Broxton stretched out on the cockpit seat and closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted from God and the universe to Dani and Maria. For the first time in his life he had two women on his mind. Their faces kept switching and changing under his eyelids until he drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
“ Okay Broxton, it’s your watch.” He felt Ramsingh’s hands gently shaking him and he opened his eyes to the stars overhead.
“ Seems like I just closed my eyes.”
“ Happens like that,” Ramsingh said.
“ Who’s steering the boat?” Broxton asked, stretching and looking at Ramsingh on the cockpit seat opposite him.
“ Uncle Dick,” Ramsingh said.
“ Who?”
“ My wife and I had a great friend, Richard McPartland. He sailed with us from Seattle to San Diego. He died shortly after, lung cancer. We carried his ashes to the South Pacific, because he always wanted to go, and spread them along the sand on a small beach on Hiva Oa Island in the Marquesas. Ever since, we always felt that Dick was still with us, so we christened our self-steering gear ‘Uncle Dick.’ Right now Dick has the boat, all you have to do is stay awake and aware. If it looks like he is going to run us into anything, wake me.”
Broxton looked back at the self-steering gear attached to the stern. “You mean that’s really steering the boat?” He saw the wheel turn to the right, then back again.
“ Sure, the wind moves the windvane, which moves the wheel. Simple and effective, and now I’m going below. Wake me in a couple of hours.”
And then Broxton was alone.
The cool night breeze closed over him, sending a delicious spiny chill over his skin. The slight goose bumps pleasured him and the tingling at the back of his neck told him that he was alive. Not living, but alive. There was a difference.
He thought about Ramsingh. He’d saved the man’s life and in turn the man had saved his. They’d fled the hotel, stolen a car, been shot at, charged into a night sea, stolen a boat and now they were sailing toward the Venezuelan mainland and the night wasn’t even over. The full moon, high in the night sky, the stars, the sound of the boat cutting through a flat sea, all conspired to fill him with awe and he found he envied Ramsingh his years at sea.
High pitched laughter shot through the dark, carried on the wind, and something shot out of the sea, startling him. Then he grinned wide as another dolphin broke the surface, spinning in the air. Broxton stood and watched as the dolphins swam along the bow wake, jumping it and playing in it, letting it carry them along.
Then the dolphin on the right shot up, twirled in the air, then slid back into the water and another took its place, playing and gliding in the bow wake for five or ten minutes. Then it, too, danced away as another took its place and Broxton realized what was happening. They were sharing, taking turns.
The playful animals kept him company throughout his watch and when he finally checked the time he found that he’d let the prime minister have an extra hour of sleep. For a second he thought about not waking him for still another hour, but then three of the dolphins flipped out of the water at the same time, then they sank back into the sea and they were gone.
He called down to Ramsingh.
“ I’m awake,” he said. “Uncle Dick take care of you okay?”
“ He did fine,” Broxton said, and again he thought of his parents. He’d never been able to accept their belief in God, but looking out at the night, inhaling the sea air, knowing how it made him feel, he had to accept that there was something, and if he couldn’t believe in God or a guiding hand, well then Uncle Dick would do fine. He mentally thanked the unknown Richard McPartland for keeping him safe on his watch.
“ Would you like some coffee?” Ramsingh asked from below.
“ Yes,” Broxton answered, and in a few minutes the pungent aroma drifted up and mingled with the dark morning air.
“ How do you drink it?”
“ Black is fine,” Broxton said.
“ Black it is.” Ramsingh said, coming on deck with two mugs of steaming coffee.
“ There’s a light up ahead,” Broxton said, accepting one of the mugs.
“ That would be Puerto Santos. It’s a small fishing village. It’s a nice place for us to hide the day away,” Ramsingh said.
“ I thought you’d want to get back to Trinidad as soon as possible.”
“ I do, but we’re sailing a stolen boat. That’s piracy.”
“ But we had good cause, and you’re the Prime Minister of Trinidad.”
“ Do you think that matters to the owner?”
“ I hadn’t thought about that,” Broxton said.
“ And think about this,” Ramsingh said. “It probably matters less to the Venezuelan Coast Guard. They’re likely to shoot first and ask questions later, just like in your American old west. Remember, I was in Venezuela because their coast guard shot up a Trinidadian fishing boat.”
“ Couldn’t we just call for help on the radio and explain ourselves?”
“ We could, but I’d prefer to get to the bottom of this with as little publicity as possible. I’m not too popular with the press as it is. The last thing I want is to give them any more ammunition to use against me.”
“ Someone tried to kill you. They should be outraged.”
“ They’d probably criticize his failure,” Ramsingh said.
“ It’s that bad?”
“ A lot of jobs were lost when I started shutting down the money laundering operations.”
“ Honest jobs?” Broxton asked.
“ Sure, Billie’s Burgers closed down. Six fast food restaurants, twenty jobs each. Coastal Furniture closed down. Two stores, over a hundred jobs each. Four retail stores in the West Mall, six in the Long Circular Mall, all closed down. Two new car dealerships, a bank with four branches and over a hundred jobs. A little here, a little there.”
“ But they were laundering drug money and calling it profit.”
“ Tell it to the man who lost his job. Tell it to his wife and kids. Tell it to his neighbors. Tell it to the newspapers.”
“ I see what you mean. That could put a dent in your popularity.”
“ Enough that someone might want me dead?”
“ We told you we think it’s drug related,” Broxton said.
“ You must be right, because we’re not talking lone assassin, are we?”
“ No,” Broxton said, “we’re not.”
“ I never thought it would come to this,” Ramsingh said.
“ Who profits most from your death?”
“ Nobody, really.”
“ Think about it,” Broxton said.
“ I have been. You know I have been.”
“ Who becomes prime minister?”
“ The party would caucus and choose someone.”
“ Who?”
“ Why the most popular man in the party, the most popular man in Trinidad, the old cricket star.”
“ Who’s that?” Broxton asked.
“ George Chandee, the attorney general.”
“ Why am I not surprised? No, don’t say anything,” Broxton said, holding up his hand. “I’m going below and get some sleep. Just think about it.” And Broxton slipped through the companionway and in a few seconds he was asleep. Ramsingh woke him after they were securely anchored in a secluded bay and they had a breakfast of cheese and tomato sandwiches. Not what Broxton would have chosen, but they had to make due with what was available. Then he went back to sleep and slept straight through the day.
They spent the next night motoring eastward along Venezuela’s north coast toward Trinidad. They stood two hour watches and Broxton found himself enjoying the night solitude. Ramsingh had the boat on autopilot, and like the previous night when the self-steering gear handled the boat under sail, the only thing Broxton had to do was watch to make sure they didn’t hit anything.
The sun came up during his watch, so he was the first to see it. “Big boat, behind us,” he said, reaching for the binoculars. “It’s a navel vessel of some kind. They’ve got guns.”