Humanaty's Blight

by LeRoy Clary

  The boat turned aside and slowed as I watched through the rifle scope again. The men were arguing. One kept pointing at us. If they came closer, he’d be my first target. Eventually, they turned away. Maybe they had thought the boat abandoned. A natural mistake.

  Peering around, I immediately noticed two more things: we had drifted very close to the mainland during the night, and Sue was at my side, her shotgun held in front of her ready to defend our boat. I gave her a curt nod and handed her my rifle. She carried both inside.

  The drift concerned me. We’d floated most of the way back to Everett and could have washed up on rocks and the boat sank because I didn’t know how to operate the anchor. That pointed the way to a hundred other critical things I needed to know.

  “Bill, you need to come in here,” Sue called from the cabin.

  I took a quick check around to make sure we were alone, started the engine and put it in forward, at a slow speed. A loop of nylon rope kept the wheel in one location. I went down the five steps into a cabin worthy of a five-star hotel.

  The floors were bare wood, the cabinets nicer than those in my home, the table was surrounded by a padded seat that would sit six. To my left was the little desk with the electronics mounted on the wall or on small shelves. Sue stood beside a stove; a coffee pot held high. “Look at this. We fell into a bowl of chocolate.”

  She opened cupboard doors. Behind them were cans of beans, dehydrated meals-packs, sealed containers of nuts, and food of all sorts that could last for months or years. She opened a refrigerator door, and although it only held a few condiments, it was obviously cold—and working. Sue turned to the sink and filled the coffee pot from the tap. There was tap-water! She had a can of ground coffee at her elbow.

  There were four doors. Two on one side, one on the other, and at the front of the cabin was an open one. Inside it was a bed made to fit the outline of the V-shape of the front of the boat. Only the broken window ruined what was otherwise a perfect place to live. I stood flatfooted, as amazed as her. We had indeed fallen into a bowl of chocolate.

  She said with a wave of her arm at a closed door, “There’s clothes, jackets, and other things like that in there. I don’t know what all else besides a bed and a built-in dresser. The second door is a bathroom, shower and all.” Her arm moved to indicate the last door. “That one was another bedroom, I think. Now it’s got shelves piled full of other stuff. Someone made it into a storeroom with repair things for the boat.”

  We needed to inventory what was on the boat. I went back to the wheel and increased the speed of the engine. The boat moved ahead—slowly. I glanced at the fuel meter and found the needle had already moved a tiny bit. Pushing a boat the size of the one we’d stolen required power, which equated to more fuel consumption.

  The boat had reached the southern tip of Whidbey Island, which was not that far because my imagination told me I could still see the yacht harbor in Everett behind us. I cut the engine and took a long, good look around. Whidbey Island was located in the middle of Puget Sound, averaging in size maybe five miles wide and fifty miles north to south, if I remembered the map we’d studied correctly.

  On the shore of the island a hundred yards away, a man and a black dog walked along the pebbled beach and tossed us a friendly wave as if all was right in the world. I waved back but watched for a rifle to appear. It was that sort of world now.

  The dog leaped, chased sticks and returned them. Watching let me escape the depression for a few precious moments. It had been building for days—actually since meeting Sue and taking on the responsibility of caring for another human. I wondered if she felt the same about taking care of me.

  As if knowing I thought of her, she called, “Hey, can I tell you a few things?” Her head protruded from the little door to the cabin, a smile from ear to ear.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  She climbed the ladder with the exaggerated swaying of her hips, an insolent and knowing attitude if I had ever seen one. Her playful mood was infectious.

  Sue came to stand directly behind, watching me as I studied the cockpit, a name I’d learned from the book on basic sailing I’d found on a little shelf inside. The seaman vocabulary confused me, as well as the information. The difference between the speed of the boat and ground speed still eluded me. It sounded reasonable they were the same. If so, why differentiate between them?

  The book title said it was for beginners and had explained that a boat could go three miles per hour against a tide going five miles per hour and actually be going backward two miles an hour. That concept made me doubt a sailboat was a good choice because virtually everything that I knew, or thought I knew, failed to help. Of course, it measured the distance in knots instead of miles, without explaining what the difference in them was. I guess a later chapter would explain that, but it seemed the whole thing would be easier if sailors used normal language.

  Sue still wore the impish grin when I turned to face her. She tilted her head and said, “I know something.”

  Already tired of her teasing, I asked, “What?”

  She pointed to a panel behind the stainless-steel wheel, set amongst dials, meters, gauges, and indicators I knew nothing about. The panel had a logo emblazoned on it. “I vaguely recognize the name and logo.”

  “So?”

  “Open it,” she giggled as if a toy snake was going to leap out at me.

  I thumbed the latch and the cover swung back. A magnet held it open. Inside was a computer screen about a foot square. She reached past me and pushed the button at the bottom, obviously the power. The screen came on.

  It was a blue background, a row of options down the left side, but on the left edge of the blue background was a green and brown jagged line. It was the coastline, and there was a little boat on the blue. A trail behind the icon showed where the boat had been. It was a maritime version of a GPS and the little boat was us.

  Within a minute, we’d enlarged the view, shrank it again, determined the depth of the water we were in, and where nearby hazards were. “This is amazing,” I muttered.

  “How does it still work when everything else is dead? The Internet, I mean.” Her question gave me only a moment of pause.

  My mind went to work. “The onboard computer memory stores the maps and other information, the satellites in space give it the coordinates for where we are. The system will work as long as we provide power and there are satellites whizzing around the planet.”

  “How do we do that? Provide power, I mean.”

  I shrugged. “I assume when the engine runs, it also charges the batteries, and the solar panels on the roof do, too. One of us needs to research that.”

  “Not me,” she said. “I’m too busy with important things. I found rolls of duct tape and a sheet of heavy plastic that will cover that window someone broke while stealing the boat. It needs to be done before it rains. And . . . “she paused for effect. “I found five fishing poles and lures. I’m going to catch us a fish right after we have a cup of coffee.”

  “Do you know how to catch them?” I’d never fished in my life but hoped she had.

  “Dangle the right bait and reel them in when they take it.”

  It sounded like she didn’t know how to fish either. Her ideas might work, and besides, it would give us something other than canned food if it worked. More than that, catching a fish of any sort would indicate we were working our way to self-sufficiency.

  She changed the subject as she asked with an impish grin, “Did you know there are instructions on how to use the toilet printed on a little plastic piece on the wall?”

  I didn’t tell her that I’d taken a leak over the side a couple of times. So, no, I hadn’t known, but now I did. Sort of. You do your business in the toilet and flush. That’s how I was taught and wondered why it would be different on a boat. Obviously, there was more to it, but somehow asking about it would make me feel weak or stupid—or both. I’d just read the instructions the next time I needed to go. I acted like I al
ready knew and gave her a vague shrug as an answer.

  That was also a weakness in me. Admitting I didn’t know something when others did, irked me. In trying to bluff my way past a problem, others often saw right through me.

  “What are you going to do now?” Sue asked, undeterred in her good mood.

  “Learn to sail.”

  She looked impressed. “Really?”

  I held up my basic sailing book with the large print and lots of pictures, which drew a hoot of laughter from her. It only had about a hundred pages and the cover looked like it was intended for middle-school kids or younger. I looked back to the island shore where the man on the beach with his dog had been. They were gone. I wished we could change places so I could escape my embarrassment.

  She bounced below as I made another circle-check of the water around the boat. We didn’t need another boat sneaking up on us like the ski boat earlier, especially if it was a quiet one. To my surprise, a boat moved along the coast of the mainland far away, the white wake clear in the distance. It was too far off to make out what kind, but it had no sails raised.

  A glance at the GPS indicated we had lost a little ground if that’s the right term. We were being pushed backward by a gentle wind from directly ahead and maybe the tide as well. The nearest land was a half-mile away and we were drifting away from it.

  With my little book on sailing in hand, I started at the left-rear side of the boat and worked my way forward, slowly inspecting everything along the way and reading what the book said about it. The hull, I found, was gleaming white with dark blue trim. The lack of rust and general appearance made me believe it was a newer boat, no more than a few years old, but that was an impression, not a fact. None of the chrome had corrosion. There was little rust. Every fitting was expensive.

  My satisfaction with the choice of boats to steal grew as I moved. At the bow, a hatch drew my attention. Inside were buttons covered in rubber for protection against moisture. The labels were Up, down, stop, and manual. The compartment held the anchor, chain, and rope. An electric motor controlled it for as long as we had power. The need for power seemed to dictate everything on the boat.

  The manual setting told me there were ways around having power, but they were secondary. The boat was built to consume power, from the GPS to the anchor and all in between. I was going to have to learn about power, as well as sailing. I was not sure which took on the most importance.

  The kayaks were in my way time and again. I climbed to the side of the cabin and lifted them until they were stacked and tied in place over the roof of the cabin where they wouldn’t shield the solar cells too much. We had far more room in the steering area the book called the cockpit.

  I completely circled the outside of the boat twice, inspecting it all, and leaning far out over the transom to learn that painted on the back was the name of the boat. It was called Truant. That meant absentee, to me. Skipping school. Like a rebel, in my mind. I sort of liked it.

  After naming and exploring the parts of the sailboat, the book had an interesting beginning chapter. It was intended for smaller boats than the Truant, but I assumed the same principles applied. One line caught my attention: All a sailboat requires is a jib, page fifty-three. It went on to explain about mail sails and stuff I didn’t understand, but that one sentence kept drawing me back. If I knew what a jib was, that would be all I needed, if the title of the chapter was correct.

  I found page fifty-three. The illustration showed the triangular sail at the front of the boat. The text explained that for short trips, a boat might only use the triangle sail, suggesting that all the other information was extraneous. If a sailor wished to go in almost any direction and was not in a hurry, the single triangular sail called a jib would do the trick. It gave detailed instructions that didn’t exactly match the Truant, or I misunderstood what they were trying to say. Some of the ropes mentioned in the book used to let the jib-sail out were missing on the Truant.

  Still thinking about it, and the missing ropes, I went below and found Sue fast at work using the duct tape to secure the panel she’d cut to fit the opening where I’d broken the window. She had swept up the broken glass and said, “Hey, I found more watertight containers with food in the storeroom. Ever hear of pancake powder where you just add water to make them?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m going to try some as soon as I get this done. Get ready for a feast. By the way, the coffee just got done. I didn’t know how you like it, so I put the powered creamer and sugar beside the pot.”

  If I hadn’t been so intent on finding another, more detailed book on sailing, I’d have been knocked down by the scent of coffee. When the smell penetrated my concentration, memories of my mother flooded back so strong I reached for the edge of the table to steady myself. I poured a cup, added creamer until it turned white, and a little sugar, then carried the cup with me to the bookshelf. There were a dozen books on sailing, but one had the word “jib” in the title on the spine, so I selected it.

  Back on deck, I checked the GPS and found we’d lost more ground, but were in no danger from shallow water, rocks, reefs, or pirates. We were simply not going in the direction I wanted. The engine could move us, but later we might need the diesel in the tank. I sat in the partial sunshine of the cockpit and studied the new book, or more precisely, a manual on how to operate the electric jib-furler. With a few illustrations, understanding came. If I understood the manual, instead of using awkward ropes and poor skills to deploy the jib sail as the other book had detailed, all that was required on Truant was the push of a button.

  Back at the wheel, I found the correct button or one that looked like those pictured in the manual. I pushed it and heard a slight whirr of an electric motor somewhere inside the boat. At the bow, a sail unfurled slightly. It was a triangle of maybe three feet wide and five tall that appeared from being wrapped around a metal tube. I let my finger off the button. At the lower end of the sail was a thick rope wrapped around a metal barrel and tied off.

  That rope was mentioned in my book, so I felt better. After giving it some slack, I let more sail out by pushing the button until half the sail had been deployed and I used the rope to let out more line. The sail hung limp. I pulled a little of the rope to me. A puff of wind made the jib pop like the shot from a small gun as it filled. According to the manual, I needed to keep the rope around the barrel and turn a handle to tighten the sail so the wind would work against the rudder and propel the boat forward. If that didn’t sound confusing enough, half the words didn’t make sense. Nautical language again—and totally incomprehensible.

  I turned the helm, which was the steering wheel in my terms, and pointed the boat slightly against the incoming wind. The sail grew tauter. I cranked the handle. The boat surged ahead, despite the small amount of sail deployed. The motion of the boat went from idle bobbing at the vagaries of the breeze to a definite direction. The boat leaned slightly to one side. I pulled in more of the rope and the boat leaned more as the speed increased.

  A glance behind at the water revealed a wake. We were actually moving! I looked at the GPS and already we’d gained a little distance according to the little boat on the blue screen, a hundred yards or so. My guess was we were surging along at a mile or two an hour. I gingerly pushed the button and let out a little more jib and tightened the rope again. Our speed increased, as did the lean of the boat—and we were going in the correct direction!

  The sounds around me changed. The hiss of water streaming along the hull, the wind whistling in the rigging, and the slap of the bow meeting oncoming waves. My spirit soared. We were sailing.

  I felt powerful. The boat under my feet could carry me to Oregon, California, or even Hawaii. Anywhere there was water. It was like flying on the surface of the ocean at a speed of three or four miles an hour.

  Sue came on deck, gave me a nod of pride, and disappeared below. She reappeared a few minutes later with a plastic plate in hand. On it was a stack of pancakes, covered with syrup
. “No bacon, sorry. You’ll have to make do without that. Hope you like pancakes.”

  I did. Even better, since fleeing home to live in the mining tunnels, I’d never eaten enough at a single meal to fill me up for fear there wouldn’t be enough for the next meal. Now there was a stack of four pancakes, a full meal, the wind in my face, and the indicator on the GPS said we were traveling at three MPH, almost four.

  I held onto the wheel because letting go allowed the boat to turn and the wind disappeared from the sail. The boat then slowed, stood upright, and bobbed where it sat. Catching the wind again put us sailing in the direction we wanted.

  “Three miles an hour?” Sue asked with delight and more than a little ribbing.

  “Almost four, when I get the wind just right,” I corrected.

  “How long do we have to go to reach the islands we want?”

  I didn’t know. “Fifty miles? Can you set a destination on the GPS and see what it says?”

  “There must be a way.” She set her plate aside and started pushing so many on-screen buttons I got worried, then decided there had to be a default screen, probably turning it on and off would reset it. She couldn’t hurt it, but she was like the next generation with buttons and computers she knew nothing about. Their attitude was that if you punched enough of them, the correct screen would eventually appear.

  She said while completely distracted, “By the way, there is a duplicate GPS screen in the cabin beside the steering wheel down there in the cabin.”

  Good to know. However, my mind was churning out numbers. If we sailed three miles an hour for ten hours, that would be thirty miles. If the distance to the beginning of the islands was fifty miles away, as I’d guessed, we’d reach the San Juan Islands sometime tomorrow. No need to read the sailing books any farther if we could get there in even two or three days without using the motor.

  My eyes went to the furled mail sail as if in spite. We didn’t need it and the other complications that come with it. We didn’t’ need the engine. I was more than satisfied with things the way they were and the simple task of sailing with the jib. At least for now. “How much food did you find?”