by J. B. Hawker
Water is sucked into the boat through a valve on the boat’s underside, known as a seacock. When the pump is turned on, water fills the bowl before use. After being used, continued pumping on the ‘wet’ setting will circulate the water, eliminating the waste. Each down stroke sucks in clean water from the outside, while each upstroke forces waste through a one-way ‘joker’ valve.
Once the toilet has been used and water has been circulated until the bowl is clean, the user activates ‘dry’ pumping to empty the bowl.
Before this trip, Bunny never imagined such a mundane task could be so complicated.
Her long-awaited honeymoon was becoming a crash course in seamanship.
By the time she boarded a plane for the return trip from Australia, Bunny would have many new skills, skills she hoped never to need again, once safely back on dry land. Although no longer seasick most of the time, she remained eager to leave this alien environment.
“Max!” she called out, “Lunch is ready!”
Chapter Five
Honor your father and your mother, as the Lord your God has commanded you ─Deuteronomy 5:16
“Look, Gilles, I have an email from Bunny,” Ellery turned to her husband as he stepped into the study in their Seattle apartment.
“How is she managing on Old Briny? Has she developed a taste for life on the bounding main, yet?”
“She writes that Max was proud of her for weathering their first storm at sea and her sunburn is beginning to peel. She says she looks like a stale glazed doughnut with the sugar flaking off.”
“Does it sound as though she’s beginning to have more fun?”
“Well, she says she isn’t seasick, anymore, but that she is eager to get to Australia. Reading between the lines, I think she’s still trying to make the best of things for Max’s sake.”
“I suppose that’s admirable, but if I were Max, I think I’d rather have her honest reactions. He can’t be happy if he knows she’s just putting up a brave front.”
“Would you want me to always be frank with you about things like that, Gilles…even if I were unhappy with something that was really important to you?”
“Like what, for instance, since we are obviously just being hypothetical here,” he responded with a grin.
“Well, I know you are really proud of that mustache you grew on our honeymoon, and the way your students make such a fuss about it, and all…”
“Yes?”
“It’s just…I’ve never really cared much for beards and mustaches on men. Or on women either, of course, but, what I mean is… I like to see every bit of your handsome face, not have your sweet lips hidden,” she blurted out before she could lose her nerve.
“You want me to shave off my mustache? Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Only if you really don’t mind. I mean, of course, it’s your face and you should decide what to grow on it, and I can learn to live with it…it’s not a major deal or anything…”
Gilles pulled Ellery out of her chair, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a resounding kiss.
“That was your farewell kiss to The Mustache, my love.”
“Really? That’s brilliant! You’re not upset, are you?”
“I’m devastated. I’ve grown very close to this mustache, I’ll have you know. It will be like cutting off a part of me. But for you, no sacrifice is too great. Tho’ it be one of the finest of its ilk, both plush and smooth as silk, The Mustache hath offended thee and shall pay the ultimate price. Adieu, my lady, I must away! The next time we meet The Mustache will be no more!” he pronounced theatrically before sweeping out of the room like a Shakespearian hero, to the delight of his wife who instantly dissolved in a fit of giggles.
“Strother, did you see what that man did?” Virginia Ambrose prodded her husband with her plump elbow.
Strother, who was sitting sedately beside her on the deck of the Mers Comtesse, jumped in surprise.
“Why no, I was lost in prayer, I’m afraid. Which man are you speaking of?”
“That rugged-looking fellow with the iron gray crew cut over there. I believe his name is Meyers…Warren or Wendell, something with a ‘W’, anyway. He sat at our table for dinner one night, don’t you remember? The retired military man.”
“Oh, yes, I recall him now, an ex-Navy SEAL, he said. Nice man. Very solid. What did he do?”
“After that dreadful woman and her spoiled son made such a fuss…and didn’t that bully of a pirate hit her hard! Totally unnecessary…anyway, Mr. Meyers seemed to know immediately what the boy needed. He called him over for a little chat and when the youngster returned to his mama he was like a different person altogether. I’d like to know what was said that had such a profound effect.”
“Meyers probably just reminded him to act like a man. That’s what I would have done.”
“Yes, dear. You’re probably right. We all need to be reminded of our responsibilities to one another from time to time.”
On the bridge deck, the pirates’ leader, Shimbir, was just coming up the central stairwell. His ebony face grim, he strode impatiently into the wheelhouse and rounded on the men gathered there.
“What is the matter with you idiots?!” he shouted in his native Somali dialect. “Why are you still standing around? Get this ship pointed toward Darsa, immediately.”
Darsa, the uninhabited island in the Socotran Archipelago in the Indian Ocean just east of the Horn of Africa, was where the pirates planned to take their booty, once the ransom was collected. Shimbir wanted to bring them to within easy reach of the island by the ship’s tenders before blowing up the liner, along with its spoiled, useless passengers.
The leaky fishing boat the pirates had used to feign distress and gain access to this small cruise liner had sunk, by design, mere moments after the last pirate climbed off.
Warren Meyers’s speculations about these particular pirates had missed the mark. The men were neither misguided Somali patriots nor mere mercenary kidnappers and, although they were going to demand a hefty ransom for their captives, their greater goal was to create fear and destruction.
These men were terrorists.
Malcontents, members from the traditionally lower class groups of Somali culture and consumed by an unfocused hatred, they had attached themselves to the fringes of a small militant Muslim cell, but only long enough to become disenchanted with the prospect of suicide bombings and to decide to follow the most hate-filled of their number, Shimbir, on this independent mission. He was a small man, but his rage gave him a powerful presence.
This was to be only the first of many attacks, each one bigger and more profitable than the last. Without ideology or religion, their cause was to destroy whatever they could and make themselves rich in the process.
The small, slow, aged cruise ship was an easy target, perfect for a dress rehearsal in the implementation of their grand scheme.
One major impediment to their plans was only now becoming obvious: none of the pirates knew how to man the helm on a cruise liner.
“What are you waiting for?” Shimbir prodded the men again.
The others shifted their feet and gazed dumbly at the control bays, each with its own array of monitors, display panels, dials and switches. When confronted with the incomprehensible consoles, the men were stymied.
Shimbir spewed forth a stream of Somali curses then growled, “Get the liner’s crew in here. Where is the bloody captain?”
Jama, the unofficial second-in-command of this rabble, whose dark skin and flat nose proclaimed him to be a member of the Sab clan, spoke up, “The crew is dead, Shimbir. It was as you instructed. We killed the crew and destroyed the radios.”
Somali society is egalitarian and lacks traditional authority roles. There are few honorific titles and no words for “Mr.” or “Sir”. This band followed Shimbir based upon the force of his arrogance and brutality.
Containing his rage with difficulty, Shimbir approached the central of the three cont
rol pods and grabbed what appeared to be a game console joy stick. He jerked it to one side and the ship shuddered, gradually changing direction.
“Aha! You see, it is only a matter of trial and error. Jama, you play video games, come and teach yourself to master this ship,” Shimbir directed as he left the bridge.
With navigation sorted out to his satisfaction, the next stage of the plot must be set in motion. Shimbir jogged quickly to the stateroom he had commandeered as his own and opened a duffle bag. Inside were several untraceable international cell phones. This part of the scheme remained rather vague. With no specific target for his hatred, he still had not decided from whom to demand the ransom.
Bunny was determined to overcome Max’s reluctance to talk about their years apart. When she tried the direct approach Max easily sidestepped. Now she was ready to try a more subtle gambit.
After their daily swim the newlyweds were sluicing off saltwater under a sunshower.
It was amazing to Bunny that she had become so comfortable with her nudity on this trip. She’d struggled with body image issues all her life, never wanting to display in even the most intimate moments what she felt were her many flaws for fear of criticism, comparisons and ridicule.
Now, although she spent most of her days hiding from the sun in a pair of baggy pajama pants, one of Max’s long-sleeved work shirts, a floppy hat and sunglasses, when they skinny-dipped or showered, Bunny no longer felt any self-consciousness.
The Bible speaks of Adam and Eve walking together with God in the Garden and being “naked and unashamed.” Bunny was sure that was the way it was meant to be in a marriage, and not just in the physical sense. She and Max had accomplished that part, now she wanted the rest of the experience.
“Thank you, Max,” she tossed over her shoulder as she dried herself with a big fluffy towel.
“What for, Hun?”
“For helping me to be like Eve, ‘naked and unashamed’ in front of you and God.”
“And the porpoises, don’t forget the porpoises, now. I’ve seen the way they look at you, you know,” he teased. “But what brought this on?”
“I’ve read in the Bible about how a marriage is supposed to be. Adam and Eve in the Garden were the pattern. The verse where it says they walked together with God in the Garden and were naked and unashamed always spoke to me in a special way. I yearned for that sort of experience.”
“And you think we’ve got that now? Cool! But, you’re not going to start offering me poisoned apples, are you?”
“The Bible never says the forbidden…not poisoned…fruit was an apple and that’s not what I’m talking about. I do think we’ve accomplished the physical part of the picture, though. You make me feel loved, every worn and saggy, tired and baggy inch of me. That is so rare. I treasure it, and you.”
Max gave her a quick hug before asking, “So, what else is there if that’s just ‘the physical’ part?”
“People aren’t just bodies, you know. For a real marriage we need to be comfortable baring our thoughts and feelings, too.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t think we do that.”
Bunny finished pulling on her T-shirt before responding.
“We don’t really talk very much about those things. When I try to get you to open up, like when I asked about our lost years, you always change the subject.”
“I like that term. ‘Lost years’ is exactly what they were. So, why can’t we just leave them lost?”
“Why should we? What happened that you can’t talk to me about?”
“It’s not that I can’t talk about it. I just don’t want to. I want to enjoy our life together without any clouds looming over us from the past.”
Bunny felt that it was time to let this go, for now. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to forget about it. She knew the pain of a marriage built on secrets and lies and she wasn’t willing to let Max’s reticence about his past become a wall between them.
She decided to change the subject.
“What about those clouds on the horizon?”
She pointed across the water.
“Will they be looming over us soon? Do you think we’re about to have another storm to deal with?”
Happy to leave the previous subject behind, Max went below to check out the weather forecast on his computer.
Bunny followed and opened her computer, too.
She’d had an idea. Perhaps if she Googled Max’s name she might find some clue to what was in his past that he was so reluctant to share with her.
It was a slim chance. Max wasn’t one to post his daily status on social media, even if it had existed during those ‘lost’ years, but it was worth checking out. She should find records of his marriages and divorces, if nothing else, and that might give her an opening.
“It looks like the storm will miss us this time, Sweetie. No rough weather predicted on our course between here and the Indian Ocean. It’s all smooth sailing ahead,” Max reported with a grin.
Chapter Six
They slay the widow and the stranger, and murder the fatherless ─ Psalm 94:6
“Max, I just got the chattiest email from Rosamund Davidson in Oregon. You remember her? She is my pastor’s sister.”
“Oh, sure, the sister of your pretentiously tall partner in misadventure, the romantically heroic Rev. Scott.”
“Now, don’t be like that. You know Scott and I were never anything but good friends.”
“Not for lack of trying on his part, I’m sure....what does his chatty sister have to say? I don’t seem to recall her as being the most effusive woman.”
“No, she isn’t usually, that’s why this email is so remarkable. She says here that her nemesis in the congregation, Maureen Oldham, has left the church.”
“Is that the reason she’s so much more talkative?”
“Maybe, but Rosamund isn’t the sort to take pleasure in even Maureen’s misfortune and it seems Maureen’s husband, Vince, has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so the couple has moved to an assisted living facility in Portland. No, I think the real source of Rosamund’s new volubility is found in the last paragraph. After telling me all about the latest happenings in the church and with Scott...he and my friend Naidenne are officially engaged, isn’t that great? You know I was the one who got them together....”
“The last paragraph, Mrs. Cupid?”
“Oh, yes, sorry...in the last paragraph of her email she just sort of mentions, casually like, that a new man, a widower, has joined the congregation. He’s the new bank manager recently moved from Northern California. I can see she’s trying to be nonchalant about it, but reading between the lines, it looks like this guy is the real reason she wrote. I think Rosamund’s in love!”
“You matchmaking women! You just can’t be happy until every poor guy is hogtied and branded, can you? What makes you so sure she’s in love, if she didn’t say so?”
“Oh, it’s nothing obvious, just something that only another matchmaking woman like me would recognize. You should be flattered, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I wasn’t so deliriously happy married to you, would I want to see my friend wed?”
“I’m not so sure. You’re a conniving little vixen, when you want to be. And didn’t you tell me that you and Rosamund never hit it off?”
Bunny laughed, remembering her first encounters with the formidable Rosamund.
“We didn’t at first, that’s true, but eventually we learned to appreciate each other and became friends. I really do want to see her find a life partner. She’s doted on Scott for too long. Once he and Naidenne marry, Rosamund may be all alone. I would hate for that to happen.”
“Does she have anything else to say in this email soap opera?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. The fisheries along the coast seem to be recovering ever so slightly, tourism is up, and the Karen refugees from Myanmar the church adopted are learning English and settling in well in their foster
homes.”
“Those are some of the sex slaves you and the dashing Scott helped to rescue, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but I hate to hear that term, sex slaves. It dehumanizes them, somehow. They were kidnapped from their homes, badly mistreated and physically abused. Most were only children or teenagers. They could be anyone’s kids. It’s important to remember that, and not just write them off.”
“Cool down! I didn’t mean anything. You said they are all doing well?”
“Some of the captives were sent back to Thailand, either because of criminal records or because they wanted to return, but the ones that remained on the Oregon Coast with their church family sponsors seem to be adjusting. I understand they are being given counseling to help them recover.”
“It was a really good thing you did, getting them away from the human trafficking ring. I’m proud you.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take much credit. I just kept lurching headlong into things. Scott is convinced God led us every step of the way.”
“That may be true, but your propensity for blundering into quagmires certainly played a role. It’s a good thing we aren’t sailing through the Bermuda Triangle. With you aboard, we might have landed in outer space or in an alternate dimension.”
Days at sea soon began to blend together. Bunny spent more time on her laptop computer each day. When she wasn’t writing for the magazine or working on her book, she wrote emails or logged into Facebook and updated her status. She’d even begun a blog about the trip.
She was reluctant to morph into one of those women who posts every time she hiccups, but the sloop seemed to be growing smaller every day. Bunny was compelled to reach out over the miles of hostile water and connect to people on dry land, so that she might believe terra firma still existed, even though she could no longer see it.
