time my father was running for governor it had been discovered that an old man in Delano had murdered more than forty teenaged boys over as many years. It had made nationwide headlines at the time and had even helped my father’s political career, since he had been instrumental in hiring the chief of police who had discovered and solved the crime.
“Folks in Delano are still trying to forget about that.”
He nodded. “Do you have any career plans, now?”
“No, I just want to travel for a while. I might go back to law school, I just don’t know yet.”
“There’s a lot of opportunity on this side of the water, you know. My business has reached a size where we’re always looking for bright young fellows to join us and be trained for a career.”
“What sort of career? What business are you in?” I knew it had to be pretty big if he were giving Mark Robinson the money to build a sixty-foot, state-of-the-art boat.
“Oh, a bit of this and that; property, construction, investments of various sorts. We’ve just bought a chain of fancy hairdressers, for instance.”
“Hairdressers? Beauty parlors? I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much money in that.”
“You’d be surprised. All the shops are in top hotels and department stores, and they produce a lot of cash flow which we’re investing all over Europe in property, holiday condominiums, all sorts of things. We’re even dabbling in films.” He stopped in front of a shop bearing the legend, “Morgan & Sons—Yachting Tailors.” “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “They’ll have pretty much anything you need, and I’ve already instructed them to charge everything to my account.” He held up a hand at my protest. “Please, it’s the very least I can do after what you’ve done for me today. I’m glad you’re getting a sail with Mark and Annie. When you’re next in London come and have some lunch. We’ll talk more.”
Thrasher handed me a card with nothing on it but his name and a telephone number, then turned, made his goodbyes to Mark and Annie, and walked quickly toward a dark blue Mercedes parked across the street. The heavy who had been following us earlier leapt from the car and opened the door for Thrasher. The contrast between the two men was almost comical—Thrasher, the urbane, mannered, perfectly turned out gentleman, and his chauffeur, who was a real blunt instrument. I wondered why Derek Thrasher needed a bodyguard. We all watched as the car glided toward the ferry. I noticed that the skinny man watched, too, from the entrance to a news shop opposite us. Mark and Annie accompanied me into Morgan & Sons. We spent half an hour finding jeans, underwear, sweaters and a blazer that fit.
“Don’t stint,” Annie said, piling another sweater onto the counter. “Believe me, he can afford it.”
When we came out, the skinny man was nowhere in sight. I picked up some shaving gear at a drugstore, and we continued toward the marina.
Mark put his arm around Annie. She did not respond. “Well, what do you think of our sponsor?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “He’s very smooth, isn’t he?” She made the remark sound like an indictment. “I understand he got his start winkling little old ladies out of their houses in north London, then fixing them up and selling them for five or six times what he paid.”
“Now, now, luv, he’s the most respectable of businessmen.” He turned to me. “You’ve seen all the signs along the roads?” I nodded; I hadn’t made the connection before. The huge signs with the single word “Thrasher” marked construction sites—motorways, industrial parks, all large projects. “I was very impressed with him,” I said. “And you’re sure lucky to be getting all that money for a boat.”
“Oh, it’s not a gift, you know. You heard his reasons; he’s no fool.”
“Certainly not,” said Annie. I thought I detected a touch of acid in her tone. I couldn’t understand it; I had found Derek Thrasher to be completely charming and even unassuming, apart from his expensive clothes and chauffeured car, both of which seemed perfectly natural accoutrements to a man of his position. He didn’t strike me as the captain-of-industry type and certainly not as the sort of man who would build a career on kicking old ladies out of their homes. I wondered if Annie knew something that Mark and I didn’t.
6
MARK SHOOK ME awake. It was half past four in the morning, and I responded slowly. We had dined aboard Tos-cana and had drunk two liters of red wine among the three of us. Mark had had the best of it, I thought, but while he seemed cheerfully awake, I was extremely fuzzy around the edges. I struggled out of the sleeping bag, struggled into my clothes, and struggled from the forepeak, the forwardmost part of the boat, into the head, where a toothbrush and a splash of cold water in the face made me feel more human. In the saloon Annie stuck a mug of steaming tea in my hand and put a plate of bacon and eggs before me. I ate ravenously. Hangovers always make me feel weak, and I always believe I need to eat to build up my strength.
Fortified by breakfast, I joined Mark on deck and helped cast off from our marina berth. The diesel engine chugged quietly as we motored out, past dozens of other sleeping yachts. Another boat or two departed with us, apparently to catch the tide, as well. Annie tossed up my new nylon jacket, trousers, and seaboots, all attributable to the gratitude of Derek Thrasher.
“Better get into these,” she called. “It’s going to be cold until the sun comes up.”
She was right, there was a breeze blowing, and I felt the chill. Clear of the marina Annie switched on lights fixed to the mast, illuminating the deck, then I began to get to know Toscana. All yachts, even ones of identical design, have their own idiosyncrasies, like people. I had a look at the engine controls and the deck layout, which was arranged so that all lines came back to the cockpit, making things easier for a singlehander. I noticed that there was a steel bracket fixed to the stern. “Where’s the self-steering gear?” I asked Mark.
“Oh, it’s stowed. Didn’t want to tempt thieves in the marina, and I don’t think we’ll use it on the passage.”
Shortly we were in the Solent. Mark seemed to be watching me closely, as, I suppose, I would have done in his place. I used to watch my campers the same way.
“Okay, luv,” he said to Annie, “you’d better get your head down for a while.” Annie obediently went below. She was already looking not very well. “She’ll sleep for a few hours and then feel a lot better. How are you feeling?” He looked at me closely.
“As well as can be expected after all that wine last night.”
He laughed. “Ah, mate, wine is the oil that lubricates the sailing man. Couldn’t go to sea without it; better get used to it. He pointed over the land. “Nice northwesterly blowing; give us a good close reach down the Channel. Couldn’t ask for better.”
The stars gave way to a predawn light, now, and I could see both shores of the Solent. The scattered clouds behind us reflected a gorgeous array of colors as the sun struck them from below the horizon. I glanced at the shoreline. “Hey, we’re really moving, aren’t we? What sort of tide have we got in here?
Mark laughed. “We’ve got about four knots under us. That’s why we sailed so early. The boat’s doing five and six knots through the water, and with the tide to help we’re making nine and ten over the ground. That’s The Needles coming up to port.”
I looked out and saw the rising sun strike the group of white, vertical rocks that marks the eastern tip of the Isle of Wight. We were soon in the Channel, the risen sun feeling warm on our backs. I found that I was sweating and shed my slicker.
“We’ll bear away to port a bit, now.” He pointed to the chart on the seat next to me. “We’ll want to head out a bit to give the Bill o
f Portland a wide berth. There’s a strong tidal race there, and by the time we’re that far along, the tide will be against us.”
I found the promontory on the chart. As we sailed into the Channel the boat’s motion became more pronounced, and I began to feel dull and groggy again, almost as I had felt on rising. Mark glanced at me occasionally.
“Want to get your head down for a while?”
I shook my head. “I think I prefer the fresh air.”
He nodded. I began to feel distinctly awful, now. Mark pointed to port. “Right over the rail there, mate.”
I lunged across the cockpit and emptied my fine breakfast into the English Channel. My head cleared, and I felt immediately better.
“I expect it’s the hangover,” Mark said. “Best watch how much you put away the night before a passage.”
A lesson well learned.
By early afternoon we were abeam of Portland Bill, some five miles offshore. We had a glorious day for our passage—sunshine, a pleasant breeze and a kind sea. Annie came on deck with sandwiches and beer, looking much better. I felt better myself and ate greedily.
Mark and I stripped off our shirts and enjoyed the sun. Annie went below and came back in a bikini. I could only afford quick glances at her; Concepta Lydon had been relegated to some distant corner of my memory; my mind was all too occupied with the outrageously alluring young woman sleeping in the sun on the deck of that neat little yacht.
Mark gave me the helm and a course to steer and went below for a nap, giving me instructions to call him if needed, and I was left alone with an oscillating compass, my concentration repeatedly shattered by the sight of Annie Robinson, lying on her back, the straps of her bikini loose, dozing, with a little smile on her wide, full mouth. I was relieved when she stirred and came to spell me at the helm.
I gave her the wheel gratefully. My neck and shoulders were aching with the effort of keeping the boat on course with the constant distraction of the supine Annie. It was easier to let her steer while I looked out over the water. “You know all about me,” I said, popping another beer. “What about you?”
