Pursuing Chase

by C J Schnier

  He stumbled, grabbed ahold of one of the rigging wires and then steadied himself. We both paused for a moment, waiting to see what the other would do. The assassin’s eyes were still black and emotionless despite the anger that tinged his features. With his left cheek swelling and starting to discolor, he was a fearsome sight.

  So far I had fared better in the fight than I could have ever expected. Ronald Regan once said that guns were the great equalizer of men and without his, this would-be assassin was a pushover. Fighting in enclosed spaces was not something he was prepared for. I was no expert myself, but years of living on boats had left me with a distinct advantage over my deadlier foe.

  Inching forward, my opponent drew back step for step until we were both on the side deck. Without warning he charged, covering the few feet between us instantly. He wrapped me up like he had in the salon and slammed me into the side of the pilothouse. I grabbed at him in return, just as he tried to pick me up and toss me into the lifeline. My feet slipped, and I found myself close to falling over the side, clutching futilely at his body to stop myself.

  Realizing how off-balance I was, the assassin simply pushed me hard in the chest. The lifelines caught me below the waist, and I could feel myself start to fall. His wet and sweaty body allowed no grip, and my hands just slipped as I began to go over the side. I knew it was too late and I swear I saw him smile as I fell in what seemed like slow motion.

  The shock of hitting the water snapped me back to real-time. I could hear the boat pass me by, the propeller whirring through the water, mere feet away. I surfaced and looked desperately, only to see Paramour steaming away from me. Treading water, hoping for a miracle, the boat just continued on, getting smaller and smaller as I realized I was on my own.

  Chapter Twelve

  The bastard had won. Paramour was gone. Kelly, my sweet Kelly, was gone too. In one moment he had taken the only two things I loved away from me. There is no way I could let that happen.

  The island was only about half a mile away. A short trip by dinghy, but a grueling swim. I knew that I couldn’t stay in the water forever. I needed to get to land. Summoning all my willpower, I started my slow and steady swim to shore.

  Swimming was not my best physical ability. I could stay afloat forever, that was not an issue, but I just wasn't efficient. Starting with an awkward side stroke, alternating sides every few minutes, I eventually resorted to a backstroke when I needed a rest. What I wouldn’t have given for some fins or some flotsam to rest on.

  Slowly the island grew larger, drawing nearer with each feeble stroke. Luckily for me, there wasn’t much current. If I had to fight the current as well as the sea I don’t think I would have made it. Even without the current, my arms and legs were shaking, threatening to no longer comply with the demands I was putting on them when I finally made it into water shallow enough to stand in and stumble to shore.

  Staggering through the light surf I collapsed on the beach, panting. Staring up at the white sun, I couldn’t help but imagine that I looked like every bad actor from every shipwreck scene where someone washed up on shore. A few moments later, when I had sufficiently caught my breath, I rolled over and took in my surroundings.

  The whole island was empty. Its perfect sandy beach was deserted, and the light vegetation inland looked sparse and less than inviting. If I was to survive, I needed to find a way off this barren spit of land. There were other islands close to this one, ones I knew were frequented by cruisers. But the half-mile swim to shore had nearly worn me out, and they were at least quadruple that distance. Having nothing else to do, I decided to start exploring, looking for anything that could help me.

  The island had little to offer in terms of survival, no water, no food, and no tools. But I knew there was something that would help me, something hidden somewhere, I just had to search for it. I finally found what I was looking for on the far side of the island, pulled up high into the weeds near the beach. A boat. Not just any boat, but a boat with a motor, and it looked to be in decent condition. ‘So that’s how that bastard got out here to us,’ I thought. He must have bought or rented this boat to track us down and set his ambush.

  Hurrying over to it, I stopped short when I saw the sand under the pulled up outboard. Dark oil stained the sand black. Following the trail of oil up the engine, I found that it originated from a bullet hole through the engine block of an otherwise brand new Nissan 9.9 hp motor. So much for an easy escape.

  The boat itself was clean, all personal belongings had been removed. Except for the destroyed outboard, it seemed brand new. It was a gray aluminum Jon boat with a large pointed and flared bow, designed for handling waves and chop. Shiny diamond plate was bolted to the structural ribs of the craft, making for a stable and durable flat floor.

  I checked the rest of the little boat over thoroughly for any holes and was relieved to find it intact. Two oars were lashed to the sides of the boat just under the gunwale, and I found the oarlocks stuffed into a small compartment in the bow. I had my way off this island.

  Pushing, pulling, and cursing the boat, I made tedious progress towards the water. I found myself in awe that someone as small as our stalker had the strength to pull this heavy little boat this far up the beach. After several attempts I managed to get the Jon boat to the water and was relieved to see it float, bobbing in the small wavelets.

  I guided it out into waist-deep water, attached the oarlocks and fed the oars through them. Then I jumped inside and started pulling with all the remaining strength I had. Aiming for a larger island, I dipped the oars over and over, watching the beach slip away with each stroke.

  Once off the beach a good ways I paused to check out the motor. I knew it was most likely beyond repair, but even a slightly functional outboard would be better than rowing. I released the kickstand and lowered the propeller into the water.

  Next, I checked the gasoline can strapped to the diamond plate flooring underneath the motor. It was still half full. That was promising. I squeezed the inline primer bulb on the fuel line until it was hard. With the system pressured up, I pulled out the choke, twisted the throttle to give the motor some gas and grabbed the pull cord.

  “C’mon baby, please work for me,” I said aloud, pleading for a miracle.

  Pulling the cord only until I could feel it catch on the compression stroke, I let it back in and then pulled with all my might. Nothing. The motor sounded like it tried to turn over, but a terrible grinding and clanking accompanied it. I tried again, and again, nothing. After several more tries, and adjusting both the throttle and choke, I finally gave up. The engine was not going to get me out of this mess, it was up to good old manual labor.

  The midday sun was brutal. Summer had definitely arrived and was in full force. I ripped my shirt off, sticky with sweat, and dipped it overboard before wrapping it around my head, reveling in the cool water running down my chest and back.

  Out here on the exposed ocean side of the island, the current was more noticeable. After messing with the outboard, I found myself farther out to sea than I would have liked and had to angle the boat into the current, fighting and rowing desperately to keep my relative position. My progress was slow despite my vigorous efforts, but after a while, I managed to row out of the strong currents and was no longer in danger of being swept out to sea.

  Rowing continued for what felt like hours, marked only by the ever-changing angle of the relentless sun. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Look around. Stroke, stroke, stroke some more. Every twenty minutes or so I would dip my shirt back in the water to attempt to keep cool, but I could feel the effects of dehydration and physical exhaustion creeping up on me. And my destination still seemed so far away.

  My back and shoulders were on fire, and I wasn’t sure I could continue much longer. My hands, raw with blisters, had started to cramp, and I had even gotten a cramp in one of my calves, forcing me to take a break until I could force myself to carry on again. The thought of giving up and letting myself be swept out to sea was favor
able to fighting to reach an island that never seemed to get closer. That is when I heard the sound of water slapping the bottom of a boat.

  A lone figure in a RIB approached, coming down off a plane before coming alongside.

  “Hey man, what are you doing way out here? Are you lost or something?” the skipper of the inflatable asked as soon as he came within earshot.

  “Oh I’m just on my way to the Greyhound Station,” I yelled back at him.

  “That would be one hell of a row. Need a lift?”

  “That would be great,” I replied, relieved.

  “Why don’t you pass me your painter and then hop on over here? It’ll make towing easier,” the man suggested, grabbing ahold of my boat.

  I dug the painter out of the bottom of the boat and handed it to him. Then I️ rolled myself out of my boat and into the inflatable. Once I was situated on the pontoon across from him, he tied the end of the line to an eye bolt in his transom and let go of the aluminum dinghy I had spent the last several hours rowing. Twisting the throttle of his outboard, he took my dinghy in tow and headed straight for the larger island I had been making my way toward.

  “The name’s Andy Sheets,” he said sticking out his free hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Help me pull up the anchor would you?” Andy asked moving behind the big wooden-spoked ship wheel in the cockpit.

  “I take it that you have a plan?” I asked moving forward towards to bow.

  “Of course. Once we get underway I’ll explain it to you,” he replied, fiddling with the instrument panel.

  The teak deck of Romulus rumbled and vibrated as the old Perkins diesel came to life. A puff of gray smoke from the exhaust wafted away from us, dissipating in the breeze. After the initial bit of smoke the exhaust ran clean and judging by the steady vibrations in the deck, the diesel was in excellent condition.

  Romulus’s anchoring setup at first glance was bizarre to me. Instead of running a snubber line from the sampson posts on the bow deck, Andy had rigged a line from a fitting located at the waterline. With a lower angle of pull on the anchor chain, he could anchor with less rode and maintain a safe scope ratio. A brilliant idea that I considered emulating on Paramour if we ever found her.

  Glancing around, I located the windlass controls, two round buttons mounted in the forepeak. I stepped on one, and the Lewmar Tigress windlass sprang to life, pulling in the chain and depositing it into the chain locker. This sure beat hauling it in by hand.

  Once the snubber was over the bow roller where I could reach it, I took my foot off the switch and went out on the bow pulpit to untie it. A moment later I had it untied and secured to the lifeline. I looked back at Andy who gave me a sign to go ahead and up pull the rest of the chain.

  Stepping on the switch, the chain once again began being effortlessly pulled back into the boat. I was in awe of how easy this all was. On Paramour it took a long time and hundreds of cranks on the manual windlass to pull up the anchor rode. This electric windlass made short steady work of the task, pulling the 15-ton boat forward with ease.

  Once the chain was almost straight up and down, I could hear and feel the windlass struggling. Using short bursts of power and making sure to keep the chain tight, it was only a moment before the anchor finally popped free. Seconds later the anchor was up and secured to the bow roller, I turned back to let Andy know, but he had already put the boat in gear and was turning for the same direction that Paramour had sailed off in. He wasn’t playing around, this man meant business. I made my way back to the cockpit and stood under the shade of the Bimini.

  “So what’s your plan?” I asked, curious to know.

  “You told me that you managed to wreck his previous boat right?”

  “Yeah, that’s correct,” I confirmed.

  “And you have the little aluminum boat he was using to zip around looking for you,” he stated.

  “It appears that way,” I confirmed again.

  “Then I doubt he has another boat waiting to transfer your gal to. He will have to head for civilization, somewhere he can either rent a faster boat or fly her out of these islands,” he explained.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Most of these island communities are tiny. An abducted woman would cause some concern and bring entirely too much attention. She would be too hard to hide. No, our friend has to be headed for a major population center, and given the direction that they sailed off in, that pretty much means across the Bight of Abaco and up to Freeport.”

  “You don’t think he would circle back around and try for Hope Town or somewhere else?” I asked.

  “Nah. Like I said, not big enough. Trust me, they’re headed for Freeport,” he stated.

  “That does make the most sense. Do you think we can catch them?”

  “How fast does your boat go?”

  “Six knots is about all she can muster. She’s a comfortable boat, but she’s not a fast one. What about Romulus here?”

  “She can do about five knots under engine alone and a little over seven with the sails up.”

  “I guess we better get these sails up then,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s a long trip to Freeport, we should be able to make up some time. There’s two of us, and it is just him on your boat. I doubt he’ll be able to keep the boat speed at maximum,” he said.

  “Alright then, let’s see what this old beauty can do,” I said, the excitement of the chase building in my mind.

  “Hold the wheel Chase, I’ll get the sails up.

  Andy stepped out from behind the wheel, turning it over to me as he went to the mizzen mast and started fiddling the sail cover. I took my bearing from the compass, checked all the gauges I could see and made sure I knew which lever was throttle and which was the transmission. I tested the steering and found the boat responsive even with my aching and tired arms. Once convinced that I was familiar enough with the boat to take control, I looked up to see Andy already removing the sail covers.

  He tossed both the mizzen sail cover as well as the one for the main down the companionway into a heap on the sole, quite unceremoniously. Returning to the base of the mizzen mast he unfastened a line and looked over at me.

  “Alright, head up into the wind and let me get this thing up,” he grunted.

  I turned the wheel and pointed the boat straight upwind.

  “Go for it!” I shouted against the wind and motor.

  Andy hauled down on the line, and the sail raced to the top of the small mast. Once at the top, he wrapped the line around a winch a couple times, slipped a winch handle into the winch and cranked on it until it was tight. Happy with the tension in the line, he tied it off and made his way over to the mainmast, still clutching his winch handle.

  The mainsail didn’t go up nearly as easy. It was a massive and thick sail, and Andy was forced to use the winch to raise the sail the last several feet. Once secured he picked his way across the deck, careful of his footing until he was back in the cockpit.

  “Ok, the hard part is done, go ahead and bear off southwest a little,” he commanded over the din of the flogging sails.

  I complied immediately, watching and listening as the concussive booming from the flogging sails started to lessen and then fill with a pop as the wind filled the sails. Romulus immediately heeled over and picked up speed.

  “Alright, now the genoa,” Andy said, uncoiling the roller reefing line.

  Once it was flaked out so that it could not catch on anything, he grabbed the leeward genoa sheet, wrapped it twice around the old Barlow winches and started pulling. The massive sail started to unroll, and the reefing line began spooling around the drum at the base of the forestay. A couple of tugs later and the winds finally caught the sail, causing it to unroll at lightning speed and the reefing line to race past in a blur.

  Romulus showed off her cloud of sails, and as Andy cranked on the winch, she gained more and more speed. I wondered if I had the strength left even to try to sheet in the genoa on that w
inch. When Andy stopped cranking the huge front sail was trimmed to perfection. All the colored ribbons sewn into the sail, called telltales, were streaming straight back, proving that the sail was drawing immense amounts of power from the wind and doing so with near optimal efficiency. Romulus had heeled over another ten degrees, her leeward rail mere inches from the frothing waters that hissed and raced by.

  Despite our hasty departure, nothing had crashed to the floor, even at our extreme angle. Andy’s spartan and militaristic orderliness was not only useful, but I suspected it was also deeply ingrained. This is how a boat was supposed to be. Something was always out-of-place or stowed improperly on Paramour. After a big wind or violent gust, it wasn’t uncommon to find something rolling around on the cabin sole, or worse, broken. I vowed that if I ever got her back, things would change.

  Looking down at the GPS chart-plotter I saw we were doing 7.3 knots. A smile crept across my lips and with it a wave of exhaustion. I could feel the energy draining from my body, sapping me of my remaining strength. In contrast, Andy who was standing beside me in the cockpit beamed and teemed with energy. Yet, despite his grin, there was a steel-like determination set in his face and stance. He looked from sail to sail, up to the wind indicator, and then to the compass, vigilant for any tweaks that could gain us another tenth of a knot. Seemingly content with everything he nodded at me.

  “I’ll be right back, there’s still a couple of things to do,” he said before disappearing down the companionway.

  Through the companionway opening, I could see him folding the sail covers into a neat pile and stowing them away. A moment later he moved deeper into the boat, out of sight from the cockpit. When he came back topside, he was clutching a black bundle of fabric in his arm.

  Saying nothing, he brushed past me to the stern and undid a line. Clipping two locking clasps to eye in the black fabric he then pulled the cord. A black flag unfurled and raced upwards, whipping in the wind. On the flag, the Jolly Roger, a white skull with crossed cutlasses grinned down at us.