by Ed Baldwin
“Should we turn back?” Pam asked.
“We couldn’t make 10 knots against this wind. It’d take three days to get back to Bermuda, we might sail right into it. It’s best to head east as fast as possible.”
Lounging on the deck through the day, Boyd noticed a steady deterioration in the weather as well as in the mood of the crew. High clouds appeared, then thickened, and the day grew darker. They watched the satellite weather feed of the Bermuda radar. By noon, it was clear the high over Florida was moving east and would push the storm north and east. By 4 p.m., the barometer began to drop, and the seas were dark with swells 4 to 6 feet. Fortunately, the wind was just right, 10 degrees south of west, for them to make maximum speed. All sail was out.
Chardonnay leaped through the water, spray flying well back onto the deck as she slid down the building swells to buck up the next one.
“Wear the lifejacket at all times, even in your bunk. When on deck, everyone must have a safety harness attached to the mizzen or mainmast, or along the life rail at the sides.”
Neville had called an all-hands meeting in the saloon and was laying down the law.
“We have four of these radio beacons. If we go down, or someone is swept overboard, they can be lifesavers. We’ll keep one here, the rest should be with someone on deck.”
Wolf looked very bad. His right arm was in a fiberglass cast from his fingertips to his shoulder, and his left arm was strapped to his chest. Mikki and Pam took turns feeding him.
********
Thrilled by the towering waves and steady rush of the wind, Boyd remained on deck as evening came. Neville had the wheel. Candido and Manuel had shortened the mainsail and mizzen by half in the steady, 25-knot wind, stowed the jib they had used early in the day, and were below eating. Donn was seasick. Wolf was in bed. Mikki came on deck.
“The power of the storm. I love the power,” she said, attaching her lifeline next to Boyd’s and Neville’s by the wheel. She looked up at Boyd from within the hood of her rain gear, and he saw a little girl on an adventure.
“The front hatch is open!” Mikki called out as she peered around the mainmast. She cupped her hands around her mouth to be heard. They all peered forward in the gathering gloom.
“I’ll turn on the lights,” Neville called out. Turning, he found the control panel and turned on the outside lights. The hatch over the storeroom in the forward compartment was open.
“Candido can close it,” Neville said quickly.
“I can go,” Boyd said. Never having seen the hatch open, he had no idea how to close it.
“I will go. Candido is entitled to eat his meal in peace. I have the line,” Mikki said, already moving forward.
Boyd looked at Neville, who shrugged. After all, it was her ship.
Carefully, Mikki unhooked the carabiner, just like the one Boyd had used rappelling at the Academy, and attached it to the nylon-covered steel cable rigged atop the railing around the sides of Chardonnay. She made her way forward, carefully holding the rail as she moved the carabiner over the cable. At the bow, she bent to close the hatch, still attached to the rail by her safety line. The spray obscured her, even with the lights, and she appeared as just a yellow blob 75 feet away.
The wave was a giant, 20 feet of towering gloom, and its bulk seemed to stop Chardonnay in a trough. Night was complete in a moment as the fading light was blocked by water on all sides. In the instant before it hit, Boyd looked up and felt he was in a deep hole. Black water covered the bow, and swept all the way back to the skylight over the saloon, behind the mainmast. The crash was as a locomotive passing, and the splash to the rear knocked Neville and Boyd down into the cockpit, which filled with water.
Chardonnay had met such waves before and came through this one, too. In a moment, she was on the crest, high and strong, with a fading sun still in the west.
But Mikki was gone.
“Mikki!” Both men yelled simultaneously. Boyd grabbed the flag beacon that had saved his hide when he’d foolishly jumped in to save Wolf and threw it overboard. Neville did the same with a life preserver behind the wheel. Chardonnay slid down into a trough and it got dark again.
Boyd was looking forward to see whether Mikki’s lifeline was still attached to the railing when the next wave rolled over the bow. This time, the sea seemed to rise and flood over the bow, instead of crashing in a huge monster wave. The rise brought Mikki, tethered still to the railing but trolling along in the water beside the ship, back into view for just a moment.
“Close the hatch!” Neville yelled, agitated.
Boyd wondered why he was worried about the hatch when Chardonnay’s owner was drowning. Then he saw water from the second, smaller wave wash in a solid wall down the stairs into the saloon. He rushed forward and saw Candido and Manuel struggling in knee-deep water below, lights flickering. Many more of those waves through the open door and Chardonnay would sink. He disconnected his carabiner and pulled the door closed and slammed down the hatch over the top, then turned to the starboard side and attached to the railing, sliding forward. Looking down he sensed it getting dark again.
The third wave brought Mikki up into view again, limp. Boyd grabbed her line and the wave hit, knocking him down along the railing. The splash roared back along the deck and upended Neville again. Chardonnay rode through the wave and crested again. Candido and Manuel burst onto the deck.
Still holding Mikki’s line, Boyd pulled her up to the railing. Candido’s strong hands went under her arms and steadied her. Boyd reached down to grab her legs and pull her over the rail. A wave washed back and they fell into the rail, Mikki draped across it before finally falling onto the deck. Boyd picked her up. Candido checked quickly forward. Seeing no impending wave, he disconnected their carabiners, and Boyd made for the doghouse.
Rushing down the steps, Boyd’s first impression was that she was dead. He laid her on the table and ripped apart the yellow rain gear that had wrapped her into an inert bundle. Her face was blue, especially around the mouth, and her yellow hair was plastered to her head, making her look more frail and defeated. Mikki made no effort to breathe.
Boyd shook her briefly. No response. He bent to her mouth, pinched her nose, covered her lips with his, and exhaled into her. The air returned when he broke contact with her lips. He repeated it three more times. She was very cold. His hand found her throat, and the carotid pulse attested to the beating of her heart. Cradling her head with his right arm, his lips covered hers again and he exhaled deeply. She coughed, and he tasted sea water. She moved.
The expensive oriental carpet was squishy wet, but the knee-deep water had drained into the bilge. The lights flickered as another huge wave bashed the upper deck, and water could be heard hitting the top and sides of the doghouse, but the hatch held, watertight.
Pam grabbed Mikki’s rain pants and yanked them down, exposing a wet sweat suit beneath. Mikki inhaled deeply and coughed again. Boyd stepped back, awed. His breath had restored a life. He promised God a more regular attention to the Sabbath. The emotion he felt paralyzed him from further action.
“She’s hypothermic,” Pam said, taking charge. “Get her into the bedroom, and we can dry her off. She’s breathing.”
Boyd picked Mikki up and carried her forward into her cabin. She moved in his arms and coughed again.
“Turn on that heater over there,” Pam, right behind him, ordered as he put Mikki down. He turned to see an electric space heater in the corner and stooped to turn it on.
Pam stripped Mikki with swift efficiency. The wet clothes flew into the saloon as Mikki was roughly rolled over and slapped on the back, Pam holding her around the waist. Mikki coughed and spit. Her thin buttocks were pulled against Pam’s life jacket as Pam shook Mikki’s torso and pounded her back. Mikki responded by struggling and freeing herself, coughing and spitting the whole time.
Mikki rolled out of Pam’s grasp and turned to sit, bewilderment on her face. She coughed some more and her color improved. Neville came in
to the room and, finding Mikki nude and in capable hands and improving, retreated to the deck.
“Get some towels. In there,” Pam turned from Mikki and pointed with her head toward Mikki’s bathroom.
Boyd found a stack of large, thick, cotton towels and returned. He sat on the bed across from Pam and followed her lead drying a now sobbing Mikki. Chardonnay hit another wave with a shudder that threw them off balance, and the crash reverberated back along the deck above them.
“I was drowned,” Mikki said, looking at Boyd wide-eyed. “I saw my mother.”
Boyd remembered the soft, cool lips.
“She held her arms out to me. I was falling …”
Pam snatched the wet towel Boyd had been circling in one spot on Mikki’s back and replaced it with a dry one in front. She continued fluffing Mikki’s hair. Boyd dried her small, puckered breasts, and moved to abdomen and thighs. He kept his eyes on hers as he dried her legs.
“Your breath was warm, it drew me back. I saw a great light, then it was dark again. I felt your arms around me.” Mikki’s eyes never left Boyd’s. Her teeth began to chatter.
Pam wrapped a wool blanket around Mikki, then stepped to the cabinet by the door and brought back a decanter of brandy. She sloshed some into a heavy crystal glass and handed it to Boyd.
“Get that down her,” she said sternly, standing now, surveying the situation, the brandy decanter still in her hand.
Boyd’s mind swirled with awe and confusion as he put the glass to Mikki’s lips, which were now quite pink.
“Get her under the covers. Stay with her. Keep her warm,” Pam said, handing Boyd another crystal glass and retreating out the door. She closed it solidly.
Boyd stood and removed his rain gear and lifejacket, dropping it into a wet pile in the corner. He sat down, and Mikki’s arms were around his neck.
“I’m so cold. Please hold me.” Her little girl voice, the memory of the soft lips and the helpless exhaling of their breath made him want to.
“Here, have some of this first.”
Boyd helped her with the brandy and she finished it, making a face as she retreated into a ball back under the wool blanket.
Boyd tugged to turn down the bed. Mikki rolled over, then back into the now open bedding. Boyd dropped his wet jeans, slipped off his shirt and socks and was beside her.
“You’re so warm,” she said, her nude body, still quite chilly, covered him.
Mikki’s lips were warm now, and flavored by the brandy. Passion more powerful than any he could remember gripped Boyd, and he rolled Mikki to her back. Lips locked together, they shared breath in a reliving of the rescue. Chardonnay crested a swell and was flung into a trough. Wind howled, and shouts on deck bespoke sailors working to adjust sail in the mounting storm.
Arousal, passion, and climax merged into one exquisite plane for Boyd, and he was no longer aware of the storm.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
16 September
“The USS Kearsarge departed Norfolk Naval Base yesterday. It has Harriers, Super Cobra gunships, the MV-22 Osprey and 1,800 Marines on board. With the Kearsarge, we could take the whole Azores, if your ship ever gets there,” Navy Capt. Curtis Lestrange said proudly.
He was standing in the DTRA Operations Center briefing Ferguson and his staff, now enlarged by Marine and Navy officers.
“You raise a point,” Ferguson said. “I talked with Captain Chailland when they were in Bermuda on 10 September, and a storm passed through there right after that. We don’t know where they are. I put in a request to the National Reconnaissance Office to find that ship, but they said it would take too much satellite time and might not find anything. Finding a ship at sea can be really hard.” He paused. “I guess you Navy guys already knew that.”
“Yes, sir. There are drones on board the Kearsage. They can fan out with drones and the Osprey and the helicopters and cover a pretty wide swath of ocean. They’ll be at Bermuda tomorrow night, 17 September, and on 21 September they’ll be 200 miles south of the Azores. They can loiter in the Azores for three days, then they need to move through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Med on the 27th.”
“We don’t know how this is going to play out. What do you have after that?”
“Well, sir, the Nimitz is coming back to Norfolk from a deployment,” Lestrange said, looking at a computer printout in his hand. “They’ll pass south of the Azores on 30 September, but they can’t loiter. They need to be in Norfolk on 5 October.”
“I don’t think we need the Nimitz. That would be a bit much for our mission.”
There was a chuckle through the room.
“OK. State Department, what have you got?”
A casually dressed young staffer from the State Department stood and replaced Lestrange at the head of the room.
“Sir, we have notified the Portuguese that Chardonnay may be carrying biologic materials bound for Africa. We also explained that the ship was searched in Bermuda and nothing was found but that our team believes it is there. They would prefer we try to get the material off the ship while it’s in port rather than try to board it at sea. They do have a Portuguese frigate in their port at San Miguel.”
“OK.”
“They want to know exactly when it will get there and which port we expect it to enter.”
“Where’s Faial?”
“That’s one of the islands, sir. It’s popular with transatlantic sailors, and the port is named Horta.”
“Ok, guys. When will Chardonnay get to Horta?” He turned to his staff.
“We figure they left Hamilton, Bermuda, on the morning of 11 September. Their top speed is 12 knots, but most cruising sailboats don’t achieve that because it takes so much time to rig the sails, so figure 10 knots per hour for a day. That storm hit on 12 September, and the usual procedure would be to turn into the wind, furl the sails and use the diesel to ride out the storm. We figure that took 12 September and then 13 September to recover the lost time. They have about 1,800 miles of ocean to cover. Most sailors shut down at night and chug along on the diesel, making 8 knots, say average 10 for the 24 hours if they’re really diligent sailors. They’d make Horta in about 7 days – 21 September.”
“OK. Tell the Portuguese to start looking for them on 19 September.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
17 September
A fish exploded from the wake to grab the shiny plastic lure and nearly tore the rod from Boyd’s hands. He quickly recovered and set the hook with a mighty, torso twisting yank.
“Eno pa’. Grande atum!” Candido shouted, reeling in his line to make room for Boyd to play his fish.
Diving, the fish caught up with Chardonnay and began to go beneath her. Boyd resisted, and the surf rod he held bent nearly double, line singing out of the reel.
Candido had awakened Boyd before dawn with the exciting news that the sonar depth finder had suddenly gone from near infinity to only 30 meters. They’d arrived on the Princess Alice Banks, a rich and unspoiled fishing paradise near Faial. The water, made shallow by the volcanic activity that formed the Azores, allows the bottom feeders to live close to the surface where the sunlight causes the lower life forms to thrive. It was the higher life forms Candido and Boyd were after this day.
Tiring from the constant pull of the rod and the 10 knots Chardonnay was making in the light breeze, the fish was brought alongside where Manuel gaffed it and brought it aboard.
“Wow. That’s a beauty. What’s an atum?” Boyd asked, admiring his catch.
The bullet-shape fish had a beautiful silver-blue luster, with a mouth filled with teeth and a powerful forked tail. Clearly, this fish made its living in the open sea, swallowing smaller fish.
“Yes! Very good fish,” Candido said, laughing at Boyd’s enthusiasm. “It’s a tuna.”
They’d caught fish all morning, but none as worthy as this one. Candido and Manuel seemed to know just when to set the hook and how to keep the fish on the line. Boyd had lost several fish before landing th
is one. They quickly flicked the 6-inch silver Rapalas back in while Manuel emptied the rest of the ice in the ice maker into a large Coleman cooler and laid Boyd’s catch in with their half-dozen smaller fish.
“Land ho! Hey, we’re there.” Barefoot and tan, his sculpted hair beginning to go shaggy, Donn jumped down from the doghouse where he’d been watching the horizon and descended the stairs with his news.
Pico, dominated by the 7,000-foot cone of an extinct volcano in its center, was visible on this clear day 75 miles away. Its pointed top poked through a layer of clouds that lay like a laurel around its midsection. The base of the island was a smudge beneath the clouds.
Candido and Manuel chattered in Azorean Portuguese as they crowded Donn for a turn with the binoculars. Each man laughed when he saw their home island, Faial, in the foreground shadow of Pico.
Neville’s only acknowledgement of the landfall was the plume of pipe smoke circling his head and streaming behind them like a contrail. He’d been at the wheel all morning, checking the GPS reading with every relighting of his pipe and watching his crew catch fish.
The storm hand chased them across the North Atlantic. They had left Hamilton, Bermuda, on the afternoon of 10 September to try to outrun it. With steadily increasing winds from the west, Chardonnay had made unprecedented speed and distance before tropical storm Norbert nearly caught them 500 miles east of Bermuda. Neville had made the decision to press ahead, risking disaster if the storm overran them, as the extreme winds would push Chardonnay’s bow into the waves, sinking her.
But just at the last moment, when the barometer began to drop precipitously and they were all crowded around the satellite feed of the Bermuda radar watching the storm move east, the storm drifted north. It spit them out toward the Azores and dissipated in the cold North Atlantic between Bermuda and the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Within a day, the sky was blue and the breeze was warm.
The Azores are nine volcanic islands 900 miles due west of Lisbon, Portugal. The prevailing westerly winds that bore Chardonnay across the Atlantic have brought sailors back to Europe from the New World since men have gone out into the ocean in boats. Thus, the Azorean Portuguese are renowned sailors. Yachtsmen making a transatlantic crossing use the prevailing winds for transport, and after a week or more at sea from Bermuda are happy to pull into the first island they encounter: Faial.
