It seemed as though Alex might actually make a clean getaway to the Dutch side. That was, until she turned into the cut for the French bridge to the lagoon to find, the French militia – two French police boats filled with Gendarmes, blocking the entrance. Alex spun the Whaler into a hard U-turn but the Zodiac and the Frenchies were on top of her, blocking the exit back to the bay. Alex was trapped in the channel unable to make an escape out either end so she opted to stake her luck on the French police, even though she spoke a minuscule amount of broken French. She coasted up next to the police boat and cut her engine, rafting the Whaler up alongside the boat. Suddenly, Alex and Raymond realized they were looking down the wrong end of an AK 47, as the Gendarme politely took the bow line of the Whaler and motioned with the rifle for them to climb aboard. Within minutes it was a shouting free-for-all in French as the proa owners arrived to claim the Zodiac as theirs, since they had just purchased it from another French monohull. Unfortunately, with the name and registration scraped off, Alex didn’t really have a leg to stand on, not to mention her inability to hold her own in their dialect.
Alex pleaded her case to the officer in charge but to no avail. Finally, they decided that the only diplomatic way to resolve the situation was to hold the dinghy, Alex, and Raymond in custody, until either Alex or her accusers could produce adequate proof of ownership of the dinghy or the engine. Of course, if she didn’t come up with proof within seventy-two hours, the dinghy would then be returned to the Frenchmen so that they could be on their way to Europe. There was only one small problem with this plan, since Alex and Raymond were thrown into the Gendamerie, and the Gendarmes were not about to let them out until they had proven that the dinghy was indeed theirs – a small Catch-22. Once again, as on tile Dutch side, one phone call was not amongst a prisoner’s first fights. Ironically, dinghy theft in the French West Indies seemed to carry almost as much weight as horse thievery had in the old West – that was of course if you were not French. Had the same accusation been made on the Dutch side, the Dutch police would have simply laughed it off and let the yachties fight it out amongst themselves. The Frogs definitely held the upper hand in this situation due to the fact that Alex was an insulting American who slaughtered their language with her poor attempt to explain the situation in their native tongue.
Once again faced with the problem of communication to the outside world from inside a jail cell, Alex was racking her brain trying to figure out how to get a message to Rob who was no where within range of a phone and not likely monitoring the ship’s radio in his present state of being.
Even though Alex begged and pleaded, they were not accommodating in any way regarding getting a message to the marina where she had borrowed the Whaler. Surely, they would be wondering by now where she was. They were her best chance at getting a message to Rob to bring the ships papers to the French jail, in order to get them released and to reclaim the Dinghy Fever.
As she gazed out of her cell window between the bars, Alex’s attention was drawn to a young island boy catching land crabs outside the Bastille walls.
“Spshh… hey… kid,” whispered Alex in the lowest tone possible and still be heard.
Looking up, the little boy was so surprised to see a pretty American woman behind bars, he couldn’t resist his curiosity.
“How cum you be in dere missus?” questioned the boy totally puzzled by the sight. “They not be puttin’ gurls’n jail… mostly locals who seen de bottom of one too many bottles of rum.
“Well you see, it’s all a big misunderstanding,” reasoned Alex, as she extended a twenty dollar bill through the bars toward him. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”
“Sure missus, for two of dose I do just about anythin’ cept clenin’ or kookin’.”
Quickly writing a note on a scrap of bread paper with a broken pencil stub and handing it through the bars to the boy, Alex looked the boy square in the eye. “I need you to go to the marine store in the lagoon and give this note to the manager. Tell him where I am and that I need his help. He’ll give you the other twenty.”
Although she had peaked his interest the boy looked apprehensively at the twenty dollar bill. “How do I know dere be anoder twenti when I get dere.”
“Please, I promise he’ll pay you the other twenty,” assured Alex as the boy approached a little closer for a better look at the bill. “Do you know how to drive a boat?”
“Of course I knowed how ta drive a boat,” replied the boy indignantly.
“Then go to the lagoon dock and get the Island Waterworld Whaler, it’ll be quicker. If anyone gives you any trouble tell them you were sent by Jeff, the manager, to pick up his boat, okay?”
“You mean I get two of these, and, I get to drive de boat too?”
Tentatively, Alex handed him the note, the Whaler key, and the twenty, “Don’t forget to tell him I’m here and to give him the note and the key to the boat.”
“Tanks missus,” answered the boy gratefully with a big smile that showcased two rows of perfect, enormous white teeth.
“My name’s Alex,” she responded with a warm smile.
Snatching the note and the bill from Alex, the boy took off at a trot towards the docks, leaving his bag of crabs behind.
“Wait! What’s your name?!” shouted Alex after the boy. But it was too late. He was already too far out of earshot to be able to hear. Alex looked after him hopefully, wanting to believe that he would follow through with her instructions. Yet there was a doubtful knowing that he would likely not even get the boat off the dock, and he would happily settle for the easy twenty he had just made by doing nothing other than being in the right place at the right time.
The young boy, Christian, as he had been named by his mother before she died when he was six, was fast approaching thirteen and had lived more of the last seven years of his life on the streets than at home – hustling his living to make up for his drunken father who although present in body, was mostly absent in sobriety. In and out of school since the age of ten, Christian, although a smart kid, had far more aptitude for boats, engines, and tools than he did for books. He had an amazing gift of gab, and had managed to develop his skills in scamming the tourists into giving him money for any number of services he could create to fit their needs, from serving as tour guide, to renting grocery carts, not to mention showing them where to find an obscure reef that was still somewhat populated with brightly colored fish.
When he was a month old, his mother had been brought to Sint Maarten from the neighboring island of Anguilla by his father who was originally from Aruba, another Dutch island – now independent which lay not too far off the coast of Columbia. This interesting combination made Christian a handsome mixture of Latin and West Indian blood. It was that Latin blood that made his father hot tempered. That, and his Dutch affinity for alcohol made for a volatile combination that unfortunately erupted in drunken tirades which were usually directed at poor Christian. He had gotten used to having to sneak into his own house to see the condition of his father’s mood before letting his presence be known at home. It was rare he went there for anything other than sleep, but some nights he found it better to just sleep in one of the boats on the dock – the owners being none the wiser.
Of course, Christian, although creative in different means of making a living, was inherently honest – a virtue instilled firmly within his morals by his saintly Christian mother in the few short years that she was with him. He indeed had every intention of delivering the boat and the note to the marine store, however, how could it hurt to keep the boat for twenty-four hours or so to show it off to his friends, and take a spin around the lagoon and out to the reef to dive for a lobster or two. Not to mention using it as a comfortable place to sleep for the night. After all the lady had not specified when he had to have the boat there.
By now the sun was setting, and back at the boat yard Grandma and Grandpa were beginning to worry about Alex and Raymond’s whereabouts. Trying to cover to avoid worrying him, the
y kept telling him that Alex had decided to wait for the ice to freeze so that she could bring Rob some relief from his fever. Lost in his delirium, this explanation seemed quite plausible. Of course, by closing time the marine store had begun to worry as well, not only about their Whaler, but Jeff who’d been a friend of Alex’s long enough to know that she was pretty reliable, was beginning to suspect engine failure or the like and sent a boat to look for them.
All the while, Christian was comfortably camped out on a small island of mangrove trees in the middle of the lagoon cooking his lobster and conch over the fire he’d built, and preparing himself for a comfortable night under the stars in the bottom of the little Whaler.
1*DENGUE FEVER – A non-parasitic virus carried by the Aedes mosquito which displays malaria-like symptoms that will eventually disappear forever, unlike malaria, in exactly eleven days –not without first putting the stricken through eleven days of living hell. Actually, there are four known strains of Dengue varying from mild at one – to the deadly hemoragic type at four; and the latest research suggests that the virus is likely mutating into a plethora of strains of the virus.
2*PROA – A strange vessel designed by the French from the principle of the outrigger canoe, which is definitely suffering from an identity crisis as to whether it is a trimaran or a catamaran, since it has one main hull and only one outrigger. What this means is that there is truly no bow and no stern, or no front and back. Every time one finds it necessary to change to the opposite tack one must completely turn the vessel around and point into the wind with the opposite end of the boat, in order to always keep your one outrigger to leeward so that the wind doesn’t lust simply dump the boat on its side due to the absence of any type of keel, such as on a monohull
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lost at Sea
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”
Marcel Proust
Having tried every other possibility, Jeff, the manager of the marine store made a visit to the Island Fever in hopes of finding that Alex had been delayed there, and thinking the store already closed, had decided to return the boat the next morning. When he arrived at the boatyard to find that they had no more information than he on her whereabouts, the whole boating community was alerted to their suspicions that Alex and Raymond had broken down in the Whaler and could possibly have drifted out to sea. Within thirty minutes, a search party had been organized amongst the charter fishing fleet and a half dozen boats set out of the lagoon to first search the bays and coastline of St. Martin, and then the shores of Anguilla, where a disabled boat might drift across the channel without ample anchor line. They decided it best to first exhaust all of these possibilities before venturing into the worst case scenario that she could have actually drifted out to sea and across the Anegada Passage.1*
The thought of Alex lost at sea was something that Rob could not totally comprehend, especially in light of her advanced seamanship skills. But, the thought of her being in any kind of danger rocked him to his core. In a matter of just a few short weeks Rob had developed a deeper love for Alex than he had ever even imagined for Sydney. One that was quickly rivaling his adolescent adoration for Julie Anne, and he couldn’t even fathom the possibility of losing her. Alex had been a hard won challenge for Rob, making him appreciate her all the more. It seemed the Universe had realized that it was human nature to not always appreciate those things that came too easy and Rob had been forced to work for this one. Rob was pretty sure that he could feel something stirring once again where his heart should be, especially when Alex kissed him. Maybe like the tin man, the wizard had granted him his wish and he’d indeed grown another heart. He didn’t dare raise his hopes too high –maybe they simply wouldn’t be compatible, or even worse, maybe he wouldn’t be able to keep Alex happy. After all she had lived a pretty exciting life and must have experienced many extraordinary lovers. All of Rob’s short comings passed before him at that moment like a dying man, even though it was Alex’s life that might actually be in danger, since his present disease wasn’t terminal. Even so, he felt like he wanted to die at that moment due to the fever and chills and the fact that his body was feeling like it had been run through a meat grinder and poured in a Jell-O mold – into a poor replica of himself. He knew he looked like death warmed over but his own condition was the last thing on his mind as he crawled out of bed and drug himself into the boat with Jeff to aid in the search.
The news of Alex missing struck Grandma and Grandpa hard as well, since they had already grown to love Alex as one of their own in the short time they’d known her. This news in fact struck a frightful chord with them since it took them back to a sad day that they had received word of their oldest son, Matthew, who was it seemed, unofficially missing in action. Matthew had always dreamed of becoming a pilot as a child and had realized that his only hope of flight school would be to immigrate to America and join the Air Force. So at eighteen, he moved to Puerto Rico and signed up. He survived a stint flying reconnaissance in Vietnam and had returned to the Caribbean with only two choices – spend his life flying bush planes ferrying passengers from island to island, or join Air America, the unofficial air force which was funded by the CIA and make a shit-load of money flying ‘rice-kickers’ 3* over Nicaragua. He had chosen the later. Or, lets just say that it had chosen him since adventure was in his blood. Knowing the U.S. would disavow any knowledge of his very existence should anything happen to him, he joined none-the-less. And, they were true to their word, since Grandma and Grandpa had never been able to find out more information than what they had been able to read in the telegram they had received one afternoon from an anonymous source – “Mat’s plane missing, whereabouts unknown.” So, when they heard of Alex’s misfortune, they felt they were suddenly reliving the past.
Poor Rob, whose temperature had finally subsided to a mild 102.5, felt it his duty to look for her, although the bouncing on that pounding Bertram fisherman had actually caused his aching body and mind to start hallucinating by around sunrise. He was certain he had not only spied the Whaler several times in the middle of the channel, but he could have sworn that it was being towed by a team of harnessed dolphins. Not to mention that he was certain that there was a forth crewman aboard the boat when there were indeed only himself and two others. A man who resembled a handsome (even if I say so myself), thirtyish year-old West Indian sailor. Indeed, for the first time in Rob’s life, thanks to this altered state of mind, he had finally seen through the veil – he had seen me. Although this new sight of his was not to last long.
Frightened, Rob shook his head and rubbed his eyes hoping to ward off his hallucinations. Having been on the search party end of lost at sea, I can appreciate the fear of the unknown that was going through Rob’s mind at that moment. For when I was a young boy in the West Indies at the age of thirteen, my younger brother had fallen asleep while fishing in our row boat and drug anchor – drifting out to sea. Of course, that was before we had any fancy instruments or radios to assist us in the search. So, several of the local island traders set sail to search the waters of the Caribbean in hopes of finding my brother and bring him home safely. We searched for days with no sign of even an oar of the little boat which was likely drifting faster than we could sail. I was afraid to think the most likely – that it had already filled with water and sunk. I seldom went to church those days but for two days and nights I prayed that my little brother would be brought back to me. It seemed the Universe heard, since on the third day, the wind and sea changed direction and blew that little row boat right back the way it had come – right into the harbor where we lived. From that moment on I knew there was such a thing as miracles and that there was indeed someone to watch over us if we just simply asked for help.
I even tried my best to assure Rob of Alex’s safety, however his brief moment of sight was gone. And, thanks to the fever and his fear, his mind was working in overdrive to distort his reason.
By morning, the local boats had given up hope and had resorted to radioing the U.S. Coast Guard in St. Thomas, since they thought the boat was likely drifting fast in that direction. An all out search was called with two USCG cutters sweeping the Anegada Passage for hours without success – even the choppers had given the area a good search only to find a disabled French monohull loaded down with stolen dinghies.
Rob was really starting to worry, sitting in Jeff’s office back at the marina as he attempted to swallow a handful of Tylenol and down a cup of coffee in order to keep his throbbing eyes open By this point he had resorted to turning his head rather than moving his eyes from side to side to avoid the severe pain from this simple bodily function. By now, Rob was beginning to feel like he was in dinghy/dengue hell from which there was no reprieve, and he was rapidly gaining a whole new appreciation for what he had once again, and what he stood to lose if Alex wasn’t found.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock that morning that Christian finally pulled up anchor and slowly motored the Whaler across the lagoon towards the marina dock. By the time he arrived and tied the boat up in one of the slips, everyone was in such a tizzy that they never even noticed him or the Whaler arrive. Christian wandered around the store in amazement looking at all of the wonderful tools and gadgets available to the consummate sailor. There was so much commotion at the front of the store he hadn’t found an opportune moment to ask someone who the manager might be, so he had simply gotten lost in a Disneyland of fishing gear, bang sticks and boat paraphernalia Finally Christian noticed an American man headed his way towards a storeroom at the back of the store. As he passed, Christian saw his opportunity to ask if he by chance knew the manager of the establishment.
West of the Quator Page 27