Voyage After the Collapse (The Pulse Series Book 3)

by Scott B. Williams

  Just as they had done every winter since they retired four years ago, her mom and dad had sailed the Sarah J. south to the Bahamas, spending most of their time there cruising the Exumas. Tara knew the vessel was likely well stocked, as they always over-bought provisions for their four or five month winter excursions. In addition to food, there would be drinking water in the tanks and diesel fuel for the inboard engine. Built in the late 1970’s, the now-classic Tartan 37 had a basic 12-volt electrical system and Tara knew the engine could even be hand-started if necessary because of a dead battery. Like some of the antique cars and pickups they’d seen weaving among all the stalled newer models clogging the roads, the boat would be functional even if some of the newer accessories like the radio, GPS and autopilot her dad added were fried. If she could get the engine started, its simple alternator could keep the batteries charged and they would at least have interior lights and cabin fans whether at the dock or at sea. And even if that failed, there were brass oil lamps that her parents enjoyed reading by in the lovely teak interior on cool evenings at anchor. All-in-all, Tara knew that aboard the Sarah J. they would be better off than almost everyone stuck on land.

  Much to her relief, when they reached the gates of the marina she saw the top of the sloop’s tall mast right where it was supposed to be, towering over her parents’ slip near the end of Pier C. The majority of the vessels usually docked there were still present as well. Most of them, especially the larger sailboats, were owned by out-of-towners who only occasionally came to visit their boats and even more rarely, go sailing. The majority of these vessels were in varying states of neglect, their engines and other mechanicals suffering from disuse; their canvas and brightwork faded from the daily abuse of the Gulf coast sun. Tara new that most of these people would not be returning anytime soon even if they could. If they were in the same situation where they lived as everyone here on the coast, getting back to their neglected boats would be out of the question, even if they realized the advantages of taking to the water.

  Tara and Rebecca moved aboard Sarah J. to wait out the blackout and see what was going to happen. After their first night spent on board at the marina, Tara began taking a careful inventory of the provisions on board and was relieved to discover that she was right about her parents bringing the vessel back to port well supplied. They had no doubt restocked somewhere in Florida on the way back north because when they returned from their trip to Minnesota they were surely planning frequent weekend excursions on the boat whenever the weather permitted. Her dad wanted to live aboard and cruise full-time Tara knew, but her mom wasn’t quite ready to give up their home ashore and commit to the lifestyle. Sailing often and cruising part time in the winters was the compromise they’d agreed on.

  Tara was relieved to find the fuel tank full, just as she’d expected. She remembered her dad saying that it was important not to leave a boat sitting idle with lots of empty air space in the diesel tanks. Condensation would form there, leading to water in the fuel, one of the few things that could give a diesel engine trouble. The 20 gallons in the full tank would run the three-cylinder 27-hp Yanmar a long time, providing a constant motoring range of around 300 miles at six or seven knots. The engine was seldom used that way on the Sarah J. though. In the kind of cruising her mom and dad did, it was running only when entering or leaving tricky harbors or when they needed it to assist in charging the batteries. That was rare since her dad had installed a pair of large solar panels on the stern rail when they started going to the Bahamas. Tara wasn’t sure if the solar panels were still functioning properly or not though, because the charge controller circuitry that regulated the current they produced was apparently destroyed by the pulse. That was something that could be looked at later, hopefully by someone with a better understanding of marine electrics. For now it was enough simply to have the boat as a safe shelter.

  THREE

  THE SITUATION IN THE city got worse day-by-day as Tara and Rebecca took refuge in the marina. They didn’t venture beyond the marina property because they had everything on board that they needed. But the harbormaster and a few other boat owners who were around passed on bits of news from their own excursions. Looting had become widespread, and armed gangs were taking by force what they could from those who had food or other useful items, especially running vehicles such as motorcycles or older automobiles unaffected by the pulse. There were stories of heated gun battles in the streets, and the police could do little about it because of the lack of communications, central command and organization, not to mention the problems individual officers had taking care of their own families. It was much like the situation in New Orleans in the days after Katrina, but far worse and far more extensive. No one seemed to know just how far reaching the effects of the blackout were, but they began to assume they were well beyond the Gulf coast region. If not, help would have already arrived from the outside, just as it always did after hurricanes. But there were no convoys of National Guard troops and utility company trucks; no helicopters or planes flying overhead; and no influx of volunteers from The Red Cross and various church congregations. Even though not a single roof had been blown away or a single waterfront home flooded by storm surge, the situation on the coast had turned into a disaster beyond the worst hurricane proportions.

  Realizing this and that the situation was not likely to improve anytime soon, Tara decided that the best option for her and Rebecca was to cast off the dock lines and leave. A few of the other boat owners who were aboard their vessels in the marina had already left, most of them headed for Florida. Tara didn’t think that was a good idea though, as Florida was much more heavily populated than the northern Gulf coast. Where they should go, she wasn’t sure, but she was sure that if they stayed in the marina it was just a matter of time before the gangs found them. When the easy pickings in local houses and stores were depleted, they would figure out that many of the boats in the coastal harbors were another source of supplies and useful gear for survival. Some of them would also figure out that many of the boats, especially those with sails, were still a viable means of transportation too. When they became that desperate they would surely kill anyone already aboard who was in their way, and Tara shuddered to think what they might do to her and her daughter first.

  “I know you hate sailing because you always get seasick, but we really don’t have a choice,” she’d told Rebecca, once her mind was made up.

  “Why do you think we’re going to be any better off out there, Mom? It’ll be just our luck the stupid boat will sink; or a hurricane will hit us. We’re all going to die anyway, so we might as well stay here and do it.”

  “We’re not going to die, Rebecca. Don’t even say that. All we’ve got to do is get some distance between us and all of these people who are running out of control. We can do that with the Sarah J. She’s our best option.”

  “Our options suck then! People suck too! Why are they so crazy? Why is everyone being so mean? Why can’t they just wait like we’ve been doing until help comes or the lights come back on?”

  “Because they’re scared, Rebecca. They don’t know what to do, so they’ve panicked. It’s what most people do when they’re faced with the unknown. But we’re smarter, aren’t we? I’m scared, and I know you are too, but we’re going to keep our cool, because we’re survivors, aren’t we?”

  “I’m not scared to die. Everybody has to die some time. What difference does it make when?” With that, Rebecca disappeared back down the companionway and slammed the door to the v-berth cabin behind her. Tara understood her pain, or at least she thought she did. Her heart was broken for all the emotional suffering her daughter had been through. No thirteen-year-old child should have to deal with such things, but she had. She knew Rebecca was being truthful when she said she wasn’t afraid to die, and there had been a few times when Tara was afraid she actually wanted to.

  Rebecca would protest and sulk about it, but she wouldn’t physically resist Tara’s decision to set sail. In other circumstances
, maybe she would try to run away, but not now. There was nothing for her anywhere else within walking distance, and at least she could lock herself in the fore cabin and keep it dark with the curtains over the port lights. Tara made a pre-departure checklist and after she was satisfied all systems on the boat were in order, she made ready and got underway without any help from her daughter.

  Tara was far from an expert sailor; much less a navigator, but her dad had first acquired the boat while she was still in high school, so she was no stranger to it, either. Weekend trips and a couple of longer vacations had left enough of an imprint that she was confident she could safely take the Sarah J. at least somewhere. And for now, that somewhere was out to the nearby Gulf Islands National Seashore, a chain of low-lying sandy islands just barely visible on the horizon south of the mainland on a clear day.

  The day she left was one of those clear days, where line of sight navigation to the islands was possible. Once out of the harbor and far enough out in the open waters of the sound to shut off the engine and raise sail, Tara steered for the old brick fort on West Ship Island. It was a familiar landmark and she’d spent time in the deep anchorage there before. She thought it would be a good place to wait and see what happened next while making plans to go somewhere more remote if things didn’t change.

  The ten-mile passage went fast, the Sarah J. heeled over on a beam reach and making hull speed most of the way. But as she closed the gap to landfall at the island, Tara began to have doubts about her choice. Smoke rose from several large fires on the beach and there were nearly a dozen boats of various sizes clustered around the pier and the anchorage in front of the old fort. Something about the crowd there just didn’t feel right, and Tara put the helm down to fall off to leeward before she got within a mile of the island. She set a new course for Cat Island, the next island to the west and the last in the chain before the Mississippi Sound gave way to Lake Borgne and the Louisiana marshlands surrounding New Orleans.

  Tara knew Cat Island didn’t have a deep-water anchorage relatively close to the beach like the one at West Ship. Sandy shoals extended far out from its shores, over a half mile in places, but the nice thing about the Tartan 37 with its keel-centerboard configuration was that she only needed a little over four feet to float—not much for a vessel that size. Tara found the island deserted that first day she got there, but then the Owens arrived the following day on their larger Catalina 42, anchoring a bit farther out. Tara had nervously watched the approaching sail through her father’s binoculars, but when she saw the gray-haired couple at the helm, she relaxed and returned their friendly wave as they drew near. When they came over later in their dinghy to introduce themselves, Tara learned that like her, since they had access to a comfortable vessel, they felt better about coming out here rather than remaining in Slidell. From what they said, things were really bad in New Orleans and the survivors who could make it out were pouring over the Causeway and the I-10 Twin Span Bridge to the North Shore.

  Tara enjoyed the company of the Owens and the days and evenings passed faster with someone else to talk to, even though it sometimes saddened her because they reminded her so much of her parents. Rebecca showed herself as little as possible while they were there, preferring to stay locked away in her cabin most of the time. Tara felt bad for her because she knew she was feeling the symptoms of seasickness even while they were anchored, due to the chop in the sound most afternoons and the lack of protection from it off the mostly-exposed coast of Cat Island.

  For several days, no other vessels called at Cat Island until the arrival of the catamaran that sailed past them one afternoon, continuing along until it disappeared around the point, most likely going to Smuggler’s Cove on the south side. It was an interesting-looking vessel and Tara had never seen anything quite like it, as it was both traditional and exotic at the same time, like something that should be on a postcard from the Far East or maybe the south Pacific. Later that evening she had confirmed that the vessel was indeed anchored around there in the cove, as she had rowed ashore in the Sarah J.’s dinghy and spotted the catamaran’s two masts silhouetted beyond the dunes. When the old fishing boat had later passed on the same course, she had again gone ashore and watched it as it made the turn to enter the cove as well, which was why she was confident the two boats were there now. She was looking forward to seeing the strange catamaran up close now that she’d made her decision, and she had her fingers crossed that the crew would be as interesting as their ship and as friendly as she dared to hope.

  Although Mike Owens warned her that there was no way of knowing what kind of people were aboard those two boats, Tara had studied the crews of each one through her binoculars as they cruised by. She had clearly seen two young women on the deck of the catamaran, and neither appeared to be distressed in any way. The women and the two men who accompanied them all waved as they passed, but the distance was much too great for shouting.

  When the fishing boat passed, Tara saw that the man at the helm of it was certainly a wild-looking character; a black islander-looking guy with long, knotted dreadlocks that swung almost to his waist. He had grinned and waved though, and his appearance didn’t particularly frighten her. He could have simply been a reggae musician from New Orleans for all she knew. His companion, a young-looking white guy, also gave her a friendly wave in return to hers.

  Just because a lot of people had reverted to savagery in the aftermath of the blackout didn't mean everyone had. Tara felt better about almost anyone aboard a sailboat, because the very fact that they were out here, anchoring away from the mainland, meant they were probably seeking to avoid trouble rather than cause it. Like her and Rebecca and the Owens, they probably just wanted to get away from the looting and violence that had consumed so much of the coastal cities. At least these were the things she told herself when she hauled in the Sarah J.’s anchor using the manual windlass and sheeted in the mainsail to go around there and find out.

  FOUR

  ARTIE DRAGER STOOD TO stretch his back and give his knees a short break. He’d been on them for over an hour, sweat dripping onto the deck where he was smoothing cured epoxy fairing compound by hand with a wooden block with sandpaper wrapped around it. It was hard labor, but required less skill than the actual boat carpentry and fiberglass work he knew nothing about. He had watched his younger brother, Larry and his friend, Scully as they expertly applied layers of resin-saturated fiberglass to the new wood in the decks and hull topsides. Now they were down below, reinforcing the repairs from the inside while Artie did the dirty work to prep the patches for finishing. He could already tell that once the first coat of gray primer went on, the damaged areas would be invisible. Larry and Scully knew what they were doing, but then they should. Artie had to frequently remind himself that the two of them built this 36-foot catamaran from scratch by themselves, entirely by hand on the beach in Puerto Rico.

  It was hard for Artie to comprehend such a task, but his brother had always had a single-minded focus; and for most of his adult life, that focus had been on spending as much of his life as possible at sea. Larry built the boat of his dreams exactly to the standards he required. He made his living moving other people’s boats from place to place, mostly in the trade wind belts of the tropics, and many such deliveries of marginally seaworthy craft had taught him what was needed. The Casey Nicole was an amazing vessel, and they were all fortunate indeed to be aboard her now, where she provided refuge and escape from turmoil the likes of which none of them had ever seen.

  The important thing was that they were all together again—finally. His daughter, Casey, for whom Larry’s boat was named, was here. Her best friend and roommate, Jessica Nielsen, was also here, as was Grant Dyer, the young man Casey had met in college that helped the two girls escape from the dangers of New Orleans when the lights went out. The three of them were ashore right now exploring the beaches and wooded dunes of Cat Island while the dusty sanding work was going on. Artie glanced over to where the two kayaks were pulled up o
n the sand and saw that the kids were out of sight at the moment, probably somewhere among the Live oaks and pines of the interior. He turned his gaze to the north, in the direction of the mainland.

  From out here, approximately seven miles to the south, the coastline of Mississippi looked peaceful and normal. From this distance, the shore was mostly a thin line of darker blue, its outline rising just slightly above the open expanse of the Mississippi Sound that stretched between him and the coast. Lacking any significant elevation for its entire length, this part of the northern Gulf Coast was barely visible beyond a few miles. The tallest objects in Artie’s view were all man-made—a few multi-story hotels and apartment buildings, water storage tanks and communications towers. All were too far away to make out any detail, but their presence on that coast gave the illusion of normalcy—the illusion that he was looking at just another civilized and developed American shoreline. Like almost everywhere on the Atlantic coast from Boston to Miami and Key West to Brownsville, development and progress had permanently altered the view that an approaching mariner would see upon making landfall.

  But Artie knew that an illusion was all any of it was, and the advanced civilization that such distantly visible edifices should signify was in ruin. Despite the near-tropical warmth of the Gulf air, he felt a chill slide down his spine as he contemplated just how dangerous that coast and the interior beyond it really was. He was grateful for the miles of water that separated him and his loved ones from it, but he knew he would feel much better when that distance was even greater.

  That would happen, but not before his brother was ready. Larry was working tirelessly to complete the repairs and prepare the Casey Nicole for a long sea voyage. Although getting out to Cat Island after being rammed by the big fishing boat in the Pearl River swamp was not a problem, the catamaran was not ready for the open ocean in that condition. They were much closer now though, Artie thought, as he looked back down at the new areas of fiberglass and plywood that were beginning to blend in seamlessly to the rest of the damaged hull and deck. Once again his brother’s experience had proven invaluable, simply by the fact that he had the foresight to include spare materials as part of the ship’s provisions.