by Bobby Akart
“No doubt,” added Ashby. “It certainly prevents us from traveling at night. We have to be able to see where we’re going.”
Jake shrugged. “I’m kinda okay with that anyway. Seeing a blip on a radar is no substitute for seeing the boat and its passengers up close and personal. Radar blips don’t reveal the sailor’s intentions.”
Ashby sat next to him and rubbed his shoulders, hoping to cheer him up. Jake had worked so hard to keep them safe, making tough decisions that skirted the edge of death in order to get them free of the destruction being wrought by Yellowstone.
“You know, back in the day, sailors didn’t have all of this crap,” she began, waving her arm around the sky lounge. Pacific Islanders, Columbus, and the Vikings navigated the oceans using the sky and the sea.”
“Vikings?”
“Sure. You know there’s an argument that Vikings landed in North America before Columbus and his pals.”
Jake was still dejected. “Okay, but the problem is I know nothing about astronomy other than where the Big Dipper is. We can continue to travel with the coastline in view, but we run the risk of more encounters with other boats.”
“I’d like to avoid that, too,” agreed Ashby. Then she grew quiet. She jumped off the padded cushion. “Help me remove this thing.”
Jake slid off the edge and lifted an end of the eight-foot-by-eight-foot cover and slid it toward the rear of the boat until it leaned against the rail. Underneath were four fiberglass hatch doors secured by simple finger latches. It was much darker now, so Ashby illuminated the flashlight to help them see. Each took a door and opened it, unsure of what they’d find.
Jake announced what he found. “Fishing gear. Deep-sea rods, reels, and accessories. This is sweet!”
Ashby smiled as Jake’s mood lifted. However, what she found was just as important.
Chapter 20
The Pacific Ocean
Off the coast of Baja California
Jake and Ashby stayed up until midnight studying the laminated charts and maps she’d discovered under the lounging platform. In addition to the fishing equipment, they also found camping gear still in its original packaging—a large tent, sleeping bags, lanterns, backpacks, and a variety of camping tools. But it was the maps that garnered their attention.
“It’s a shame Hawaii is out of reach,” said Jake as he made notes of possible destinations for them. “It’s due west of here, but three thousand miles is out of our fuel range. Here’s the thing, if we can fuel up in Cabo, we have a lot of options as far south as we want to travel. If Cabo is out, then we have to stop in Guatemala—like the Port of San Jose.”
Ashby summarized the plan. “Then it’s settled. First light, we’ll hug the coastline as safely as possible. Both of us will monitor the radio for information on conditions in Cabo during our shifts.”
“Do you want first again?”
“Yessir,” replied Ashby. “Let me ask you. What do you think about me using the marine radio to reach out to any expats I can find on the peninsula? You know, someone with firsthand knowledge of what’s happening in Cabo. Why waste the time and fuel attempting to enter the marina there only to be turned away?”
“Go for it,” replied Jake. “Try not to give our position away, or any details about the yacht.”
“The position is no problem. I’m still not a hundred percent sure where we are. It’s really weird, and a little scary, being adrift out in the Pacific like this. Mike’s attack the other night is still fresh in my mind.”
Jake hugged her and gave her a lasting kiss. He left Ashby alone in the salon and went to bed. She took a moment to wash their glasses in the galley, and then she straightened the laminated maps so they could refer to them quickly. She took another glance at the nautical chart, which included the ocean depths and certain points of interest.
Her geologist curiosity was piqued as she traced the shallow waters of Baja California to the point where the continental shelf began. The drop-off was dramatic. The shallow waters of the coastline, varying in depth up to sixty feet, suddenly dropped off to twenty-eight hundred and eventually to over four thousand feet deep on a consistent basis running along the west coast.
There was only a cluster of islands shown off the Mexican coast, most likely remnants of ancient volcanic activity. Ashby didn’t profess to know the location of every dormant volcano on the planet, although she could reel off all of the active ones. Over time, she’d studied certain attributes of volcanic systems and even vowed to visit them all at some point, but her busy schedule didn’t allow for sightseeing during her work.
Her mind began to drift to the long-lasting impact of Yellowstone’s eruption and the volcanic winter that began to encircle the planet. She decided to go topside to enjoy the slight ocean breeze with its accompanying sea spray. She retrieved a Nautica jacket, which was hanging in the master stateroom closet. It was too large for her, but it would keep her warm from the temperatures that dipped into the low sixties.
She dimmed the lights within the sky lounge so she could sit in the dark, with the only light being the gauges, which let off a steady glow. It had become a rule on the boat to monitor the bilge pumps as a warning sign that their patch job on the hull had failed. Thus far, they’d been lucky and hoped for the best as they sailed south.
Ashby turned on the marine radio and began scanning the channels again. On a couple of occasions, she picked up an American speaking to nobody in particular—random thoughts on an ordinary night during the apocalypse. Ashby tried in vain to make contact with any of the English-speaking radio operators. She presumed her receiver had a longer range than her transmitter.
She did, however, learn about the conditions throughout Mexico. The borders were officially closed, and millions of Americans were stranded, from San Diego to Brownsville, demanding entry. Some reportedly undertook efforts to cross in obscure, desolate locations, only to be apprehended by the Mexican military or the drug cartels, who’d created an unholy alliance with the Mexican government to close the border.
Reports of violence against the refugees throughout the country were being repeated by the radio operators. The president of Mexico had joined other North American countries in declaring martial law. Curfews were established. Civil liberties were taken away. Citizens were put in fear of both the Yellowstone fallout and their government’s heavy-handed approach to maintaining control.
Meanwhile, in Europe, the crisis had widened as Yellowstone’s eruptive material crossed the Atlantic. European nations were shutting down their businesses and transportation. Food was in short supply, and societal unrest had escalated.
Toward the end of Ashby’s shift, the radio chatter had subsided, and her eyelids began to grow heavy. She looked through the binoculars in a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep of the ocean. There were no lights on the water, nor were any lights visible on land. She was contemplating lying down for a moment when she heard Jake’s voice.
“Good morning, sunshine!”
Ashby snapped to attention, as she’d already taken a prone position on the lounging platform. “Yeah, yeah. I was just about to take a little nap.”
“Busted!” he exclaimed as he helped Ashby to her feet. “Is there anything going on?”
“I was never able to speak with anyone, but I did learn the Mexican government has declared martial law and closed its borders.”
“Completely?”
“Yes. Supposedly millions of refugees are stacked up on the American side with no hope of entry.”
Jake shook his head. “What a mess. I feel a little better about our situation now.”
“They’ve deployed the military to guard the borders, and they’re using the drug cartels to help elsewhere,” added Ashby.
“That explains yesterday,” said Jake. “The delays. The phone calls. The whispering. That marina was nothing more than a glue trap for unsuspecting mice, like us.”
Ashby kissed him on the cheek and made her way for the stairs. “Well, we�
�re not gonna get trapped again. You know, the whole fool-me-once thing?”
“Agreed.”
“Jake, I love you, but I’m going to bed. Wake me when you’re ready to head out in the morning.”
Jake followed her to the steps, planted a kiss on her head, and whispered, “I love you back.”
Chapter 21
The Pacific Ocean
Off the coast of Baja California
Jake had just started a pot of coffee as the sun was rising. As the smell of the morning brew floated through the salon and galley, he descended the stairs into the sleeping quarters to wake Ashby. He gently slid in next to her, and they cuddled for a while until Jake heard the three simple beeps indicating the coffee was fully brewed.
Ashby recognized the familiar beeping sound and mumbled, “I. Need. Coffee.” Three powerful, yet simple words. Some folks simply cannot start their day without it.
Jake hopped out of bed and fixed Ashby a Tervis Tumbler full of her favorite concoction. Despite the hot brew inside, the insulated tumbler prevented the heat from escaping to burn their hands.
“Enjoy. Take your time getting up. Everything’s cool. I’m gonna fire up the engines and get us started on the course we discussed last night. Here’s hopin’ for a day of smooth sailing.”
He kissed her again and bounded up the stairs and through the salon to the sky lounge. Both of them preferred to travel topside to enjoy the feel and smell of the Pacific. Despite the troubles they’d experienced, they continued to enjoy the adventure.
Jake got settled in and slowly pushed the chrome throttles forward, taking the boat up to ten knots. He was still proceeding with fuel economy in mind. They had enough to make the trip to Guatemala and perhaps the port at San Salvador, Nicaragua. Neither would’ve been his first choices, but Mexico was now ruled out.
Ashby arrived by his side about ten minutes later with a refill of coffee and a platter of various canned fruits. Pineapple, mandarin oranges, and English biscuits from Fortnum & Mason would have to fuel their bodies until lunchtime.
Jake relayed a story from his experience on Survivor. “When we were dropped off in Thailand, the two tribes were selected by the two oldest contestants on the show—schoolyard style. I knew my tribe was in trouble early on. The first sign occurred when two female members of our tribe paddled out into the sea to retrieve fresh water from a source designated on an island across a short span of ocean. It should’ve been easy, but they got lost. Back on shore, our people decided to play coconut golf instead of building a shelter. I didn’t want to press the issue because I didn’t want to take a leadership role or appear bossy.
“Anyway, that night it rained, was cold, and everyone was immediately suffering. We had no food, were already weakened by being exposed to the elements, and the result was consecutive losses at the immunity challenges.”
“But you survived the tribal councils,” interjected Ashby, who remembered Jake telling Dusty and Rita about his experiences on the show.
“You know, I adopted a survival mindset and prepared myself to live on that beach for thirty-nine days with absolutely no assistance from anyone, whether tribemates or television production. It’s the only way I made it to the merge of the tribes before getting the boot.”
“You mentioned they were afraid of your physicality,” said Ashby.
“Yeah. In fact, it was the remnants of my own tribe that turned on me. I’d kept them fed for twenty-four days, and the first chance they got …” Jake’s voice trailed off as he made a slicing motion across his throat with his thumb. The visual said it all.
“What’s the moral of the story?” asked Ashby.
“Trust no one.”
Ashby sat a little higher on her side of the bench seat. “No one?”
“Except,” he stretched out the word as he began his reply, “the one you love.”
Ashby curled her arm through his as they continued along the coast. The sun was fully awake and the seas were relatively calm. It appeared they were set for their first day on the ocean without drama.
Two hours later, Ashby went below to retrieve the charts. She laid them out on the sky lounge’s padded cover and studied the shoreline through the binoculars. She’d hoped to identify a landmark on shore to identify their position relative to the end of Baja California, where Cabo San Lucas was located. Instead, she made an undesirable discovery.
“Jake, you’d better take a look at this.”
She handed the binoculars to Jake, who had a concerned look on his face. Ashby pointed toward the southeast.
Jake sighed, lowered the glasses, and then raised them to take another look. Spread out in front of them, as far as the eye could see, were more than a dozen Mexican naval vessels. Led by several Sierra-class corvettes, the Mexican Navy was positioning itself to form a blockade around its Pacific coastal waters.
Jake recalled his days visiting the Hunter’s Point Shipyard in California, the former naval base. Each year, the U.S. Navy would bring a variety of ships into San Francisco Bay for people to tour. The Sierra-class corvettes stood out in Jake’s mind because of their name. Sierra was a childhood sweetheart of his who shared a love of the outdoors, and his father drove a Corvette. The two vehicles were completely dissimilar except in name.
The Mexican Navy used the corvettes for interception of drug smugglers and counterterrorism. It was the most versatile vessel in their fleet, and it was also the most cost-effective since the U.S. government gave them to Mexico at no cost as part of the war on drugs.
Jake checked their course and studied the direction of the oncoming naval fleet. They were destined to meet one another head-on in about an hour.
“They’re forming a blockade, using their most versatile ships, where they anticipate activity to be the greatest—along Baja California.”
Ashby took back the binoculars and studied the ships. “They look big from here.”
“About four times bigger than we are, I think. They’re a formidable show of force for anyone dumb enough to cross their line in the sand, or, in this case, the sea.”
“What should we do?”
“Mind our business and keep on our heading, although I plan to veer a little westward to avoid any appearance of challenging them.”
“Challenge?”
Jake started to laugh. “Poor choice of words. How about invading their personal space?”
Ashby gave him a playful slug, as his use of sarcasm under the circumstances was only marginally funny.
The two sat in silence for the next forty-five minutes as the ships continued their northwesterly course. Jake turned off the autopilot and adjusted his course to provide the ships a wide berth. There was no sense in garnering unwanted attention.
The first of the corvettes passed a mile to their east. The two-hundred-forty-foot-long vessels easily cut through the waves at about twenty knots. Jake studied the first ship in amazement, looking at their massive naval guns on the foredeck that were capable of engaging both air and surface targets.
“Jake, look!” exclaimed Ashby as she swung her body toward the south. “Do you see the smaller boats? They came out of nowhere.”
He focused the binoculars on two smaller vessels speeding directly for them. “Maybe they are getting out of the wake of the larger ships or have been run out of Mexico’s territorial waters.”
Jake shrugged after he made the statement, not wholly believing that was the case. He handed the binoculars to Ashby, who inched toward the open window at the front of the sky lounge.
“I’m gonna adjust our course to a more south-southwest direction. Let’s give these guys some room.”
As Jake turned the wheel, he also provided more throttle to the engines. He was becoming nervous and wanted to get out of the way.
“They’re turning with us. Jake, they look like they’re trying to intercept us!”
“What for?” Jake responded in frustration, not expecting an answer. Instead he adjusted his course again, pointing almost due w
est.
Ashby yelled excitedly, “They turned toward us again! They’re trying to chase us down!”
“Can you make out what kind of boats they are?” Jake asked.
“Fast ones.”
Chapter 22
The Pacific Ocean
Off the coast of Baja California
The Mexican Navy was designed for one purpose—fight the drug trade. Its funding over the last several decades came through Washington and the United Nations, at the encouragement of the UN’s biggest benefactor, the United States.
Designed to patrol its coastal waters, the Mexican Navy frequently encountered formidable, oceangoing powerboats capable of speeds nearing one hundred miles per hour. These vessels had advance electronics enabling them to travel at night without running lights to avoid visual detection.
The Mexican government’s best weapon against the capabilities of these modern-day rumrunners, the historic term used for the ragtag fleet of fishing boats that used to bring illegal alcohol into the United States from the Caribbean during Prohibition in the 1920s, was the Defender B-class response boat.
Deployed by the Mexican Search and Rescue Unit, it was capable of reaching speeds approaching forty-six knots, or fifty-three miles an hour. They were slower than the powerboats that traveled up the Pacific coastline of Baja California, but they were equipped with a fifty-caliber Browning M2A1 machine gun on the bow and an M240B belt-fed machine gun at its stern.
Jake didn’t take the time to identify the types of boats pursuing them as he gave the Grand Banks 60 full throttle and steered on a due west course. The large motor yacht began to vibrate somewhat as it approached its top speed of thirty-six knots.
The patrol boats that pursued them stayed directly behind them, riding parallel to one another as their bows broke through the gentle waves of the Pacific. Jake set the autopilot to maintain the westerly course and then asked Ashby for assistance.