Following Espalda’s report, Carabina opened the discussion to new business.
Novicio reported that economists estimated revenue from illegal drug exportation had exceeded Colombia’s entire GDP. He noted that most of the country’s legitimate businesses were owned by the grandees present in that room.
Worldwide mistrust of drug-exporting countries made for time-consuming, destructive searches of ships and planes in ports of call, negatively affecting their companies’ bottom lines. Their personal fortunes were at stake.
Caballo, one of the hardliners, insisted it was time for drastic action. He outlined a plan whereby those shipping lines, known to turn a blind eye to smuggling activities, would be boarded and “chastened” at sea. Private vessels that were suspect would meet with similar fates. Some airliners would have to be sacrificed also as a loud warning that these illegal activities will not be tolerated. After a group discussion of the details, Carabina called for a show of hands. The plans were approved.
Now, it fell to Granadero, the second in command, to address the heaviest issue of the day: narco-corruption at the middle and highest levels of government.
With downcast eyes, he named people with close personal ties to almost everyone around the enormous table in the wine cellar. Motions were made, votes taken. And despite their personal allegiances, the majority sanctioned far-reaching courses of action.
The symbolic Sword of Damocles was passed around the group until it reached Granadero who held it to his heart and pledged to issue the warnings.
Carabina adjourned the meeting and abruptly left the cellar.
The next morning the Knights of New Granada, with heavy hearts and solemn faces, rode out of the high valley, heading back to their private clubs, mansions and boardrooms. But their thoughts would never travel far from the wine cellar in the formidable Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta
μ CHAPTER FOURTEEN μ
At dawn, beginning his fourth day at sea, Vincent braced himself in the cockpit as Woodwind skied down the face of a mountainous wave, then miraculously lifted her proud bow and climbed toward the next peak. Nearing the crest, Vincent released his death-grip on the pedestal guard, wiped his binocular lenses and scanned the horizon. But his efforts at penetrating the low-lying storm clouds were futile; the source of the persistent blip on his radar screen remained hidden behind an inky squall line to the east.
Woodwind began her plunge into the next murky trough. Instinctively, Vincent grabbed for a hand-hold to ride out the descent.
Fortunately, Woodwind was built for heavy weather. In fact, the boat was faring much better than her skipper. The constant vigilance had exhausted Vincent’s body and eroded his spirit. He had fully expected this single-handed sailboat race from Galveston to Vera Cruz, Mexico to be an endurance test, but he had not anticipated almost total sleep deprivation along the way.
His state-of-the-art autopilot and radar collision alarm, set at a six nautical-mile range, should have ensured hours of carefree slumber. But high winds, rough seas and the resulting roll and pitch of the boat limited him to cat naps, wrecking his plan for a two-hour-on, two-hour-off watch schedule. To make things worse—much worse—over the past twenty-four hours, the radar alarm had sounded every time he drifted off to sleep. Vincent had spent the night dodging waves that washed across the cockpit and agonizing over the possibility of a collision at sea. How had this race—his lifelong dream—turned into a nightmare of soaking-wet fatigue in so few days?
The race had begun with a promising golden sunrise and a fifteen-knot breeze from the southeast that stirred up gentle four-foot swells in the Gulf of Mexico. Vincent had experienced a heightened sense of oneness with nature when he crossed the starting line under full sail. Inspired by shouts from Diane and other well-wishers from BRI, he had stood at the helm chanting a stanza from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—his favorite poem—in a resonant, theatrical voice: “‘The sun came up upon the left/out of the sea came he! …’”
But his euphoria was short-lived. An unstable low pressure system formed up in the Gulf of Mexico the afternoon of that first day, and weather conditions had continued to deteriorate ever since.
Last night, after the collision alarm had sounded for the fifth or sixth time, Vincent checked the radar and found it to be in perfect working order, confirming his fear. The persistent alarm, along with the ever-present blip on the radar screen meant there was a boat within six miles of him—shrouded in the cloud bank to the east. The annoying vessel seemed to be sailing parallel with him as he diverged away from the Texas coastline.
Vincent regretted his decision to sail west of the rhumb line, along the twelve-fathom curve. Maybe the going was easier out in deeper water. The weather could be better farther offshore. And he probably wouldn’t have worrisome traffic to contend with out there.
He considered altering course to reduce the possibility of a collision. But the wind was blowing out of the south-southeast; he’d have to tack over to an easterly heading, thereby losing valuable time and distance to his race competitors. Maybe he should try communicating with the other boat once more before making any decisions.
Vincent turned on his hand-held VHF radio, tuned to channel sixteen and adjusted the squelch button until the static cleared. He knew most commercial ships and pleasure craft in the Gulf of Mexico monitored that channel. “This is the sailing vessel, Woodwind, asking for a radio check. Come back please.” He hoped to raise a response from anyone within hearing distance, particularly from the boat out there in the mist.
After several tries with no reply, Vincent clicked from channel to channel repeating his request. He became more and more irritated as each message went unanswered. Then, shouting a frustrated oath at the radio, he set it back on channel sixteen, and jammed it into a pocket in his yellow foul-weather suit.
He took some deep breaths to calm himself. Anger wasn’t going to solve anything. The nearby boat might have a malfunctioning radio, he reasoned. And in all probability, it was one of the sixty-seven boats in his racing fleet. If only he could see the other boat to be sure.
The radar alarm had been silent for about fifteen minutes now.
He patted the teak cockpit combing. “What should we do next, Ol’ Girl?” he said aloud. Then he laughed. He had been talking to the boat for the past two days, but this was the first time he asked for advice.
Vincent checked his watch and groaned. It was nearly nine a.m., time to go below and report in to the race committee. In these weather conditions, it would take all his strength to make those few steps.
Vincent planned his move from the helm to the cabin carefully. Even though he had reduced his sail power to a storm jib and a double-reefed main two days earlier, Woodwind heeled over at a forty-degree angle as she charged up and down the angry waves. He knew the sea would exploit even a nanosecond of vulnerability.
He checked the safety harness around his chest, then held on with both hands as he pulled himself forward to the companionway hatch. Stinging saltwater washed over the bow and lashed at his face. It burned his eyes, poured off his beard and found its way inside his rain gear. Though pleasantly warm at first, the sea water turned to cold, soggy discomfort in seconds.