One bad thing, p.4
One Bad Thing, page 4
“I remember.”
“Well, we’d overextended ourselves to buy it. Put in just about everything we had. And you know how much work the place needed before we could begin to rent the units out … but Rob just didn’t have it in him to oversee the job. He said we should sell the Four Winds as is and take the loss. We could cash out all the mutual funds, including the one we had set aside for Sam’s education. With that, we could get a boat and go for at least a year, maybe two. That alone, we’d keep Sam alive in our hearts. That we’d find a way to live again ourselves.”
“Sound’s like he was trying.”
“He was. But somewhere along the way, he stopped. He’s just moving like a shark through water, looking for the oxygen to keep alive, no more.”
“And that’s where the fights come in?”
Caroline nodded. “Me poking and prodding. Trying to make him fight for me. Blame me, if he has to. But come back to life. Even this …” She shook her head, then looked away.
“What?”
“It’s so childish, I’m embarrassed to put words to it.”
Mariel did come over then and put her arm around Caroline. “You expected him to fly home the day after you left and make it all right?”
“Yes.” Caroline’s eyes were no longer dry and she rubbed at her cheeks. “Yes, I guess I did.”
“That’s not crazy,” Mariel said. “That’s you still loving him. And he’ll still show up, honey. Maybe not as fast as you hoped. It might take the whole voyage back for him to figure what he’s losing. That Sam’s gone, but you’re not. It might just take the whole voyage.”
CHAPTER 5
THE NEXT TIME, MCKENNA WAS AWAKE. HE WAS BELOW AT THE NAV station jotting a few brief comments into the log: Good speed, clear skies. Six knots or better most of the day.
The Wanderer hit something.
There was a sickening thud in the starboard bow quarter, and then something scraped and then punched the outside of the boat, making the hull flex right before McKenna’s eyes.
“Shit!” he heard Cain yell.
McKenna struggled to his feet. Whatever it was hit again. As he steadied himself, there was a muffled metallic sound. The Wanderer seemed hooked by the stern, her forward momentum stalled. The headsail began to pull the bow down and the stern lifted.
McKenna climbed into the cockpit to see Cain leaning over the stern, apparently oblivious to the fact that the Wanderer was rounding to leeward and heading toward a flying jibe. His small sketch pad lay open on the cushion beside him, the pages fluttering in the breeze.
McKenna released the jenny sheet, clearing as much of the line as he could, so the big sail could stream before the boat instead of fill. The mainsail boom began to rise, ready to jibe over … and with another jarring clunk under the stern, the Wanderer surged free.
Cain spun the wheel, heading the boat up, and then both of them immediately turned back to look in the wake. Cain said, “Goddamn it, there it is.”
McKenna shaded his eyes. It was a log, about the size of a small telephone pole. Most likely driftwood from a cargo ship.
“How’s the helm?”
Cain sawed the wheel back and forth quickly. The Wanderer headed up and down. “She’s responding fine. Rudder must be okay.”
McKenna hurried back down into the cabin and to the bow. He tore up the floorboards—there was just a little water, nothing unusual. He shoved aside Cain’s bedding and pulled up the cover over the waste tank. There were about six inches on each side of the plastic holding tank where he would have access to the inside of the bow. Too dark to see, but he couldn’t hear the splash of water. He hurried back to the main cabin for a flashlight.
Cain set Mortimer and joined McKenna. “How’re we doing?”
“Go back up,” McKenna said, curtly. “There may be more where that came from.”
“Let me help you.” Cain started for the bow.
McKenna shoved past him. “Damn it, do what I told you.” McKenna crawled back on top of the bunk and flashed the light down the waste tank hatch. He looked all around the big plastic tank.
He gave his first sigh of relief. No water to starboard. None to port, or at the apex of the bow. He looked straight down at the edges of the tank.
There was something there, a tight bundle of cloth. It gave him a moment’s pause, but then he passed it off as unimportant.
He moved back to the main cabin and pulled up the rest of the floorboards.
Fine. Not even enough water to activate the pump. He pulled out his own bedding, and he looked at the hull over the water tanks on the starboard side.
From the cabinway, Cain said, “How’s it look, Skipper?”
“So far so good. What do you see ahead?”
Cain said, “We’re fine here.”
“Well, I think we got lucky. Very, very lucky.”
“I was watching, but I missed it.”
“You sure your head wasn’t down over that sketch pad?”
Cain was silent for a moment.
McKenna looked up at him.
“Listen,” McKenna said. “I know it gets boring, and your sketching helps pass the time. But when you’re on lookout, that’s just what you’ve got to be doing. You know that.”
“Absolutely,” Cain said. “And I was.”
McKenna didn’t believe him, but he told himself to let it go, that Cain should’ve learned his lesson even if he wasn’t willing to own up to it. McKenna pulled the pins on the cabinway stairs and flashed his light to the starboard and port of the engine.
Nothing still.
He felt the tension in his back began to ease.
He climbed up into the cockpit and Cain said, “Frigging ships dump that kind of hazard. Should be a way to sue them. We could’ve been screwed here.”
McKenna’s temper flared. “That’s why we keep watches.”
Cain waved that away. “Be cool. We’re all right.”
McKenna opened the engine hatch and looked down on the compartment from the top.
Maybe Cain was right.
Then McKenna thought about the way the Wanderer had lurched and lifted at the last moment. That soft metallic ring. The clunking sound.
He spun the wheel back and forth himself. It felt fine.
Then he reached over and pulled the gearshift to neutral. The drive-shaft rotated for less than a full turn, and then stopped abruptly. There was a small click against the hull. A slow trickle of water came in from the stuffing box around the drive shaft. Nothing the pump couldn’t keep up with, but greater than normal leakage.
“Damn it,” McKenna said.
“What?” Cain said.
“I think the shaft’s bent. Or the prop. Or both. I won’t know until I take a look. Drop the sails while I get ready.”
McKenna went below and put on a bathing suit. When he came back, he grabbed the mask and fins from the cockpit locker. He took a line, cleated the bitter end, and put a loop around his wrist.
He put his hand over the mask and stepped over the side. The water was still cold, and he wished for a wetsuit. He blew water from the snorkel, took a deep breath, and then flipped upside down to make his way to the rudder. It was unnerving, being under the boat. It rose and fell above him like a small whale. He felt aware of the oppressive weight above and naked to whatever was below. Sharks sometimes followed boats.
McKenna groaned aloud. He could see that the shaft was bent so badly that the twisted blade of the prop was pressed against the hull.
The end of the floating log must have nailed the prop squarely.
McKenna kicked away from the boat and surfaced. He swam the length of the boat and saw where the bottom paint had been scraped by the log, but there didn’t seem to be any other real damage. After going up for air, he jackknifed back down to the rudder to look for cracks around the driveshaft.
None, thank God.
“I could use some good news here,” Cain said as McKenna climbed up the swim ladder.
McKenna told him.
Cain looked at him incredulously, as if it were his fault. “So no engine?”
“We can run it in neutral to charge the batteries, keep the power and refrigeration. But no propulsion.”
“Damn it,” Cain said. Both of them looked at the wind gauge. A steady fifteen knots.
McKenna said, “We just hope this keeps up.”
CHAPTER 6
OF COURSE, IT DIDN’T.
Later, McKenna would think how differently things might have worked out if the wind hadn’t died.
But the day after the collision, McKenna awoke to a dead calm. The sea was a mirror reflecting a white, hazy sky. The Wanderer sat like a toy boat, the only movement was the purposeless bang of the slatting sails.
McKenna put them both to work, making small repairs. Keeping them busy. Along the way, McKenna took the time to really look and listen to his new mate.
And to realize that he was a liar.
“Take a sight?” McKenna offered Cain the sextant.
They were closing the second day with virtually no wind. Sweltering heat. The sun was low on the clear horizon. Already stars were faintly visible in the blue sky.
Cain shook his head, irritably. “You’ve got the GPS. We know where we are.”
“Match it,” McKenna said. Not sure why he was pushing. “See how close you can get. Then we’ll get back to the trim.”
Cain shook his head. “I don’t need that antique to tell me we’re a day north of the Bahamas, two east from the Florida coast. If we were moving. But right now, we’re nowhere. Fucking nowhere.”
It dawned on McKenna that Cain didn’t know how to use it. McKenna was somewhat surprised, but not entirely. Many good sailors never learned how to use a sextant.
Cain slopped on more oil with the paint brush.
McKenna almost said something when he saw it splash up against the cabin, but let it go. The heat was shortening his own temper.
He’d taken a series of sightings with his sextant: the sun, the moon, and two faintly visible stars, Diphda and Denab. He decided to shut up and just take the last one, Capella. The sextant was a beautiful piece, made of brass. It normally felt good in his hands, but as he raised it to his eye, it felt slippery in the sweat of his palms. He made the sighting and immediately made note of the time.
Caroline had given him the sextant for his thirtieth birthday, her way of saying that the voyage was still ahead of them, even if the big boat and time to do it was just a dream for the future.
As the sun settled behind the horizon, McKenna laid the instrument into its case, and looked back at Cain. “I know this calm is getting on both our nerves—”
“Look,” Cain said. “The other boats I’ve sailed on have had all the electronics they needed. You’ve got a GPS, why screw around with that antique?”
“Batteries die,” McKenna said. He gestured to the sextant. “It’s a skill worth having. I’ll teach you if you want.”
“Teach your coolie some tricks?”
“What?” He stared at the young man. Not for the first time in the past few days, McKenna thought about that little bundle near the holding tank.
Why hadn’t Cain just put it at the bottom of his lazarette? And it clearly hadn’t been there when the customs agent was searching the boat: he would have insisted it be opened.
McKenna said, “You think I’m working you too hard?”
Cain looked as if he was going to answer him, but then just waved his hand dismissively. “Drop it.”
McKenna’s own temper flared. The arrogance of this kid was coming out now. And while he was reasonably competent, his level of experience didn’t match his supposed credentials. McKenna thought of Cain looking back at the wake while the Wanderer was hooked on that log, ready to jibe.
McKenna said, “Tell me about those other boats. Tell me about those three transatlantics.”
Cain paused. His eyes met McKenna’s and then the younger man’s face hardened.
Cain said, “I’ve got a better idea.” He stood slowly.
McKenna hesitated.
Without a word, Cain took the few steps toward McKenna and retrieved the sextant from the box. He held it up to his eye, sighting toward the moon. In a lazy drawl, he said, “Ah, you’re right. I should’ve looked through this before. By my calculations … we’ve gone too far to turn back.” He looked directly at McKenna and opened his hands. “Ooops.”
The sextant banged against the hull, and then sank instantly, the brass winking briefly underwater before it was gone.
“You son of a bitch!” McKenna stepped forward with his fists balled.
“New game plan, Skipper.” Cain stepped into McKenna slightly.
McKenna refused to budge.
Cain got right up against his face, still wearing that smile. “This is the situation.” Cain put his hand against McKenna’s chest and lightly shoved him. “You’re in charge of the boat. I’m in charge of me.”
McKenna shoved him back.
The blood rushed to Cain’s face. “We get started this far out, it’s going to be bad news for one of us. Maybe both.”
McKenna forced himself to hold back. Rage, fresh on tap, was right there. He could feel it in his arms and chest, feel the blood singing through his veins.
“OK Skipper,” Cain said, backing away. He laughed, put his hands out. “We can do this, but you know what a broken arm, a concussion, or even a cut getting infected will mean out here. Look, you need a hand changing a sail, taking a watch, I’m your guy. But do your own scut work.”
“What’s your real name?” McKenna said. In his mind’s eye, he could see the little bundle. He almost said, And what have you brought on my boat?
But he didn’t.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cain said. “You just think of me as a passenger. And keep out of my way.”
Mercifully, the wind came up again early the next day. For the remainder of the week, they kept on the move. Sometimes the wind held at a steady ten knots, sometimes a squall would gust it up to the mid-thirties. Either way, they continued on in a new sort of routine.
McKenna would give his orders, and Cain, by and large, would obey them. He would even turn to some of the routine maintenance if the mood seemed to strike him.
But mostly, he lay in his bunk and sketched. Or lay back against the bulkhead under the dodger. Many of these little sketches were of the subjects around them, the flying fish that landed on deck one morning, McKenna’s hands on the wheel. But other times he purposefully would work up a portrait of McKenna, which he then might briefly reveal before letting it flutter astern. These little pieces of artwork were genuinely painful for McKenna: far from mere caricatures, they were amazingly well-executed pieces that somehow managed to both reveal and mock McKenna’s anger and self-restraint.
It infuriated McKenna to share this last sail, most likely his last voyage on the Wanderer, with this kid.
In his sleep, McKenna dreamed about R. J. sitting at the kitchen table, that white blond hair hanging in his eyes. Smirking at God knows what. The way his eyes twinkled slightly whenever Sam walked into the room. The delight in tweaking McKenna himself, as much as happiness at seeing Sam.
At least that’s the way McKenna dreamed it.
Caroline at the door, telling him it was all right. “Let her make her mistakes,” Caroline said, as their daughter got into the car. “You can’t control everything.”
It ate McKenna that most likely Cain had sucked him into some smuggling scam. As master of the boat, McKenna was responsible for what happened on it.
McKenna wasn’t too worried about customs. He and Cain made it through the BVI check, and going into Boston could be handled with a phone call. But the Coast Guard was another matter. They were charged with finding drug smugglers on the high seas and private sailboats were a prime target.
It all came down to what was in that bag.
Heroin? Cocaine? A gun? Or perhaps nothing but dirty underwear?
Mentally, McKenna quietly went round and round the topic. He could tell Cain was watching him, especially when he went near the cabin in the bow.
McKenna wanted to know.
But he also wanted to finish the voyage without escalating the situation into a fight with Cain. McKenna thought about what his Uncle Sean would’ve done. His leather-hard uncle, with his thin, sunburned face, bright blue eyes, and his unshakable sense of right and wrong. Probably would’ve walked directly into Cain’s cabin and opened the bundle. Fought Cain, if necessary.
“Tackle your problems straight on, Robby,” was one of Uncle Sean’s truisms. “Before they tackle you.”
McKenna loved his uncle, but the man’s humorless, often simplistic view of the world didn’t allow for shades of gray.
McKenna’s head told him he might not win a fight with Cain. And even if he did, what would he do with him? Tie him up, spoon-feed him? Basically keep him a hostage until they reached port?
It wasn’t lost on McKenna that he had begun to associate Tom Cain with R. J. Mitchell. He was afraid of what he would do if he found out Cain was running drugs. He could feel what it would be like, could imagine the synapses firing. A push becoming a shove. One blow turning to another, and then, in the confined space, in the heat, in his own rage … a knife, the winch handle …
God knows, people could be so fragile. One punch and a shove, and Sam was dead.
Objectively, McKenna knew it was one of the luckiest moments of his life that Caroline had been there to stop him when he started off for R. J.’s house.
Objectively.
Just as now, his head told him where his own temper might lead him if he and Cain really got down to it.
McKenna resolved finally to let the little bundle alone. Act like it wasn’t there. Make port in Charleston to repair the shaft and tell Cain to get off his boat.
It seemed the safest course.
CHAPTER 7
THEY WERE LESS THAN HALF A DAY AWAY FROM CHARLESTON WHEN McKenna saw the Coast Guard cutter bearing down on them.
