“I can’t say what they would do. You’d be a refugee in Spain — a Russian refugee in the European union, whatever. They’d probably put you in a camp somewhere, a jail. You probably would get sent back. But it would buy you some time…”
“I don’t need this time, it will be jail! I can’t believe you would advise me this. I didn’t do anything illegal, so I shouldn’t be in jail! No way! I won’t be with you in this case. If I become a refugee here, they will separate us! This, you should know! I would rather try my luck in the Atlantic.”
“I can’t make you do this, Anna.”
“You do not. I make this choice for myself. And the choice is pretty easy, actually. I have only three things now, you, me and this boat that keeps us alive and brings us closer to Canada and our future home. If I leave the boat and stay here, I’ll lose everything.”
I took a huge breath. It smelled of salt and brimstone. She was right, she absolutely nailed it in her brutally honest, perhaps Russian, way. I knew I couldn’t leave her, not after everything we’d been through, not with Anna refusing to give up. “If we sit here they’re going to get us.”
“Then, what are we waiting for? The ocean is right there!”
I knew how much Tom opposed what we were about to do, but goddamn it, burning precious fuel waiting for the next disaster wasn’t my style. I eased the throttle forward, taking a last look at the shore. The engine increased in speed beneath our feet, and khaki water churned behind the transom.
THIRTY-TWO
Anna took helm through the obstacle course of ships between us and the Strait of Gibraltar. It gave me a chance to dive below deck and fire an email off to Tom.
Going for the Atlantic. We’re not giving up without a fight. Waiting north of that runway, as instructed didn’t make sense. Made us sitting ducks! Will try for Azores, Canary, or Cape Verdi Isles. Have hand-held GPS and mag compass. Still have fuel — some. Will head for open sea. Please advise of the closest safe landing for repairs, charts and provisions for remainder of crossing.
The transceiver found a satellite and the message was sent.
I popped above deck for a look around. Anna in control — no problem. Gavin next:
Hey, Bro., Bit of a screw-up in Gibraltar. We’re sailing into the Atlantic for real now… I know, you’re sick of looking after my place but I’m in a real bind here, so please indulge me… by-the-way, better get the furnace guy in for a service before winter sets in… and keep thermostat at 10C max; I’m bleeding $$$ on this run but come hell or high water we’re gonna make it! That GPS you sent on a whim… no joke, it’s saving our asses right now! I owe you one! Later…
And… yes! Sent!
The rock of Gibraltar faded behind us as the Atlantic opened up ahead. A cold west wind funneled through the Strait following the current caused by evaporation exceeding freshwater inflow into the Mediterranean. Low tide in the Atlantic meant that, at least for the time being, the current against us wasn’t that strong.
It was probably entirely psychological, but as I emerged from below deck the wind felt heavier, wetter, colder. I was convinced it had a dangerous edge to it. “What do you think, sailor? There’s enough wind now, and who knows when we’ll get more fuel.”
I steered while Anna competently raised and opened the sails with practiced ease. The huge Dacron wings were nothing for her now. Considering how it had been when we started out in Marmaris, I was impressed with her transition. I yanked the fuel shutoff, killing the engine The sails caught and bent wind and the relative tranquility was startling after more than a week of the constant diesel drone. “Let’s hope we can get that engine started when we need it.” I said, swinging Shadow onto a tack across the shipping lanes.
Anna flashed me a look. “I know you wouldn’t kill that engine if you thought for a second you couldn’t find a way to start it up again, so don’t give me that guff.” She smiled. It was nice to see that after all the tension. “I know you, there’ll be a lot of moaning and complaining, I’m sure, but you’ll find a way to put some electricity into a battery to crank it over. There just isn’t any other option.”
“You’re probably right and the first chance I get, I’ll work on it.”
I retreated below, leaving Anna at the helm. The message light on the satellite modem was still dark. Nothing from Tom or Gavin. I poured a couple fingers of single malt, wedged myself into my bunk and slept like the dead for the next few hours.
Somewhat rested, but still experiencing the enforced relaxation of the whiskey, I used a very large scale planning chart of the Mediterranean to approximate the furthest west points of Africa. Best I could do was program the guessed at coordinates into the hand-held GPS. It was way less than adequate, but the goal was to get to deep water without hitting a landmass. A reassessment of the situation could be made safely away from land and its inhabitants. Sure could have used some input from Tom, but… nothing yet.
Ocean swells were a brand-new experience — a giant maniacal toddler at one end of a seesaw, endlessly rising and falling, sometimes plunging, often lurching. With nightfall came thick fog, clinging to everything like a damp gray towel. Alone, on watch at 3:00 am, submarine angels flashed halos of light around the yacht. The sea swirling in the wake glowed like moonlight through frosted windows. The bioluminescent lightshow was mesmerizing and I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open. Jerking awake in a panic, I used the beam from my mini Mag light to check the depth sounder’s readout. I was sure I saw numbers on its LCD display dance through ten meters, to eight, to six, to one and then nothing.
“We’ve run aground!” I hollered, bracing for an impact that didn’t come.
Another light shone up from below. Anna scrambled for the cockpit, blinding me with her flashlight beam. “What! What is happening?”
“Sorry, it’s okay. I don’t know what happened. I thought the depth sounder showed…” I shook my head, aware of the boat moving normally under me. “Ah, right. No power, no instruments and no depth sounder. What an idiot! I must have been dreaming.” Slowly my pulse returned to normal.
“Asleep on watch , tsk tsk tsk.” Anna chided playfully. “You need the sleep more than I do. Go below, I don’t feel like sleeping any more.” The last thing I saw, heading down the companionway, was Anna’s flashlight beam, diffused by her sleeve. She didn’t see me smiling back at her in the darkness while she ran through a mental checklist, taking control of the yacht. I was amazed by how much she’d changed and how far she’d come.
I woke around noon and then sucked the last of the fresh water from the tank beneath the floor. It was still foggy. We’d sailed west through the night, close hauled into a light breeze. When the hand-held GPS found enough satellites, it showed us at least a hundred nautical miles from land. As for ships, Anna reported seeing nothing but the light show in the water. Same thing I’d been watching just before that embarrassing depth sounder dream incident. With a steaming cup of coffee — the last of our fresh water — I took the helm.
Anna seemed awfully chipper for a woman coming off a long night watch. Freed from the wheel, she grabbed a soaking face cloth from the deck and wrung it out over the side.
“That better be seawater.” I grumbled.
“No, it’s fresh. I’m not about to wash my face in seawater if I don’t have to.”
“Holy kapoosta, you’re using fresh water for washing?”
“Holy kapoosta yourself. Watch this.” She ran the face cloth along the bottom inside of the mainsail. The condensation collecting there got it good and wet. She then ostentatiously dabbed at her face.