Celebration was only the second sailboat Artie had ever been aboard, and he soon found out why Larry preferred smaller vessels for his own use when they prepared to leave the harbor the next morning. With the complex electrical control systems throughout the vessel rendered useless by the pulse, there was no way to start the inboard diesel engine. It was not set up for manual cranking the way some smaller marine engines are. They would have to sail out of the crowded anchorage, maneuvering among dozens of other vessels while taking care not to run across their anchor rodes with the seven-foot-deep keel. Just getting underway was a task Artie was unprepared for. With Pete taking the helm and Larry having to manually hoist and trim the huge sails that would normally be controlled by electric winches, he had the grunt job of hauling in the heavy, all-chain anchor rode. That, too, would have normally been done with a push of a button to start an electric windlass, but today Artie had to manually crank the windlass with the emergency backup handle, hoisting over a hundred feet of three-eighths-inch chain inch by inch, heavy labor that had him soaked with sweat in the tropical humidity.
Larry expertly trimmed the main with a manual winch as Pete steered off the wind just at the moment the anchor broke free. Artie continued to crank at the windlass as he pulled in the remaining few feet of chain and then struggled to control the big plow-shaped anchor as it spun in the air and swung back and forth, threatening to slam against Celebration’s pristine bow. He somehow wrestled it aboard without smashing his fingers and pinned it in its chocks as Larry had instructed him before they started. He felt the boat suddenly heel to starboard as the mainsail filled, and then Pete brought her about on another tack to pick a clear line between all the boats in their path. Most everyone in the anchorage was awake and on deck to wave and call out to them as they sailed past. Word of their plans had spread fast, and the other boat owners wished them luck and offered last-minute tidbits of advice. Artie stood on the pulpit watching the bow cut through the clear aquamarine water, wondering if he would soon be in the miserable throes of seasickness once they reached the open water. But at least today’s trip was a short passage and would be over in a few hours. He hoped what Larry had said about the motion of catamarans was true. He had been so sick on the previous voyage, and he tried not to imagine being that sick for two weeks on their way to New Orleans. But above all, as he watched the buildings and green hills of St. Thomas slide by, he was grateful to at last be in motion and going in the right direction—the only direction that mattered to him—west to Culebra and one step closer to New Orleans and Casey.
Larry joined Artie at the bow, where he could see better into the shades of green and blue water to pick out the deepest channel and give hand signals to Pete at the helm to tell him which way to steer. He had been in and out of this harbor countless times, but was taking no chances, considering the circumstances and the vessel’s deep draft. He relaxed a bit once they passed Water Island, a smaller outlying cay that guarded the main entrance. Once it was abeam to port, Culebra was visible on the horizon ahead, hazy blue with distance, and obviously hilly, though not as large or steep as St. Thomas. Larry said it was made up of mainly brush and rock, more desert than anything else, but it was renowned for its pink sand beaches and clear waters. It was also much less accessible than St. Thomas, lacking an airport for commercial jets and reachable only by ferry or small plane in normal times. But there was a good harbor, safe from all but the strongest hurricanes, and big enough to accommodate many cruising boats.
“So it’s technically part of Puerto Rico?” Artie asked his brother.
“Yes, and so is Vieques,” he said, pointing to another outlying island farther south. “See that big mountain way past them in the distance? That’s El Yunque, the highest peak on the main island of Puerto Rico. There’s a rain forest preserve up there that’s pretty awesome. I like Puerto Rico. It’s about my favorite place in the Caribbean. The people are great—especially the women,” he grinned. “There’s more happening on the main island, but Culebra’s quieter and better suited for building a boat.”
“You’ve been at this project for a while, haven’t you?”
“A little over three years now; I keep getting pulled away on these delivery jobs, so working on my own boat is kind of hit or miss. I put in a month here, two weeks there, that sort of thing. But hey, it’s all good—I’m on island time the whole time—and the best thing about it is I pay for the boat as I build it. I’ll own her free and clear, unlike our friends here on this monstrosity.”
“What does a boat like this cost?” Artie asked.
“This one? I don’t know, roughly around six, seven hundred grand, I reckon. Maybe more, the way they’ve got her set up. Way outta my league, I’ll tell you that, but chump change for a doctor like you.”
“Yeah, right. She does seem to sail well, though.”
“Oh yeah, and I’m sure she’s fast too, in the right conditions, with her long waterline. Out in the blue water she would be quite comfortable compared to Ibis.”
The route to open water took them right past the airport, where they could see smoke still rising from the rubble of the terminal, and a few undamaged jetliners that had been far enough away on the runway to avoid the explosions and fires. There was no sign of activity there, as the airport now had little to offer to anyone on the island. A few miles beyond the waterfront runway, the westernmost point of St. Thomas slipped by to starboard and soon they were off soundings with nothing in the way and 20 knots of favorable trade winds to bear them swiftly to Culebra. With no need to keep a lookout off the bow for now, Artie and Larry made their way back to the cockpit to join Pete and Maryanne for snacks and conversation as they all took turns steering the yacht by hand. Artie was glad to be moving, but he also couldn’t help thinking that in the few hours that would elapse from they time they left the mooring until they were anchored at this first waypoint on their voyage, he could have flown all the way to New Orleans and driven his car to Casey’s apartment—if only there were an airplane that could fly, or a car that would start….
But despite his impatience, the crossing to the other island went surprisingly quickly, and Artie soon found himself back at the bow with Larry to help spot the channel as they rounded a barren rocky point and entered a narrow opening on the south side of the island that led into a large and well-protected harbor. Boats were anchored on both sides of the channel and off the beach that fronted the small town surrounding the basin. Artie guessed there were at least fifty large cruisers and some smaller day boats, most of them sailing vessels. As soon as they were safely inside the anchorage and past the reefs, Larry took over the helm and guided Celebration to a spot deep enough to accommodate her draft and give enough swinging room at anchor, whatever the wind direction. He said he was anxious to check on Scully and his boat and Pete said they could borrow the inflatable dinghy, as he and Maryanne were in no hurry to go to shore and could wait until the next day.
Larry rowed, pointing the blunt bow of the clumsy inflatable at an opening in the mangroves on a stretch of the shore away from the main cluster of houses and stores. As they neared a narrow beach, Artie could see a large white tarp stretched over a framework of two-by-fours and posts. Protruding from under the makeshift workshop roof were the upswept bows of two slender hulls that brought to mind giant canoes, more than any other kind of boat. They pulled the dinghy up on the sand and Larry secured it with an anchor.
“There she is,” he said. “Alegria: our ticket to New Orleans.”
Artie walked across the sand to get a closer look before saying anything. The two V-shaped catamaran hulls were supported by heavy wooden cradles blocked up over the sand by various bits and blocks of timber. Workbenches and sawhorses surrounding the hulls were cluttered with other miscellaneous assemblies and fabrications that were obviously part of the boat, and tools, assorted hardware, jugs of epoxy, and cans of paint were scattered in haphazard piles on every available work surface. A stepladder stood next to one of the hulls, g
iving access to the deck, which was at least eight feet from the ground. Artie’s anticipation of getting underway to New Orleans turned to dismay, which was written all over his face when he looked back at Larry.
“This isn’t a boat, it’s a construction project! It’ll take forever to put all this together and get it in the water.”
“It’s closer than you think, Doc. Look, I know you can’t visualize how it’s going to be—most people can’t when they see it this way. But when these 36-foot hulls are spread apart to assembly width, the overall beam will be 20 feet—that’s a big platform with an easy motion at sea. All the beam and deck components are built. We just have to install some hardware here and there, step the mast, do some bits of rigging, and we’ll be ready to launch. Cosmetics be damned, I’ll paint her later after all this shit is over with. She’s one hell of a boat. You’re gonna see once she’s in the water.”
“It all just looks so overwhelming to me. I mean, how are we supposed to even move these huge hulls apart to put them together? How do we get it in the water without a crane or something?”
“It’s all downhill to the water, Doc,” Larry said, pointing out the barely perceptible slope from the boat shed to the high-tide line. “Trust me, I know how to get it done.”
“So where’s this friend of yours, Scully, who’s supposed to be working on it?”
“Right there,” Larry said, pointing to the harbor.
Artie saw a lone figure paddling a long sea kayak with bright yellow decks and two separate cockpits, the front one empty. The paddler was coming from the direction of the main town, across the harbor. As he ran the bow of the kayak up on the beach and stepped out, Artie could see that he looked just the way his daughter had described him. He was shirtless and barefoot, clad in nothing but a pair of ragged cutoffs that had once been camouflage military fatigues. There couldn’t have been a spare ounce of fat on him. As he pulled the boat up above the tide line, wiry muscles rippled under his skin like knotted cords. That skin was a shade of ebony rarely seen today with so many generations of mixed blood lending lighter tones to the color of most people of his race. Scully looked like he could be purely African from some untouched equatorial tribal lineage, but what stood out even more than his striking dark color and outstanding physique was his wild hair. As he walked up to them, dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist swung like tangled lengths of rope across his shoulders and behind his back.
“Scully! What the hell have you been doing, mon? Why don’t you have my boat in the water yet?” Larry grinned as he stepped forward to greet his best friend.
“A mon got to have a break sometime. I an’ I goin’ to de town to find out de news and den I look bok dis way an’ see dis rubber dinghy on de beach. T’ink some pirate be comin’ to steal de boat, so I comin’ bok fast to put a stop!”
“I am a pirate, don’t you know, Scully. Hey, this is my brother, Artie. He’s Casey’s father. You remember Casey, don’t you?”
“How can a mon forget de most beautiful girl ever comin’ down de island? Pleased to meet you, mon. An’ your daughter, she wid you?”
“No, I wish she were.”
“Casey’s in New Orleans at the college,” Larry said. “Artie’s not supposed to be here in Culebra with me. He came down to help me deliver a boat to St. Thomas. You remember that new little schooner I was telling you about when I left here to take that Beneteau to Trinidad? Well, we were halfway through the passage when the lights went out. What about you, did you see anything when it happened?”
“You know a mon not supposed to be up all de night’cept when he navigating on de boat. No, I an’ I sleepin’ when dem seh dey seen de flashin’ lights. Only in de mornin’ when I put on de radio an’ de music don’t play, I t’ink somet’ing hoppen. But I got work to do on de boat an’ not to worry, until later in de mornin’ when I try de drill press…an’ she don’t turn. Den I check de cable…and den try de saw. No juice to de shop an’ no light shinin’, so den I paddle to de town an’ find same t’ing everywhere in de island. No mon he can seh what is de reason, but some of dem talkin’ of de lights in de night sky. An’ some of dem say dat mehbe it’s de sun gonna burn up, or mehbe it’s some nuclear missiles fired up by de evil dictators in Bobbylon. But I seh Jah, he strike de Earth wid his mighty hand, ’cause he is displeased wid all dis desecration of his creation.”
Artie could barely understand what Scully was saying. He was obviously speaking English, but in some strange West Indian dialect that was so foreign it almost sounded like another language. Larry obviously understood him perfectly, though, despite how fast he was talking.
“You’ve been saying that for years, Scully,” Larry said. “But whatever it was, as far as we know it’s widespread. In St. Thomas, everything’s out. Have you heard any news from anywhere else beyond here?”
“Some mon comin’ on de sailboat from Fajardo yesterday. He seh all de lights dem dark on Puerto Rico. Lights dem don’t work. Cars dem won’t go. Bus too, an’ de planes dem can’t fly. He seh he comin’ to Culebra because he afraid to stay on Puerto Rico. T’ree million people an’ dem got not’ing to eat on dat island.”
“Yeah, Puerto Rico would not be the place to be about now, just like I told Artie about St. Thomas. I guess a lot of people from over on the main island will be coming here and to Vieques too when it gets bad, but only those who have sailboats or some kind of old, really basic engines will have a way to get here.”
“So wot you gonna do, Copt’n? You t’inkin’ to put dis boat in de watah?”
“We’ve got to, Scully. Sailing is the only way to go. Artie has no way to get home, and he can’t stay here, because Casey is in New Orleans. We’ve got to sail there and try to find her. We need your help, Scully. We’re sailing to the States.”
“New Orlean? Dat’s in Bobbylon, mon! America de very place dat displease Jah so much he shut off de lights all over de world. A mon not supposed to be sailin’ to dat place in de end time like dis.”
“Maybe not, but we can’t leave Casey there. What else have you got to do, Scully? You always said Jah was going to destroy Babylon anyway. Maybe now you can see it for yourself. We don’t plan on hanging around after we find Casey. I figure things are going to get real bad up there if the power stays off long enough, too many people who won’t know what in the hell to do. It’s bound to get ugly. But if we get going fast, we hope we can find Casey quickly and get the hell back south to St. Somewhere, where there’s not so damned many people.”
Scully looked out over the harbor and then back to the disassembled catamaran in the shed. He pushed his long dreads back over his shoulder and reached out to shake both Artie and Larry’s hands. “Okay. I t’ink it’s crazy but if you goin’, I goin’ too. Can’t leave a girl like Casey in dat evil place. We need get her on de boat and wid she friend too. Nice girls dem, and need to bring dem bok to de island. But dis boat she can’t sail like dis.”
“Absolutely, Scully. So let’s get to work so we can go!”
FOUR
WHEN THE TWILIGHT FADED away in New Orleans, the blacked-out city was darker than Casey could have ever imagined. Standing on the balcony outside Grant’s apartment, the three of them watched as night enveloped the neighborhood, cutting them off from the world beyond the streets out front. Stars they had never noticed before in the perpetual light pollution of the city now filled the sky in the gaps between surrounding trees and houses, providing the only illumination to be seen other than a few candles and battery-powered flashlights visible through some of the nearby windows. Casey wasn’t afraid of the dark, but this complete absence of electric-powered lights was just creepy in such a dense urban environment. Adding to the closed-in feeling of near complete darkness was the unsettling quiet caused by the lack of automobile traffic and other mechanized sounds. She had not been aware until now of how pervasive the constant hum of machinery in the city had been until it was silenced, and now she heard human voices from the streets and nearby buildings that w
ould have been drowned in the background noise before. They each stood looking and listening, lost in their private thoughts for a few moments, saying nothing until Grant suggested they go in and eat something.
Inside the apartment, Grant’s battery-powered lantern illuminated the small living room where he had begun sorting through his camping gear and organizing it into several piles according to each item’s priority. Casey was surprised at how much stuff he had, and wondered how they were supposed to carry all this on bicycles if they really had to leave the city that way. Once the compact sleeping bags and other items were unpacked from the duffel bags he kept them in, Grant’s equipment practically filled the room. Casey had only been camping a couple of times with her dad, and that had been years ago in a state park campground where they were able to set up the tent just a few feet from the car. There had been hot showers and vending machines, as well as lots of other friendly people around. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to camp along the road while riding bicycles, as Grant suggested, since 90 miles would be too far for them to travel in a day. Unlike Jessica, she could see that it was possible to ride that far, but she sure hoped they wouldn’t have to. Casey still held out hope that they would wake up in the morning and the lights would be back on—just as they had been after a tornado had ripped through the neighborhood and taken down the power lines when she was a little girl. Grant was convinced this couldn’t happen.
“This is different than any kind of conventional wind storm or lightning damage,” he said. He went on to explain that though wind can blow down power poles or trees and take out big areas of service by disrupting the transmission lines, and lightning can short out transformers and destroy other components along the lines or at the power sub-stations, the areas of damage in both cases are usually pretty limited. Katrina was an exception, to be sure, he said, because the power grid throughout most of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama was taken out in a single day by that storm. It took a staggering amount of work to get all those power lines that were pulled down by falling trees rebuilt and back online, even with utility companies from all over America pouring into the region and crews working around the clock for weeks. In some of the hardest-hit areas, it took nearly two months to get all the power restored—and that was with the resources to do it. Plenty of replacement parts were available everywhere outside the hurricane damage zone, as well as running vehicles and manpower to operate them and do the work. Grant asked them both, if this solar storm or whatever it was took out a bigger area than Katrina had, maybe even most of the United States, where were the crews and parts going to come from? “I don’t think we need to entertain false hope that this is going to be fixed any time soon,” he said.
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