Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  “You remembered your whistle?” Captain checks.

  “Yes.” It feels heavy hanging around my neck. I raise my fingers to touch it and get an electric shock. I gaze into the grey, stormy Strait, waiting and fighting to stay awake.

  “Hope you get some sleep soon,” Owen says as he passes by.

  “Get out of here,” I reply, pressing my lips together to keep any other words from escaping. Then I slip what’s in my hand into the small drawer under the chart table and slam it shut. He startles at the slam. He’ll remember. He has to remember later. I’d slip what I have directly into his hand, but then the scene won’t play out like it’s supposed to, and Captain has his Glock at the ready.

  “I don’t see any keys in the ignition,” Captain is saying on cue to Owen. “How did you get this boat started?”

  “We put jumper cables on the starter solenoid and it turned over, first time.”

  “Well done,” he says. “Show me.”

  Within minutes, the tug jumps to life. Er-er-er-rrrum! An echo of my heartbeat.

  Now!

  I lift the whistle to my lips. It slips out of my mouth and dangles. I lift it again. I’m under orders and Captain has a gun. And my pay.

  Screech! “Boat approaching!” I call down in a voice I hope sounds worried.

  I am supposed to be first mate, not an actor in a badly written play.

  “Quick, down there,” Captain delivers his line, pointing to the engine compartment.

  They fall for it, as we knew they would. I don’t hear the click of the lock, but I wince for the schoolboys anyway.

  Captain sprints to the pilothouse, shouts to the invisible pirates, and shoots his Glock off twice. Then we stomp around to make it sound like there are more than just the two of us.

  Back in the captain’s seat, I ramp up the tug’s speed like the pro I am, then reach into the tool box. The crowbar feels as cold as ice. It rises and comes down hard, following Captain’s orders against my will.

  Smash! Bang! With Captain beside me wielding a sledgehammer in one hand, a giant wrench in the other, the tug doesn’t stand a chance. We’re a two-man demolition crew. He lays into the boat with a fury that sets my nerves on edge. Though I fail to mimic the fever of his assault, I work alongside him, fuelled by my own fireball of anger.

  The throttle is the first to go. Soon the entire dashboard all but collapses under our attack. The window shatters and controls break and spin through the air like body parts.

  Within moments, all the mechanics that Owen and I lovingly coaxed back to working order are in pieces. Then, without a backward glance, we thunder through the tug to the dinghy, our escape vehicle. With a loud splash, it hits the water. I tumble into the bow. Captain jumps into the stern, pulls the cord of the outboard motor, and we roar away through blackening swells that rise and crash.

  We’re headed back to Archimedes, of course. My body shivers and shakes as I hang on in the dinghy’s bow. Spray soaks and chills us as we race away from the driverless tug lumbering in the Strait. I look back once to see it lurching through the waves, no hand on the controls, a half dozen boys locked in its belly. We’ve abandoned what is now a moving ghost ship. A death boat. A Dumpster full of innocent souls — friends? — betrayed. By me.

  I breathe, breathe, breathe to calm myself down.

  A small cut in my hand from the smashing drips blood into the saltwater sloshing at my feet. But I feel like gore is smeared all over my body.

  I am not convinced someone will rescue them in time, now that we have finished the job. My brain is spinning, my stomach is lurching, my body is so gripped with guilt that it is threatening to shut down.

  I look up to see two eagles soaring confidently overhead. Half a dozen ravens flap haphazardly away in the other direction.

  Captain is in the stern with a smile of boyish excitement. “They paid to come to Canada, they’re in Canada, and we’re rich,” he shouts. “Better yet, we’ve just eliminated our chances of getting in trouble during the dropping-off process.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say dully.

  “I’ll pay you when we get back aboard Archimedes, Arturo. Damned good job you did. You’re the best. Time for a raise, yes?” He leans forward to slap me on the shoulder. I wince like his touch has electrocuted me. I cannot stand to look at him.

  I’ve been with Captain for three years. I’ve learned lots of things on this job and put up with its dark side: the beatings and the feeling sometimes that I’m a captive slave. I’ve always reasoned my way through the bad times, blamed myself or excused Captain or weighed my chances of doing any better if I left.

  But he has never done anything cruel to the clients, let alone ditched them. Maybe he suspected I was getting in cahoots with Owen? That I was going to jump ship? That I was pissed about having to plant trees? Maybe Danillo overheard some of Owen’s and my conversation the night we repaired Homeward Bound, and reported something?

  No. As far as Captain knows, I totally co-operated on the destruction of the tug’s controls. To him, I’m still a fully loyal first mate.

  My stomach goes sour; the world turns white as I puke over the dinghy’s side. I retch everything I have in me into the speeding grey water. But everything I have in me is not enough. As my head hangs over the gunwale, I sense that the water wants to rise and swallow the rest of my useless self.

  “A seasick sailor!” Captain jabs, shaking his head. “Well, you’ll feel better for that.”

  I may not deserve this cool job, but I will do absolutely anything it takes to keep it. Did I believe that once? No, not anything, as it turns out. Not this. But what could I do?

  You don’t have to be his lackey.

  I’m not. You’ll see.

  He’s cruel. You’re not. He doesn’t deserve you. You deserve better.

  I do. And it’s not too late. I’m sorry, I know it looks like I failed, guys. To break the chain. But all is not as it seems.

  “When opportunity presents itself, take it,” Captain reminds me, beaming a proud grin. “Cheer up, boy. You can sleep while I pilot tonight. You’ve earned that.”

  “Gracias, Capitán.” Sleep, yes. I’ve earned it. On this we can agree.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  OWEN

  The smell of diesel, rot, and desperation in the air is overpowering.

  “We need a crowbar or something,” I rule, looking about the cramped engine room with the headlamp I always carry on me.

  “How about ripping out that pipe?” Sergio asks, pointing to a steel pipe.

  “No!” I shout. “I mean no, that’s the exhaust,” I say more calmly. “It’ll fill the compartment with engine exhaust and we will die.”

  Gabriel is feeling around the bulkhead in front of us for anything else that might work, and casting his eyes around the floor.

  “Over there, under the prop shaft?” he suggests, his head frighteningly close to the spinning shaft coupler. “Hey, I see an iron rod. Can’t … reach …”

  “I can get it!” Pequeño’s high voice declares.

  “No way you’re squeezing under —” I begin, but Pequeño has wriggled too far away from me to yank him back.

  “Flatten yourself to the floor and back out if —”

  “Touching it!”

  “Careful,” the older boys chorus with me in tight voices.

  “Got it!” the kid shouts.

  The shaft spins and throws off a threatening thump thump thump that hurts my ears as it continues to send 150 horses down to the propeller.

  Pequeño worms backward inch by inch. I bite my tongue when he screams; the shaft has snagged a tuft of his hair. Then he’s clear, turns around, and hands his prize to me.

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “This is a job for the twins.” I pass the iron tool to them.

  Smash! Smash! Dust and splinters come raining down as the young giants apply the iron rod to the hatch. We close our eyes and raise our arms to cover our heads as the twins go at the cover like medieval wa
rriors applying a battering ram to castle doors.

  Smash! Crunch.

  “Yes!” they shout.

  A second of quiet, then Sebastian pokes a hand through the hole they’ve created. Click! The hatch is unlocked. As he lifts the hatch cover, we erupt out, me holding Pequeño up until the boy finds his footing.

  Four pairs of feet scurry up the companionway after Pequeño and me. We stop short in front of the wrecked helm.

  “Captain? Arturo?” Pequeño calls out uselessly, leaning into the wind blowing through the missing windshield.

  “He locked us in and then sabotaged our boat!” Danillo cries out. “Bastard! He has his money and he’s trying to kill us so we can’t identify him. I’ll try an SOS on the radio.” A second later, his panicked voice: “No go. Cable to the mic is cut.”

  I elbow my way into the space, braced against the wind’s force and the cold rain, and stare open-mouthed at the destruction. It’s like something hit by a grenade: shards of glass everywhere, a torn windowsill, smashed fuel gauges all caved in, a gaping hole where the tachometer and voltmeter should be. The bent oil-pressure gauge has one needle sticking straight up at the ceiling.

  The knot meter is gone too, but I guess we’re doing around 8.5 knots. My hands move automatically to the wheel. Try as I might to turn it, it won’t budge. It’s like the wheel and shaft are welded into their current position. Worse, the throttle controls are lying on the control-room floor. I sink into the captain’s seat with my head in my hands.

  Sorry, owners. I forgot to include mention of this kind of damage in the note on your cabin table.

  Something stings my cheek. I look up and realize that the rain is morphing into hail. Black, anvil-shaped clouds are on the horizon and the wave action is beginning to bounce us about. We are a death machine hurtling toward whatever rocks are fated to destroy us, if we don’t capsize first during what is becoming a major storm.

  “Owen?” It’s Danillo, with the rest of the Guatemalan pack half cowering behind him. Everyone is studying me, waiting for signals, commands, assurances that they’re not on a high-speed death cruise. “How do we stop it?”

  “We don’t,” I say, bracing myself as Homeward Bound rises on a foaming crest and plunges into a deep grey trough.

  “Huh?” the chess master questions.

  “If we stop, the waves will devour us. We’re like a bicycle — better off moving in these conditions.”

  “But can we steer it?” Sebastian asks, touching the useless wheel and frowning.

  “Or slow down before we hit shore?” Gabriel asks in a tremulous voice.

  “Maybe,” I say, lost in thought. “Everyone get lifejackets on. I’m going to hunt for whatever fire extinguishers are on board. Gabriel, get something to cover this broken window. Danillo, you’re on watch for deadheads, rocks, and land. Pequeño, grab every cushion, mattress, and pillow on board and pile them on the stateroom bed.”

  “Why?” he asks, eyes large.

  “They’ll be our air bags if we crash.”

  “What about Sergio and me?” Sebastian asks, standing beside his brother.

  “I need your muscles, you two. I need every ounce of strength you’ve got.”

  “For?”

  “Turning the boat. First, we’re going to use the carbide hacksaw in the tool box to cut off the steering cable. Then I need you to go below and fetch that heavy bar you used to break out of the engine room. The one with a square knob at the top. It’s actually the boat’s emergency tiller, and you are going to be our helmsmen.”

  “Huh?”

  “This way —” I point to the left side of boat “— is port. The other side is starboard. Once we get the emergency tiller set up, you’ll position yourselves on either side of the tiller in the engine room, and I’ll yell down to you to move it one way or the other. Sergio, your name is now ‘Port Sergio’ and you’ll sit on the left side. When I call ‘port’ you’ll push the tiller away from you. Sebastian, your name is now ‘Starboard Sebastian’ and you’ll sit on the right side. When I call out ‘starboard,’ you’ll push it away from you. When Sergio pulls, Sebastian pushes, and when Sebastian pulls, Sergio pushes.”

  “We can do that,” they say with nervous coughs.

  “Good,” I say as confidently as I can. It’s our only chance. I find myself wishing Arturo was on board to consult with. That’s when I remember the sulky-looking first mate dropping something into the chart table drawer.

  He wanted me to see him do that. My shaking fingers gravitate toward the drawer. They linger just short of it. Then they pull on the knob. My cellphone battery lies just inside.

  “Yes!” I whisper. “Arturo’s on our side!”

  Sprinting to the head, I pull out my cellphone, insert the battery, and punch in numbers with shaking fingers.

  “Dad?” I say, my breath catching. “Dad, Mom! It’s me!”

  • • •

  ARTURO

  I get my pay. A nice wad of bills. I should be happy. But I am miserable and scary tired.

  “Sleep, Arturo,” Captain says in a kindly voice. “Sleep till we’re home if you like!”

  “Gracias.” I move down the companionway like a sleepwalker, clutching the handrails as the yacht tosses drunkenly.

  “Sure you are okay in these conditions?” I call up to Captain. More importantly, what will this storm do to Homeward Bound? And did Captain really have to lock the boys in besides destroying the controls? They’ll find a way out, won’t they? At least the phone battery I snuck into the drawer will allow them to call for help.

  “Archimedes is built for worse than this,” Captain asserts.

  And it is riding higher because you lightened your ballast. The same way vultures do when they want to make themselves light enough to fly away.

  “But even so,” Captain continues, “I’m taking us to the nearest bay to wait it out.”

  “Good call,” I dare to say.

  I collapse into bed. Despite my desire to escape, my throbbing head and raw stomach, the sweat soaking my sheets, and a hot ache in my cut hand, I plunge into an uneasy sleep. In my dreams, I am chased by tree-planting guards, Coast Guard officers, angry clients, ghost ships, Guatemala City police, and vomiting vultures.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  OWEN

  Balls of hail hit Homeward Bound from all sides like a barrage of bullets. The gale-force wind from the southeast is something like forty knots, yet it doesn’t slow our determined tug for a moment. It may not know where it’s going, but it’s hell-bent on getting there.

  “How much fuel do we have?” Danillo asks me.

  “Started with half tanks and this model uses about eight gallons an hour, so we’ve probably burned up only half of what we have.”

  “Sounds good. That’s enough to get us somewhere safe, right? And you’ve figured out how to stop this thing when it’s time?”

  “I have.”

  “Hungry?” Gabriel asks as he enters the pilothouse. We turn to the welcome sight and smell of two steaming plates of baked beans.

  “Don’t know about Danillo, but I’m starving,” I reply. “You’re the man, Gabriel.”

  Danillo and I scoop spoonfuls into our mouths.

  “Look, they’re not burned! Way to go,” Danillo teases.

  Gabriel smirks.

  “Thanks for getting the plastic in place on the window, too,” I say. It offers a flapping, blurred view of the frothing sea, but that’s way better than a gale in my face.

  “You’re welcome. The twins say they’re ready.”

  “Okay. Port!” I shout. I can actually hear Port Sergio grunting and groaning like an animal as he pushes the emergency tiller. Slowly, Homeward Bound begins to turn left.

  “Starboard,” I shout, testing Starboard Sebastian. Homeward Bound nudges the other direction.

  “Hurray! We can steer!” Danillo enthuses. “Now we can keep it in the middle of the channel and off rocks.”

  “Exactly! Are you willing to s
tand watch while I check on things below?”

  “Of course.”

  With one eye on the Strait along which we’re hurtling, I move about, collecting up the tug’s life ring buoys. Soon they’re weighing down my right arm like a jangle of giant bracelets.

  Each is twenty inches in diameter, weighs three pounds, and offers a minimum buoyancy of 16.5 pounds, I recite to myself. Made of solid closed-cell foam, UV resistant, with straps and reflective tape. We have the same kind on our dock, ninety dollars apiece. Each has a rope, which I busy myself attaching to the bow rail. They’re all Coast Guard regulation life rings, of course. And I can throw them thirty feet.

  Next I walk down the companionway to see how Pequeño’s doing with the air bag project in the forward stateroom. It’s all set up, and my young friend is sprawled amongst the cushions, sleeping again. He is doing okay for someone still recovering from a lousy sickness.

  It’s the first time I’ve been in the tug’s stateroom in full daylight, and I’m puzzled to spot a pillowcase hanging on the rear partition wall, or bulkhead.

  It’s the pillowcase I slept on — and it was definitely not there when I left the tug earlier this morning. More curiously, it’s hung like it’s trying to hide something. I snap the fabric off and catch my breath. I’m staring at a swing mount — like a little gate tucked into the wall, visible from the bridge just above us only when swung out into the companionway. OMG! It holds a recently installed Garmin GPS chart plotter!

  No way! How did Arturo and I miss it when we were fixing the tug? In our defence, it was dark, we were tired, and we were focused only on the engine room and bridge. We never went forward to where it was fully stowed out of the way. Gingerly, I unlatch the arm and swing it aft to view it, then remember Danillo and tuck it back where it was.

  “What’s up?” Danillo asks as I appear beside him.

  I stand over the captain’s seat. “Take a break, Danillo. I’m good.”

  “Okay.” He looks curious but doesn’t ask why I’m flushed with excitement as he goes below.