Somehow, I equated that captain’s dereliction of duty with John’s, and it made me mad. The two men got mixed in my mind until John’s missing his watch became a fuckup with life-or-death consequences.
When John came on deck at lunchtime, I told him what I thought.
“John, do you know that Bob had to stand your watch last night?”
John looked at me, suddenly angry. “What about it?”
“What about it? That means he’s up eight hours. It means he’s likely to fall asleep on watch and we’d never know if we were going to hit a freighter, go off course, or something. That’s what.”
John glared—probably thinking, you should never hire friends. I turned and went below, sat on my bunk, and got out the Air Almanac and started reading.
John came down, staggering. He’d already put down a couple of six-packs. He was madder than I’d ever seen him before. He leaned up close to my face and said, “Look, Mason. I’m the captain here. You’re the dinger. Don’t you ever call me down again.” He glared. “You do, and I’ll set you straight. Get it?”
I’m not the fighting type. At least not physically—especially not when it comes to getting into it with a guy that can tie me in knots. I’d need a gun to make it even. I looked back at John’s face, watched the anger pouring out of him. Part of the anger was from his drinking. I knew about that from my own life as a boozer. Part of it was just embarrassment. I nodded. “Okay, John. I get it.” I looked down at my book and saw him turn and climb back up on deck.
I couldn’t read what I was looking at. I was mad, getting really jumpy. I needed to know the team knew what the fuck they were doing. I didn’t want to trust my life to fucking amateurs. I simmered for a while. I considered jumping ship at Saint Thomas.
Two days later, the wind came back. We saw a huge black wall in the sky approaching us all day. On the radio, the Coast Guard talked about a huge storm, and this was it. We had hours to prepare. As the breeze picked up, we shut down the engine and rigged the sails for the approaching tempest.
When it hit, we were ready. The Namaste heeled way over. Huge waves crashed over us. But we had been through this drill before. We pitched, wallowed, creaked, and groaned, but the Namaste was up to the task and forged ahead. I was beginning to love this boat. She was stalwart.
“What does Namaste mean, anyway?” I asked while we huddled under the dodger sharing a can of cold Del Monte beef stew. Rosalinda was back on the job, holding our course to within a degree or two.
“I haven’t got the slightest idea,” John said. He was friendly, the argument forgotten. He had not missed a watch since.
“Maybe it means Pot Smugglers,’” Ireland said. “Coast Guard probably sold this boat to Ray.” We laughed.
“I’d like to get a boat like this someday,” I said.
“You like this sailing shit, eh?” John said.
“Yeah. Patience and I could fit it out with a couple of desks. Go where we wanted. Write.”
“Not me,” Ireland said. “When I get my money, I’m going to buy some land. Build a little house. The only sailing I want to do is on a windsurfer. On a lake.”
The next day, the storm was past and the wind was strong and steady. The Namaste cruised at five knots. I came up on deck and saw John sitting in the cockpit, naked. A plastic bucket by his side, he was lathering himself with Joy. Lemon Joy is the only detergent that makes suds in seawater, so I’m told. The sight made me cringe. I’ve always had this phobia about letting salt water dry on my skin. I used to spend half my life playing in the surf as a kid in Delray Beach, but we had public showers at the beach to rinse off the salt water. If I didn’t rinse
off, the drying salt water would tighten my skin and leave a crust of salt that clung to my clothes when I got dressed and made me itch. I scratched the back of my neck. I was risking my life and my freedom on this trip, but getting sticky was my big fear at the moment.
“Hey, Bob,” John said as he stood up. “I don’t mean to get personal, but you haven’t bathed since we left. That swim was it. What’s that? Four, five days ago?” He wrinkled his nose. I watched him hold the bucket over his head and rinse himself off with seawater. He tossed the empty bucket overboard and pulled it back in with the rope tied to the handle and repeated the process.
“Yeah, I know. I can’t even stand myself,” I said.
So when John finished, I stripped off my shorts, got a bucket of water, and gave myself a bath in the cockpit. I rinsed, went below, and dried off with a towel. Then I waited for the stickiness to set in. I put on clean jeans and a T-shirt and went on deck. When I put my hand in one of the pockets, I felt a piece of paper. A note from Patience: “I love you, the Phantom Phantom.” I saw she’d drawn a little-girl face with a big smile. I smiled, picturing my phantom. Fifteen minutes later I didn’t feel my skin clinging to my clothes. A half hour later, I’d forgotten my revulsion. I felt fresh and clean. Maybe it was the Lemon Joy.
We had two fishing lines out, hooked to lures we’d made from frayed nylon rope. The ends of the lines were tied to short boards we used for reels. The boards were anchored, jammed against the winches, but the lines were held on to the safety lines with clothespins so that if we got a strike, a clothespin would let the line go and we’d know we had something on. The clothespins let go now and then. Usually it was seaweed. I saw a clothespin snap off the railing and grabbed a board. I yelled that we had something and wound the line onto the board, like a kid with a kite. Two hundred feet behind us, a giant tuna leapt out of the water. Really huge: this… big. His skin shimmered like a rainbow in the sun. He leapt clear of the water, shuddering with fury, trying to shake the hook. I held on to the board, not winding, just trying to keep hold of it. John and Ireland were running around looking for a gaff hook. When I felt a slack, I wound on more line. John grabbed my camera and took pictures of the fight. About a half hour later, we had a goddamn big tuna whipping around at the stern of the boat and under the boat, swimming in small circles, tangling the line on the prop. We couldn’t get him in, so we waited until he got tired and stopped struggling. When we dragged him on board, we saw he was about four feet long, weighed maybe forty pounds. He flopped around on deck while I tried to stab a knife into his brain. Thunk. Thunk. Quiver. Dead. Lots of blood.
“Wow!” Ireland said. “We eaty fishy tonight, no?”
“No shit!” John said.
I felt sad watching the tuna’s rainbow skin fade as it died. I said a thank-you to his spirit, something I’d picked up reading about Indians. This was something special here, a life. I was taking a life to nourish my own. I forget that when I order tuna at a restaurant.
Unfortunately, the sea picked up while I cleaned the fish. I’d chopped him into thick steaks—damn big steaks that’d cost you twenty bucks apiece on shore—put the steaks in a pan, basted them with lemon juice and butter, and put them in the stove to broil. The bottom of the gimbaled stove leaned into the aisle because we were sailing with the rail underwater. The Namaste pitched and wallowed as the storm picked up. It was a real challenge cooking the steaks, but just the smell of them broiling made it worth the effort. By the time I’d finished, though, both Ireland and John were feeling the sea and didn’t want to eat.
I sat under the dodger, on my watch, and ate the best tuna I’d ever tasted. John and Ireland stayed below, weathering their stomachs.
CHAPTER 15
We sighted land at dusk of the fifteenth day. Before it got dark, we could make out El Yunque, a thirty-five-hundred-foot mountain on the west end of Puerto Rico, and across from it, the fifteen-hundred-foot peak of Crown Mountain, which is what Saint Thomas is—a mountain sticking out of the sea. Land lights flickered through the sea air and I wanted to be ashore. I wanted a hot shower. I wanted Patience.