As he exited the machinery space into the quarters, he heard a strange noise outside. Concerned, he raced up the central stairwell, two steps at a time, and burst onto the bridge to join Blake at the forward windows. The harbor was jammed with boats of all descriptions, stretching under the Bridge of the Americas to the sea. Luther Hurd moved slowly seaward through a narrow lane marked with temporary buoys and patrolled by police boats, tugs bow and stern to see her safely through, and a fireboat preceded her, throwing arcs of water skyward. The air rang with handheld air horns and whistles and sirens and bells, the less well equipped beating pots with large spoons. Flags were everywhere, most Panamanian, but also a liberal sprinkling of US flags among them. People were cheering and waving signs saying Thank You and Muchas Gracias.
“Christ,” Milam said as they moved toward the Bridge of the Americas, where a banner hung reading Muchas Gracias, Luther Hurd, and in smaller letters below De parte de los niños de Panamá. The bridge walkway shimmered with flags in thousands of small hands.
“Who’s that on the bridge?” Milam managed as Blake raised his binoculars.
“It’s… it’s kids,” Blake said, “a lot of ‘em.”
As they moved under the span, McCluskey shot them a knowing smile, and a large net hidden by the banner released thousands of tropical flowers and handwritten well-wishes to cascade on the ship, covering Luther Hurd like a float in the Carnival parade. Milam lost it.
“Damned allergies,” he growled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Christ, these fucking petunias are gonna clog the ventilation intakes. I gotta go reverse the fans.” He fled to the sanctuary of his engine room as Blake and Arnett smiled at his retreating back.
Later under tow, Milam stood with Blake on the bridge wing as the coast receded.
“What do you figure, Jim,” Blake asked, “three months?”
Milam shrugged. “Should take two, but it’ll probably be four, depending on the priority they give us. And you know everybody has a warm and fuzzy feeling now, but as soon as I start insisting we tear into things and somebody has to pay, the honeymoon’s over.” He sighed theatrically. “Everybody wants to save a buck, but when it goes tits up at sea, I’m the guy stuck with it. I see nothing but arguments, long hours, and midnight inspections ahead.”
Blake couldn’t contain his laughter. “Who’re you bullshitting? You love it.”
Milam failed miserably in an attempt to look indignant. “Well anyway, we should start our second ‘maiden voyage’ in four months.”
“Maybe this time I can get her to the load port,” Blake said.
Milam chuckled and leaned back against the wind dodger as the battered bow of Luther Hurd plowed slowly through the swell behind the tug. Blake watched scattered flowers blow along her dirty deck and drift down her rust-streaked sides, but somehow, he didn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed.
Thank You
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Fair Winds and Following Seas,
R.E. (Bob) McDermott