Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  I see the captain and Arturo look my way. We’re close enough now to see the whites of each other’s eyes.

  My hand squeezes the life ring like I’m intent on denting it. But my mind is measuring, measuring. Like a warplane bomber pilot who must drop his load with precision timing.

  The helicopter dips down, all seven thousand pounds of it, an angry bird descending in a cacophony of whipping steel blades.

  We’re forty feet from the yacht. Estimated moment of impact seconds away.

  The captain shifts his Glock to aim at me; shivers run down my spine. Then he raises it toward the unarmed Coast Guard Bell 212 Twin Huey.

  My wrist flicks back and I let her rip, the ring toss throw of my life. Wham! The captain doesn’t see it coming, but Arturo does. It knocks the gun out of the older man’s hand, making him loosen his grip on the first mate. As the Glock slides across the deck, Arturo’s formerly white boating shoes connect with it to send it full speed into the drink. A split second later, Arturo scoops up the life ring and leaps.

  Pull, pull, pull. I’m staggering down the starboard side of Homeward Bound, my hands wrapped to the point of cramping around the rope that runs between the bow, where it’s tied, to the life ring Arturo grips in the water. Using the railing as leverage, I run my hands down the rope to drag him toward the stern, Gregor adding his own muscle and ensuring that I don’t get pulled overboard. He knows what could happen if we don’t get Arturo to safety.

  Pull, pull, pull. Together, Gregor and I haul Arturo up to the swim platform. With a final, superhuman yank, we land him. Then all three of us cling to each other and to the nearest railings.

  As the rain lashes, the helicopter hovers, the boys downstairs brace, and the captain dives into Archimedes’s salon, the two boats slam.

  With an otherworldly screech, Homeward Bound’s bow rides up and over Archimedes’s beam, taking out the stanchions — the upright posts supporting the railings — on the yacht’s port side. The tug rises halfway over the gunnels, shudders, then slowly slides back, pulling the stainless-steel lifelines with it. Next comes a high-pitched grating sound as the yacht’s torn railings snag on Homeward Bound’s bow-mounted anchor.

  And then, as gently as it pounced, the tug separates and rafts up alongside, directed by the tangled, buckled lines holding the two boats together.

  Only one person disappears overboard, never to speak to me again: my brother. His departure leaves a hole in my chest the size of the Pacific Ocean. But I know in my wrung-out heart that it is time. Time to set him free. Time to accept he’s gone. Time to live life without him.

  • • •

  ARTURO

  Seconds tick by as I lie face down on the tug’s aft platform, soaked and shaking. One hand maintains a death grip on the life ring; the other clings to the wire cable beside me. I am waiting for the tug to buck again — and this time maybe slide me back into the water. Is the crash over yet?

  “Arturo, Arturo, are you okay?” It is Owen, his face pale, his hands locked around my wrists.

  “Yes,” I say, erupting into shivers as the electricity in my veins drains away. I allow him to pull me into the tug’s salon and wrap a blanket around me. “I-I boomerang to you. Wh-where’s Captain?”

  “We collided and he  —”

  “A cutter! A Coast Guard cutter!” Shouts come from deeper inside the tug. I turn my head to see Danillo, Gabriel, Pequeño, and the twins stampede up the companionway and point out to the Strait. “A Coast Guard ship! Coming for us!”

  “I knew they’d come!” Owen says with a victor’s smile as I tighten into a ball and reach for my whistle — then relax and drop it.

  “Thanks for coming back —” I start, but they are not listening to me. One by one, Owen leading, they sprint to the railings and jump over onto Archimedes. Even Pequeño, though he moves more slowly. Why not wait on board the tug till the Coast Guard arrives — they’re too impulsive, these boys. Always have been.

  “Careful!” I shout, struggling up and lumbering to the deck. I can see Captain’s boots sticking out of Archimedes’s salon on the aft deck, unmoving. I stand and steady myself on the tug’s railing, clutching my blanket around me.

  The boys surround the still body of the big man.

  “Careful!” I shout again, not trusting my boss to be truly knocked out. I climb over the railing myself and place one hand on my pocketknife. But by the time I reach the group, Danillo has opened the engine room hatch, dropped down, and flipped the dog cage over so that its gate is at the top. Above him, the twins each grip the man’s underarms and lower him, with help from Owen, Gabriel, and Pequeño, like they’re slipping a king salmon into the hold.

  “Mierda! ” Captain growls as he comes to en route. Pequeño flips the gate shut and Danillo snaps the lock on.

  Captain raises his head with difficulty and glowers at me.

  “Sorry, Captain,” I explain, “but we keep a tight ship.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  OWEN

  The sound of a pistol shot rivets our attention.

  “Are they going to shoot us?” Pequeño asks, posed to dive into his old hiding place on Archimedes.

  “It’s not a gun,” I explain. “It’s a warning shot across our bow because we’re not up there answering Channel 16.”

  “What’s Channel 16?” Gabriel asks.

  “I’ll explain later. We need to file out on deck, slowly.” I look at Arturo. “They won’t hurt you,” I try to reassure him. “They’re not even armed.”

  “Canadian Coast Guard orders you to stand down for boarding,” booms a stern but familiar voice through a bullhorn.

  I beam, but the smile fades fast.

  “Everyone out on deck, hands in the air,” the voice continues.

  Danillo leads, followed by the twins, Gabriel, and Pequeño. Head bowed, I fall into place behind Arturo.

  “Okay, alert crew to board to starboard,” Officer Olsen directs his team. “Steady as she goes. Now hard to port and come alongside.”

  My pulse is pounding in my ears, mosh-pit hard. It’s all too familiar, and yet this time I’m on the wrong side of what is decidedly not a simulated exercise.

  “Is this all of you? Anyone else on board?” the bullhorn demands.

  “Yes, Officer Olsen, the coyote — the captain — is restrained below deck,” I say.

  There’s a pause.

  “Owen?” Officer Olsen shouts, lowering his bullhorn. “Owen Steward!”

  I nod at him, my face hot under the gaze of the boys. “By the way, we got robbed by the grey-bearded pirate and his gang. His beard is fake.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Soon the Coast Guard team has swarmed the boat, handcuffed the captain, and checked every nook and cranny. Every nook and cranny means not a boy would have been left unfound. Pretty clued in, these Coast Guard dudes and dudettes.

  We’re still standing in line on the deck, shivering in the wind-driven icy rain.

  Officer Olsen walks up and down, staring at us. I can’t meet his eyes.

  “Captain,” he addresses his prize prisoner, “which of the boys are your paying customers, and which are your helpers?”

  The captain says nothing, just glares at the Coast Guard intruders.

  “Boys, who in this lineup worked with your captain? We know he didn’t operate this vessel on his own all the way up from Guatemala.”

  No one steps forward. No one says a thing.

  “Owen! Can you identify who was in cahoots with the captain?” Officer Olsen demands. “We can’t have criminals trying to sneak in as refugee claimants.” He lifts a pair of handcuffs to emphasize his point. “Then you can go rest up on our cutter,” he adds.

  My eyes are glued to the deck. My lips are zipped. Arturo has gone stiff beside me. There’s no way I’m betraying him, no matter how much trouble that causes me.

  “I am Captain’s helper,” Arturo says, stepping forward.

  “Don’t cuff him!” I shout as Offi
cer Olsen leans forward to grab Arturo’s arms. “He turned against the captain!

  He saved us! We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him!”

  Officer Olsen hesitates.

  “It’s true,” Danillo says.

  “Arturo deserves to stay in Canada,” Gabriel insists.

  Officer Olsen takes his time looking from one to the other of us. He narrows his eyes as we move to encircle Arturo.

  “He’s our friend,” Sebastian shouts as Sergio nods.

  I catch the hint of a smile pass over the first mate’s face. He slowly removes a pocket knife from his jeans and hands it over to Officer Olsen.

  The captain makes a rude noise and spits.

  Finally, my Coast Guard friend stuffs the cuffs back in his pocket. “Okay, crew, take them below decks on our vessel and get them blankets and water. “Owen,” he adds gently, putting his hands on my shoulders and steering me away, “you’ve obviously been through an ordeal. I need to radio Search and Rescue and you need to contact your parents —”

  “Did that already, same time as I called the Coast Guard.”

  “Oh. Okay, good. We’ll question you when you’re ready, but you need rest, and from the looks of you, some food. You need to get out of those wet clothes and away from here. Follow me to our galley and I’ll fix you some coffee —”

  “Is his favourite drink,” Arturo speaks up, smiling at me. “He like cream and sugar. And if I stay in Canada,” he continues, directing his words at me, “I make you gazillion eggs over easy. And help you with boat repairs.”

  “We can catch fish off your dock, right? I’ll grill them,” Gabriel speaks up.

  “I want to take that water taxi to school,” Pequeño says.

  “You and I will dominate the school chess team,” Danillo teases.

  “And Sergio and I will star on the wrestling team,” Sebastian announces.

  My chest loosens a little; a half smile replaces the threat of tears. “That’s for sure,” I tell everyone.

  Turning away from a puzzled-looking Officer Olsen, I say, “So much for being a loner on a boring island.”

  “Boring?” Arturo objects. “Paradise, idiota.”

  My smile broadens as Officer Olsen leads me away. “Thanks for letting me join your school cruise. It has been a gazillion kinds of interesting, and we’ll stay in touch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  OWEN

  They’re sitting on our dock, shoes trailing in the June water, looking forty-nine kinds of anxious, when the Coast Guard cutter rounds the point into Steward Bay. I’m at the helm of the sixty-five-foot vessel. Yes, I’m captain and top dog, complete with the navy-and-white Coast Guard cap and double-breasted jacket with gold buttons and stripes on the cuffs. Never mind that Officer Olsen’s uniform hangs on me a little, or that his hands hover over mine on the wheel.

  “Hi, Mom and Dad,” I call through the bullhorn.

  They leap up, smiling, the flood of relief and pride as easy to read as a calm sea on a blue-sky day. They also look like they’ve aged several years over the past two weeks.

  “Thanks, Officer Olsen,” I say, and swallow hard before shaking his hand, shedding his uniform, and sauntering down the gangplank. Maybe I’m too old for it, but I throw myself right into my parents’ waiting arms.

  “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,” I breathe.

  “You’re home,” Mom whispers, hugging me tight as tears roll down her face.

  “That’s all that matters,” Dad adds.

  We wave to the crew as they back the cutter out of the marina like it’s a simple ketch. No scrapes or hesitation. Damn, they’re good. But it’s okay that I may never be one of them now.

  “I’ve got coffee on,” Mom says. “Sandwiches waiting upstairs. Some reporters are coming around later, like we mentioned on the phone.”

  We’ve talked several times since that first call from Homeward Bound, of course. But I’m not having any of the celebrity business yet.

  “Mom, Dad, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s about Gregor and me.”

  The joy drains from their faces, but I have to do this now, before I lose my nerve.

  “Can’t it wait, dear? You’ve only just arrived.”

  “It can wait one hundred and twenty steps,” I allow. “I’ll tell you over lunch.”

  “Okay,” Dad says warily.

  I nearly slip on a mossy step. And the loose one creaks. I smile. Lots of chores for a marina maintenance slave while he’s grounded forever. Along with catching up on schoolwork.

  “I would have left you a note,” I say, “but when I snuck aboard, I never imagined —”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Dad says. “I mean, what were the chances? I remember the time you and Gregor stowed away —”

  Oops. Mom’s tears are flowing full force now. And we’ve arrived at the top of the steps.

  We file in and sit down at the kitchen table. Smells good in here, like fresh-baked muffins. I help myself to coffee and place a sandwich on my plate.

  “There’s something Gregor made me promise never to tell you,” I begin, “and that’s a promise I can’t keep anymore.”

  Mom’s hand moves toward Dad’s, who covers it with his.

  “After Gregor went to jail, I got pulled into his gang.”

  “We suspected that,” Dad says. “It’s why we moved.”

  “I was with the gang the night of the storm. We stole boats.”

  There’s a loud sigh. They study the kitchen table. I’m too choked up to carry on for a minute.

  “He came out in another boat to rescue me and to get me away from them. He’d been trying to talk me into quitting the gang for a while.”

  Dad nods and squeezes Mom’s hand.

  “Gregor stood in the bow with a life buoy on a rope, shouting at me to jump. He tossed it in. But when I jumped —”

  Mom is trembling.

  “Go on, son,” Dad says, his voice tense.

  “He fell in just as the guys deliberately tried to ram his boat. Their boat hit his head.”

  Mom is weeping, Dad is holding her, and I cup my face in my hands. I wait a few minutes to continue.

  “I got the life ring around him, hauled him onto the boat, and called the Coast Guard as the gang took off in their stolen boat. The boat we had just stolen,” I clarify. “Coast Guard didn’t get there before Gregor … His last words were to never tell you.”

  Dad is nodding slowly, his eyes wet. Mom has buried her head in his chest.

  “So you never reported these guys,” Dad says. “And you told us it was just Gregor and you — an accident.”

  “Yes.” My voice comes out like a squeak. “He didn’t want me to get a police record. Otherwise I could never join the Coast Guard.”

  “But you’re telling us now,” Mom says, voice shaky.

  “And I told Officer Olsen. Yesterday,” I say soberly, meeting her eyes.

  She reaches out to hold my hand. “You’ve done the right thing, Owen. We’ll be able to press charges against the gang. You know we always suspected, right?”

  “But it’s my fault, Mom. My fault he died.” My chest shudders and heaves like an earthquake that has been waiting to release pressure for a century.

  “That’s not true, son, and you know it,” Dad says.

  “We forgive you, Owen.”

  I lower my head and breathe deeply. “I don’t deserve it, but thank you.”

  “Now tell us everything about your kidnapping — I mean, your stowaway adventure.”

  • • •

  An hour later, taking a breather before reporters descend on us, I pedal my bike around the island. Past the bird blind, the bakery, and the general store. I wave at islanders who grin and shake their heads at me. I bike all the way to the bull field.

  “Hey, Ruffian.” I stop and lean on my handlebars. “Know what? I used to think you were the most dangerous thing on this island. Guess what? You’ve been demoted.”

  He chomps on grass a
nd eyes me like he hasn’t missed me a bit. He doesn’t even raise his head when an unkindness of ravens gets into a flap with an eagle overhead.

  “But here’s the good news. Our island isn’t boring after all. Turns out it’s chill. It’s awesome big time. It’s paradise. And you and I are lucky enough to live here.”

  SAVING LIVES AT SEA

  Many deaths by drowning (including those of young children) result from vessels being overcrowded with refugees attempting to reach safe shores. Unfortunately, organizations capable of rescuing them, like the Coast Guard, have limited resources. To help prevent tragedies, the Migrant Offshore Aid Station (MOAS), based in Malta, operates boats to offer food, water, and medicine to migrants in need. They also escort at-risk vessels to shore so their occupants can apply for asylum. At the time of this writing, MOAS has saved more than twelve thousand lives. Pam Withers encourages readers to fundraise for this organization. A percentage of profits from this novel will be donated to MOAS. For information, visit www.moas.eu.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Section 6.1c, Moorage Law Covenants: You must provide without compensation temporary accommodation to any vessel that is disabled or that seeks shelter in weather conditions that would render it unseaworthy.

  This paragraph appeared in the real estate contract involving our cabin’s dock. Reading it was all it took to launch this story.

  Above all, I’m indebted to editor extraordinaire Janice Weaver. Also to copy editor Catharine Chen, proofreader Kathryn Bassett, assistant project editor Jenny McWha, and all the team at Dundurn Press. Very special thanks to my patient mariner consultants, Mark Evans, Allen Slade, and Dennise Dombroski. And to Joseph and Laurie Payne, who allowed me to tour their Hans Christian Independence 45 while it moored in Horton Bay on Mayne Island (the inspiration for Horton Island) in British Columbia. For a plate of fresh-baked cookies and an autographed book that I delivered by kayak, they even allowed me to photograph their engine room, closets, and other potential hiding places.