“I don’t hear anything but the wind and the waves,” Amanda said. “I hurt too much to hear anything else.”
“Listen for the waves,” Sandy insisted. “They’re different.”
Amanda listened intently. They were surrounded in the rolling sea by a fog so thick they’d tried to lick its moisture off their arms. Sandy was right, the sound was different. She thought she heard breakers. “Oh, God,” she yelled, “we’re near shore!”
“Or rocks,” Grace said, quickly dampening their sudden enthusiasm. They lowered the main sail and attempted to coast toward the sounds, which were becoming louder. If they were headed toward rocks, they didn’t want to crash into them. They might be close to shore, or the rocks might be part of a reef scores of miles away from land. Either way, they had to get through them unscathed. They grabbed poles to use to push the cat away from the still unseen rocks.
Sandy went to the bow of the cat and tried to peer through the fog. “I still can’t see a thing, but we’re definitely near land. I can almost smell it.” She giggled almost hysterically. “God, I hope it’s California and not the Galapagos, or Easter Island.”
An unseen force suddenly lifted the cat and threw it forward, causing them to fall backward, again held tight by their lifelines. They felt the hull grate on sand and another wave pushed it onto land. “Get out,” Amanda yelled. “Get out and pull the boat farther onto the shore.”
With the remnants of their strength, they managed to drag it a few feet farther onto the sand where they collapsed, gasping and choking from their exertions. The catamaran wouldn’t run away, at least not for a while. Maybe they’d find a little water, or some food. Maybe they’d find out just where the hell they were. Of course, it would help if they could see through the fog.
They stood, but it was difficult to walk. The steady ground was so different from the plunging of the cat that they fell down like a trio of drunks. They lay there, helpless and exhausted until a breeze stroked them and blew away the fog. The gods had not mocked them. They had somehow landed between a number of large rocks, any one of which could have smashed the catamaran into pieces and sent them into the ocean to drown. A few feet away, two men with rifles stared at them incredulously.
“What the hell are you people doing out in that damn thing?” the older of the two said. They were wearing armbands. “You idiots are gonna catch hell for violating curfew.”
Curfew? Amanda began to laugh, which angered the man. “Don’t piss me off, young lady. Where’d you come from? Which yacht club let you go out in violation of the law, and how long ago did it happen?” His eyes widened and his tone changed as he took in their ragged and gaunt condition. “Good lord, what is going on here? You people look like refugees.”
Sandy managed to stand up and smile through chapped, torn lips. “We came from Oahu.”
The man blinked, and then smiled. “You tellin’ me you little girls sailed that piece of crap catamaran all the way from Hawaii?”
“That’s right,” Amanda said, and accepted his helping arm. The men sat them back down on the beach and let them drink from their canteens. The water was warm, brackish, and delicious. With each swallow they felt life returning.
Amanda smiled. “Now, where the heck are we, and please don’t tell me we’ve been blown back to Honolulu.”
“Not a chance,” laughed the second man as he guided them toward a truck that was parked on the hard ground above the beach. “You’re just about ten miles south of San Francisco.”
Wilhelm Braun drove his rickety old truck slowly and carefully down the dirt road toward the dilapidated shack occupied by U.S. Customs outside the small, dull town of Campo, California.
The wretched wooden building did little more than keep two American customs agents out of the sun. Before reaching the post, Braun left his truck behind a hill that overlooked the border and was out of sight of the Americans. He’d crawled over the hill and reconnoitered the area just before dawn, confirming that only two men were in it. He wanted to get there before any others showed up to relieve or reinforce them. Two he thought he could handle, but any more would be just too much. Another concern was that the army was building a base somewhere nearby and he didn’t want to run into any military personnel.
The main crossing point from Mexico to California was to the west at Tijuana, and he hoped that this spot was far enough away to have little traffic or witnesses. He’d passed an empty Mexican customs post a half mile back. It looked like no one had been in it for quite some time. There were no cars in view behind him and the road coming from California was likewise devoid of traffic. Perfect.
Braun drove on and stopped the truck a few feet from the wooden bar that separated the two countries. He stepped out, feeling only a little foolish wearing the cheap but colorful Mexican serape over his shoulders. It was baggy and hid the pistol in his belt.
The two customs agents approached with their hands on their holstered revolvers, but relaxed visibly when they saw that Braun was neither Mexican nor Japanese, just a slightly overweight middle-aged white man in a ridiculous outfit. They relaxed even more when he showed them identification that showed he was an American citizen named William Brown.
“Watcha doin’, mister?” the older of the two asked as he looked over the truck.
Braun grinned in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. He wanted to get through without incident if he could possibly do it.
“What I’ve got here, gentlemen, is a load of cheap Mexican souvenirs that I intend to sell to the troops in San Diego. This is my first trip by truck. In the past, I’ve sent them by ship, but that’s not a good idea anymore thanks to the fucking Japs. So I’m driving this stinking relic filled with my inventory.”
The guards laughed, but the leader of the two had a question. “We heard a truck an hour or so ago and then it stopped. Was that you, and, if so, why did you stop?”
Braun rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Because I had dinner in a little place south of here and I’ve been sick ever since then. I stopped for a while to let things pass, literally, and thought it was a good idea to make sure I had control over myself and my bowels before continuing on.”
The second guard nodded solemnly. “Damn greaser food’ll kill you. I’ve been in your position a few times.” He laughed again. “And that position is squatting and crapping your brains out. Goddamned Montezuma’s Revenge is gonna kill us all some day.”
The leader shook his head. “We can’t spend all day out here. Who knows, maybe somebody else’ll come along and we’ll have a traffic jam. Mind if we see what’s in your truck?”
“Of course not,” Braun said hopefully.
The two guards walked to the back of the truck. A tarp hid what was inside. The contents could stand a cursory inspection, but something told Braun that the two bored guards might pay a little more attention if only to kill the time. He briefly wondered if he shouldn’t have chosen the busier Tijuana route, but it was far too late for second thoughts.
“I hope you don’t mind if I stand back a ways,” he said, “my stomach’s still grumbling and I’m not fit company.”
“Not a problem,” they said in unison and began to undo the tarp. The leader stuck his head in and began to poke around. “What the hell is this?”
Braun already had the pistol gripped tightly in both his hands and fired before they could turn. At fifteen feet, two bullets struck each of them in the back and they crumpled to the ground. He checked and they were still breathing, although probably dying. He wouldn’t take any chances. He rolled them on their stomachs and shot them once each in the back of the skull.
Braun looked around and saw nothing. Still nobody coming down the road in either direction. Killing the two men was a shame, but also his duty. Nor had the shots aroused any interest from the few distant houses scattered in the area. Live and let live seemed to be the rule in this area.