Precious Cargo

by Clyde W. Ford

  “Nope.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “You know how to handle your boat, unlike some of these chichi yachters.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Al chuckled. “Got one of them chichi yachts coming in off the strait in a little while. Guy’s steaming in from Neah Bay, couldn’t hack it. Calls me and asks for a reservation.” Al’s voice rose to falsetto, “‘I’m eighty-four feet. I need a portside tie and 100 amp power.’” He chuckled again. “Hell, I damn near asked him if he wanted valet parking. This is a first-come-first-serve marina. I’m gonna raft him up next to that big yacht over there.” He pointed to a gleaming white boat taking up a large part of the far end of the visitor’s dock. “And if he don’t like it, he can go back out onto the strait and ask the devil for a slip.”

  “Do you remember this chichi boat’s name?”

  “Hell, I oughta. Guy called me four or five times. Argued about rafting up. Boat’s name is Longhorn. Guy even spoke with a Texas drawl. Why? You know him?”

  “Heard of him,” I said.

  “What’s he, some kinda’ high muckamuck?” Al asked.

  “Boat like that, he probably thinks he is.”

  “Hell, rules say you gotta raft up. So you gotta raft up. President could come in here on a boat, he’d still have to raft up if we didn’t have space. Look, stop by my office when you’re squared away and we’ll settle up for moorage.”

  I stepped back onto the Noble Lady. Dishes covered the galley floor. I peeked into the stateroom and winced. Books had flown from the shelves, hopping over their wooden retaining strips.

  I stepped around the corner into the head. My toiletries lay on the floor. I gingerly lifted the seat. Thank god, nothing had fallen into the bowl.

  I had a lot of housework to do to get squared away. I began by scooping up books and placing them back on their shelves. A warm glow of satisfaction flushed through me. I’d made it through some treacherous water. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding a copy of Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes. The sea is a great equalizer. Regardless of size or cost, at some point all boats must seek safe harbor, even chichi yachts like Longhorn.

  I also heard Raven say, “Take one step in the direction of truth, and truth will take two steps toward you.”

  AFTER A HASTY ROUND of picking up, I climbed over the Noble Lady’s gunwale and onto the metal deck of the Juan de Fuca Queen. The Queen’s pilothouse sat far forward. Her gurdy, a huge empty metal spool, took up most of the rear deck. I walked over large metal hatches that I knew opened to cavernous fish holds below. I swung one leg, then the other, over her gunwale and dropped to the dock below.

  I stopped by Al’s office, paid for a night’s moorage, and then headed to the restaurant at the far end of the marina for some much-needed food. A tall, lanky kid with red hair and freckles sat me at a table overlooking the boats. He handed me a menu. I ordered a salmon burger, a salad, and a bottle of Northwest microbrew.

  The beer came first, and I hoisted my glass in the direction of the Noble Lady, for getting me through this afternoon on the strait. I worked through the burger and salad in no time. The red-haired kid placed my bill on the table, but as I whipped out my wallet I looked out the window to see Longhorn pass through the breakwater. I held up a finger, and when the red-haired kid came over I ordered another microbrew.

  Longhorn skulked into the marina. Al, the harbormaster, stood on the dock talking into a handheld VHF radio. He pointed to the large white motoryacht. Exhaust poured from Longhorn’s side. The water behind her churned. It looked like she came to a stop.

  Al thrust his finger in the direction of the other motoryacht. Longhorn didn’t move. I sipped the foam off my beer. Al raised the VHF radio to his mouth, then moved it a few inches away. I couldn’t hear a word he said, but his face grew redder, he gesticulated with his free arm, and every so often he jabbed the air in the direction of the other large yacht. I took a swallow of microbrew.

  Al reminded me of a major league umpire jawboning an unruly coach. He yanked the radio away from his face and stood on the dock with his arms folded. I drank some more beer and watched the standoff. Al didn’t move. Neither did Longhorn. But the wind slowly pushed her back toward the breakwater. Al pulled the radio to his face once more, barked into it, and stormed off toward his office. I could almost hear him saying to Kincaid, “Hell, you don’t wanna raft up? Then you can go back out onto the strait and ask the devil for a slip.”

  Longhorn drifted dangerously close to the breakwater rocks. Finally, she belched smoke from her exhaust and slunk forward toward the other motoryacht. A row of beefy fenders dangled from the sides of both yachts. A couple of men on the deck of Longhorn tossed heavy lines to a couple of men on the deck of White Rhino, the other boat. White Rhino’s crew tied the lines, and the exhaust stopped flowing from Longhorn.

  A man carrying a thick yellow cord climbed over Longhorn’s railing, then over White Rhino’s until he got to shore. He plugged one end of the cord into a shore power box, then scrambled back over both boats with the other end.

  I paid my bill and left the restaurant, taking the roadway above the marina back to the Noble Lady. I looked out over the boats as I walked. Windsocks and flags flew straight out. Loose halyards drummed against their masts. Taut rigging, strummed by the wind, vibrated with long, high-pitched notes like plucked guitar strings. Throughout the marina, boats danced against their mooring lines. I stopped and stared at Longhorn. How would I get aboard a boat that large, rafted to another boat even larger?

  I heard my cell phone ringing as I stepped aboard the Juan de Fuca Queen. I hurried past nets and fishing gear, swung my leg over the gunwales of both boats, and hopped onto the Noble Lady. I dashed through the cabin door. Too late. The display flashed a message that I’d missed a call. I didn’t recognize the number. I pressed Send and called it back. Maria Delarosa answered, but she didn’t say hello. I dropped into a seat at the galley table.

  “She’s gone,” Maria said. Her voice sounded weary, strained.

  “Who? Eliana?”

  “Yes, she’s gone. She and her family stayed at my house in Skagit while I made arrangements for their relocation. This morning all four of us left for Seale, then Portland. We had not been in the car long when her father said, ‘No man will want you now. It will be difficult for you to find a husband.’ In my rearview mirror, I saw the mask of shame descend over Eliana’s face. South of Seale, we stopped at a market to pick up some food for the long trip. Eliana went in with her family but she never came out. We looked for her everywhere. Even called the police.”

  “Damn.” I pounded the table.

  “She’s scared, confused, and ashamed,” Maria said.

  “I’m afraid she’ll wander back to Frank Abadi because he’s the only security she’s known since entering this country.”

  “I gave her a few hundred dollars. I’m more afraid that when the money runs out she’ll use the profession Abadi taught her and try to make it on her own on the streets of a larger city like Seale or Portland.”

  “And get eaten alive by sharks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “When I get back, I’ll come down there and look for her.”

  “Where are you now?”

  I told Maria.

  “If you want to help Eliana,” she said, “then do what you’re doing.”

  “But we went to all that trouble to extract her from Abadi,” I said.

  “Eliana must want our help first. We can’t force it on her. Seventy percent of the women I bring to the rehabilitation program in Portland don’t make it through the first month. Most find their way back to the streets.”

  “Grim business.”

  “Even grimmer if we didn’t try.” Maria hung up.

  I let my head fall into my hands. The eagle had once again eaten Prometheus’s liver. I held onto Maria’s last words as a levee against a rising tide of despair.

  I pulled up the blind in the galley to a view across the
fairway of moored sailboats bobbing in the wind. I looked toward Longhorn, but saw only her radar arm atop a white arch, and next to it the rounded dome of a satellite antenna.

  I couldn’t walk up to White Rhino and ask to board her in order to board Longhorn. Maybe I could row my dinghy up to Longhorn later tonight and board her from the waterside. If I could fit the dinghy into the tight space between the boats, I might at least be able to peer through a porthole. Though I doubted that much space existed between the two boats. Besides, my dinghy maneuvered like a stuffed pig. I could just imagine scraping the side of Longhorn or White Rhino with an oar, telegraphing the sound through the fiberglass hulls, and bringing all hands on deck to investigate.

  I let the blind drop in place, then I snapped it back quickly. Several of the sailboats had orange inflatable kayaks on their bows, nestled against the hull and tied off to lifelines. I knew those kayaks well. I’d thought about getting Kate and me a pair, but opted for the more expensive Feathercraft kayaks that we had aboard now. I tapped my open palm with the fist of my other hand.

  Lightweight, highly maneuverable, and only two feet wide. I walked out to the rear deck and shuffled through gear in the portside lazarette. I grabbed the end of a heavy tote bag and wrestled it free. I unzipped the bag and peeked inside. Aluminum tubing and a heavy outer skin with built-in flotation. Pretty simple kayaks, and a snap to assemble. I zipped the bag up and set it on the floor. I’d be out for a late paddle tonight.

  twenty-three

  After practicing the English Suite, I placed my guitar down and picked up Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes. I thumbed through the book and settled on “Voyage D: Three-year circumnavigation from the west coast of North America.” He suggested a fall departure from Washington, out the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and south to Mexico or Central America. Then leaving the following March, and crossing the Pacific to the Marquesas and Tahiti. On from there, to winter over in New Zealand.

  I read the route through several times, committing the details to memory as though Kate and I would be casting off in a few days as Sharon and I once hoped we would.

  That’s another thing I loved about Kate. When I mentioned wanting to circumnavigate the globe, she didn’t flinch. She said, “Let’s not wait until we’re too old.” I put the book down and reached for my guitar. I worked through the Prelude for the English Suite another time. Who knew? Maybe I’d get a chance to play the piece at my second wedding sometime in the future.

  I waited until after eight o’clock to leave for dinner. I threw the kayak bag over the gunwale onto the rear deck of the Queen, illuminated by bright fluorescent lights. A new pile of netting sat in front of the large roller. A motor idled loudly. Silhouetted human figures moved back and forth across the opening to a cabin door. I hoisted the kayak bag onto my shoulder and walked across the deck.

  I swung the kayak bag from my shoulder, poised to toss it onto the dock, when a large hand clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Hey buddy, whaddya think you’re doing on our boat with our gear?”

  I turned to face a beer-bellied seaman who smelled of fish. He thrust a beefy hand into my chest. I staggered back against the gunwale and dropped the kayak bag.

  “I’m rafted—”

  He thrust his hand at me again. This time I parried with a swift upward flick of my arm. I caught his forearm, pulled down, and with my other hand jammed my palm hard, up and under his shoulder. I held on and turned him until his chest butted up against the gunwale, then I cranked his arm high up his back. The man winced.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” I said. “The harbormaster had me raft up to your boat. And the gear in that bag belongs to me.”

  “Hey, Calvin,” a voice behind me called out. Then, “What the fuck? What’s going on here?”

  I spun Calvin around to face his shipmate, a taller man with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Just a simple little misunderstanding,” I said. “Calvin wondered what I was doing with your gear on your boat. I explained to him in detail that the harbormaster had me raft up to you earlier today and the gear belonged to me.”

  I let go of Calvin’s arm and he swung it from me briskly.

  “You okay, Calvin?” the other man asked.

  “Yeah,” Calvin said. Then he turned to me and shook his finger. “We got work to do, mister, just don’t get in our fucking way.”

  I picked up the kayak bag and let it fall onto the dock, then I climbed over the Queen’s gunwale and headed off to dinner at the same restaurant where I’d eaten lunch.

  I placed the kayak bag underneath a coat rack. The red-haired kid greeted me again. I stopped him from showing me to the same seat and asked for one where I could keep an eye on my bag. He put me in a booth with a view out to the harbor but situated directly across from the entrance to the main dining room.

  I ordered a crab-cake dinner and a glass of microbrew. I didn’t rush eating. On this early summer evening, it wouldn’t get dark until nearly ten. I’m not a big dessert fan, but tonight, to kill time, I had a piece of blueberry pie and a latte.

  The red-haired kid wandered over with my bill.

  “You work a long shift,” I said.

  “Gotta,” he said. “Working my way through the community college.”

  “Is there a bar nearby that’s open late?” I asked.

  “Fish Inn,” he said. “Down the road about half a mile. The fishermen hang out there.”

  I signed the credit-card slip and gave the kid a generous tip. Then I scooped up my kayak bag and slung it over my shoulder. I headed down the road to the Fish Inn.

  I PULLED OPEN THE DOOR to the Fish Inn and walked into a vestibule, where a large, red buoy stood on my right with its light flashing. The sign beneath the buoy told the story: “Red, Right, Returning . . . for a Drink.” I laughed.

  I hauled my kayak bag into the bar. I threw the bag into a wooden booth, then slid in next to it. Fishing nets covered the walls. Pictures of old trawlers and purse seiners, signed by their captains, hung on the nets. Nets also draped from the ceiling with Japanese glass balls suspended in them. An electric brass lamp dimly lit the table.

  Pool balls clacked from somewhere in the shadows of the bar. A few men sat on barstools at the counter. In front of them, lights sparkled off the rows of liquor bottles tiered against a long mirror, reminding me of sunlight sparkling from the rippled surface of the sea.

  Conversations murmured around me. A waitress headed my way with a tray of drinks. She stopped at the booth behind me and slapped glasses down on the table. Then she shuffled over to my booth.

  “Whaddya drinking?” she said.

  The woman had graying blonde hair and I put her in her late forties. I’d gotten a taste for microbrew and I thought about ordering another. But the Fish Inn didn’t look like a microbrew kind of place. I also thought about a Guinness. But it didn’t look like a Guinness place either.

  “Bud,” I said, in honor of Ben and his days before Janet.

  When the waitress came back with my beer, she set it on the table with a basket of chips smothered in melted cheese.

  “A little something on the house,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She propped an arm on my table. “My name’s Maris,” she said. “My daddy was a fisherman. He was also a devout Catholic. He named me ‘Maris’ after ‘Stella Maris,’ which means ‘star of the sea,’ another name for the Virgin Mary. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Are you on a boat?”

  “My own, a trawler in the marina.”

  “I’ve lived in the Northwest for almost fifty years and I’ve always wondered why you don’t see many African Americans fishing or owning their own boats. Probably count on my fingers all the black captains I’ve known.”

  I took a sip of beer.

  “Of course, fishing isn’t a profession I’d suggest for anyone today.”

  “Ain’t
that the truth,” Maris said.

  “Exposure. Expense. Family history.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Maris said. She started to turn away.

  “But beyond that,” I said.

  Maris turned around.

  “Beyond that, maybe the sea holds memories for African Americans. If it does, those memories aren’t good. Sea’s how we got here. Sea’s where millions of Africans lost their lives on slave ships. Slave castles in Africa used to have a door called the ‘door of no return,’ through which dead or dying Africans would be swept out to sea.”

  Maris looked away for a few moments, then she turned back to me. “Never thought about it that way,” she said. She nodded slowly. “Sea holds memories. Sounds like something my daddy used to say. ‘Darlin’, you can listen to the sea and hear the stories of all those who’ve traveled her waters.’ So can I ask how come you’re here in Port Angeles? And on your own boat, no less.”

  I thought about the trip across the strait. I took another sip of beer and said to Maris, “It got rough on the strait today, and I needed to pull into a port. Sometimes you have to travel over rough waters to reach a safe harbor.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” She chuckled. “Sounds like something else my daddy would say.”

  Suddenly, a whirlwind blew through the door.

  “Maris? Maris, where are you?” the man bellowed.

  Al, the harbormaster, yanked a barstool from the counter and dropped onto the seat. “I need a good stiff drink,” he said.

  Maris raised her hand. “Damn you, Al, I’m over here taking care of a customer.”

  Al turned toward us. He squinted, then bellowed, “You’re the guy what came in and tied up to the Queen.” He rose from the stool and sauntered over to my table.

  Maris whispered, “Don’t mind him, he’s just an old windbag. Comes in here every night to blow off steam.”

  Al took a seat across from me. “Had a little run-in with some of the boys, huh? Brady came over and asked me if you were what you said you were. I told him you were.”