by Peter Tonkin
‘I know how he likes them,’ the chef answered. ‘I keep some fatty bacon especially for him. It’ll be up on the bridge in five.’
‘Thanks. Miguel-Angel – up to the bridge. The captain wants a talk.’
‘I think he wants me to work my passage home, no?’
‘Not in the way you think,’ said Robin. ‘We’d better stop off on the way up and get wet weather gear and safety harnesses for the pair of us.’
‘Si,’ said Miguel-Angel five minutes later as he stood on the bridge after Toro had explained their problem. ‘I can guide you past the Tres Marias. They sing to me and I know their voices.’
Ah, the confidence of youth, thought Robin, who was still finding it hard not to laugh at the sight of him in a gigantic yellow jacket that was only held on his slight frame by a safety harness tightly fastened over it. ‘They sing to you even in conditions like these?’ she asked, meeting Toro’s sceptical gaze.
‘Es verdad,’ insisted Miguel-Angel. ‘The fiercer the storm the louder their songs. I also know the voice of Isla Santa Isabel. Capitan Carlos taught me. I can guide you into Puerto Banderas, even if I cannot see Dahlia Blanca.’
‘Who’s talking about Dahlia Blanca?’ asked Nic as he and Liberty came on to the bridge.
‘It is I,’ admitted Miguel-Angel. ‘Dahlia Blanca makes a fine beacon to guide us into the harbour at Los Muertos, day or night. You know this house?’
‘I built it,’ said Nic. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Es verdad?’ asked Miguel-Angel. ‘Is a fine house. Capitan Carlos, his daughter and son-in-law, they work there.’
‘Right,’ said Robin, before the discussion got sidetracked into gossip. ‘If we want to be sure of seeing it again – as a beacon or as home – we’d better get out and listen for your singing islands, Miguel-Angel.’ She led him down to the main deck level, and they went out side by side into the wind shadow of the bridge house. She stood still while Miguel-Angel strained forward into the blast, listening with all his might. Robin pushed her walkie-talkie to her lips. ‘Can you hear me, Captain?’
‘I can hear you.’
‘Well, it all depends on what the boy hears now …’
No sooner had she finished speaking than Miguel-Angel was gesturing to her.
‘Listen!’ he shouted. ‘You hear her?’
Robin closed her eyes, concentrating as fiercely as she could, sifting through the overlapping waves of sound. The buffeting bellow of the wind – big, deep blasts from behind exploding over the deep ocean; piercing, keening whistles from above as it howled through the ruins of the equipment masts. The throbbing of the racing motors that fought to keep the boat alive in the mountainous seas. But then, to her right, she suddenly heard another sound altogether. A deep, percussive booming that echoed almost to silence before it was repeated. ‘You hear!’ shouted Miguel-Angel, mightily pleased. ‘This is Maria Madre. She has the deepest voice of all. She is away to starboard, perhaps a kilometre south of us. We will run safely past her on this heading and through the Isla San Juanito Passage. But I would tell your capitan that he needs to ease us five degrees northward to port as soon as he comes into her wind shadow, which will happen within half an hour. That way, he will run north of the reef at Isla Santa Isabel, which he will reach in two more hours or so. Only then can he turn ten degrees southward to starboard and take us south into the harbour at Los Muertos an hour after that.’
Charily at first and then with growing confidence, Captain Toro followed Miguel-Angel’s instructions and took Maxima through seas that behaved precisely as he predicted. Robin offered to relieve the exhausted captain on bridge watch between the islands and he snatched a couple of hours’ sleep as Maxima ran on, her heading north, from Isla Maria Madre to Isla Santa Isabel, even though the fat bacon sandwich and creosote-dark coffee had invigorated him. Robin was so impressed with both the boy and the butty that when Toro came back on to the bridge after the better part of three hours’ sleep, he found a tray awaiting him with an even bigger bacon sandwich and another cup of coffee. And a walkie-talkie, through which Robin informed him that she and Miguel-Angel were on the deck in the wind shadow of the bridge house again, listening to Isla Santa Isabel singing.
No sooner had they rejoined him on the bridge than he used the quieter water in the lee of the reefs to order the helm ten degrees south to starboard. But the stormy waters soon reasserted themselves, and so Maxima ran on down towards Puerto Banderas at a good ten knots once more. ‘If we cannot see Dahlia Blanca,’ Captain Toro asked Miguel-Angel an hour later, ‘how will we know how to approach the harbour? Is there another landmark that might help or guide us?’
Miguel-Angel nodded. ‘There is the Faro on the big breakwater. But on this heading, Capitan Carlos was always able to guide Pilar into the dock at Los Muertos. The harbour is wide because of the Rio Cortez, which flows down from the Cordillera.’
‘Can we slow down?’ asked Robin. ‘At this speed we’ll be in serious trouble if we hit anything.’
‘Yes,’ said Captain Toro. ‘We will need to risk slowing in any case, because as we come closer to the coast we will get caught up in the surf if we’re not careful. But from what Miguel-Angel says, it seems likely we’ll be able to get into the shelter of the harbour without getting involved in the surf line.’
‘Would you like us to go out to the foredeck again?’ asked Robin.
‘That would be helpful,’ answered Toro. ‘As we close with Puerto Banderas we will need to be clear about where we are and where we need to head next.’
Robin and Miguel-Angel returned to the sheltered section of the foredeck. This time, however, they were not listening out for the songs of the islands they were passing. Instead, they were looking out for anything that would lead Maxima into her safe haven in the harbour past Los Muertos. Lookouts such as they were should have been up at the point of the forecastle, but had they ventured there they would have been blown bodily into the ocean. They had a clearer view here, however, than Toro through the spray-smeared bridge windows, so they were relying on their eyes rather than their ears. It was ironic, therefore, that it was a sound that alerted them to what was going on. Toro had throttled back and was allowing the storm waves to run under the keel a good deal faster than Maxima was moving. This made things even more uncomfortable for anyone aboard not yet used to the pitching and tossing which the big waves generated, and meant that the foredeck moved up and down a great deal more wildly than it had done even while going past Isla Maria Madre. And the result of that was that Maxima’s forefoot suddenly smashed down on to something so forcefully that both Robin and Miguel-Angel thought they must be holed. But no. Maxima had simply smashed down on to an upturned rowboat, which sank so fast after the collision that the two watch-keepers only just saw what had been hit as it blundered along the boat’s sleek side. The next few minutes brought more debris that Maxima smashed her way through increasingly noisily.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Miguel-Angel, awed.
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Robin soberly. ‘But it looks as though a good deal of debris from Puerto Banderas is being washed out to sea. From what my husband Richard said about what he saw on his way up the Baja, there may have been serious flooding, especially down your Rio Cortez.’
And even as she said this, Maxima’s cutwater bashed up against a more substantial piece of flotsam. As it washed past the two lookouts they saw that it was – a wooden section more than two metres high and a metre and a half wide. A construction of teak planks and crosspieces, clearly the main gate to a considerable inmueble estate, with the ruined remnants of black metal hinges torn bodily off a gatepost down one side. And, on the front of it, in letters formed of black-painted wrought iron, were the words: Dahlia Blanca.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sulu Queen fell off the top of a big sea like a base jumper diving off a cliff. She corkscrewed, seeming to go through all of the six degrees of freedom as she pitched, rolled, yawed, plunged, heaved, swayed and surged. She
smashed headfirst into the trough and huge fans of white spray exploded on either side of her bow, just visible beyond the torrential downpour until the wind whipped the spray back and smeared it over the clear view like ice. There was a distant crash and some swearing scarcely audible beneath the bellow of the storm. The mugs on the bridge coffee table all slid forward and crashed silently into each other. Richard staggered slightly. ‘Come round to ninety degrees,’ he ordered.
‘Ninety degrees, due east,’ said the helmsman.
‘She’ll settle now,’ Richard informed Guerrera and Antoine, who were both fighting to stay erect. ‘Half a cargo still stuck aboard makes good ballast at least, and she’ll steady with the sea running up behind her.’
‘As long as we go north of the Tres Marias,’ said Guerrera.
‘That was the objective behind that uncomfortable readjustment of the heading,’ said Richard. ‘The Tres Marias are just to the south of us. We’re just entering the San Juanito passage, following the same course as Maxima – or the beacon, at any rate. I’ll adjust our heading again in the calmer water in the lee of Maria Madre then swing round Santa Isabel and into Puerto Banderas before the end of the watch.’
‘Maxima might not be there,’ warned Guerrero. ‘The course we’re following is the one the local fishermen use. I don’t remember a vessel of this size ever coming in this way. They don’t like the reefs and shallows off Santa Isabel. It’s a ships’ graveyard. From what I remember the big vessels either come north or south parallel to the coast, and only those steaming up from Acapulco and Vallarta actually come into port at Puerto Banderas. Or, if they’re coming eastwards in from the ocean they tend to run south of Maria Cleofas, the southernmost of the Tres Marias, and then swing north into the harbour past Los Muertos beach and dock against the breakwater.’
‘We’ll keep a sharp eye out,’ said Richard. ‘We have collision alarm radar and forward-facing sonar. All mod cons. And radio, of course. If we could actually raise anyone south of the border, down Mexico way. Well, anyone we want to speak to, at any rate.’ In fact, Sulu Queen had registered her presence with a number of Mexican authorities. Authorities who had not been able to advise them as to the current state of things in their destination. And they still had not managed to make contact with the men and women they needed to speak to in Puerto Banderas itself – or aboard whichever vessel was sitting in harbour there with the tell-tale emergency beacon aboard.
‘We’ll be going in relatively blind,’ warned Cheng, who seemed to have grown into his post as Richard’s first officer. He looked older, sounded more competent and decisive. And he was no longer shy about offering his opinions. ‘That lack of contact with anyone in Puerto Banderas is worrying. Not the coastguard or the harbourmaster. All the local radio stations are off-air. Even the local news channels FOROtv and Azteca13 have stopped broadcasting from there. It’s as though the whole place has shut down.’
‘Or been drowned out,’ added Antoine. ‘Washed away, maybe …’
‘Point well made,’ said Richard. ‘We’ll slow down and take care as we pass Santa Isabel, then we’ll positively tiptoe into the harbour on slow ahead, or as close to slow ahead as we dare go in these seas. It’d be a pity to come all this way and then go down with all hands as we approach our final destination. Which reminds me, now that Sulu Queen has settled somewhat, you and I need to go over the chart of Puerto Banderas harbour and its approaches – because, under the circumstances, I’m not expecting a pilot to come out and guide us in. Juan Jose, you know this place best – would you give us the benefit of your experience?’
The major followed Richard and Cheng across to the electronic chart and waited while Richard found the details of Puerto Banderas harbour. ‘OK,’ said Richard as the schematic filled the screen. ‘As you can see, it’s a sizeable, combined harbour. The outer area is the commercial dock and the inner is the marina. They are separated by this bridge here which takes a six-lane highway out to the breakwater here. The whole thing has been extended from the mouth of the Rio Cortez. The breakwater’s been built out in an L-shape on the Pacific side, turning the westerly flow of the river to a southerly one. The breakwater runs parallel to the Malecón as far as the Playa Los Muertos beach on the mainland. The actual harbour mouth is a five-hundred-metre-wide channel between the breakwater and the Malecón, dredged to a considerable depth, especially against the inner side of the breakwater, which is long, high and very robust, ending in the Faro, or lighthouse, here. The breakwater is substantial enough not only to have ship-handling facilities but also warehousing on the inner side, and even two or three hotels on the outer side looking out over the Town Beach to the Pacific on one aspect and over the marina up into the Rio Cortez and the Sierra Madre behind it on the other. All served by the six-lane highway coming over the bridge. The commercial section, the Malecón, is on the inland side here, and it stretches right from the left bank of the river mouth all the way along to Los Muertos beach. Is this all as you remember it, Juan Jose?’
‘Yes. But the chart gives little idea of the scale. The Rio Cortez is quite a big river. It drains straight down from the watershed among the peaks of the Sierra Madre in a series of waterfalls and lakes.’
‘That’s right,’ said Richard. ‘It’s by the lowest of those lakes that Nic Greenbaum built Dahlia Blanca, right up there in the jungle, reaching out to the edge of the cliff. Apparently you can see it from the harbour. The locals use it as a landmark, according to Biddy McKinney. I’m looking forward to seeing it. I’ve only seen pictures so far. But you were saying. About the river itself …’
‘So, it comes down from the mountains quite powerfully. And it keeps everything pretty well dredged by the strength of its current, especially along the outer edge of the main channel, which is the inner edge of the breakwater where the commercial docks are. The breakwater is the better part of a kilometre long and half a kilometre wide; a little narrower than the harbour mouth. It’s manmade but very substantial. It would be possible for several vessels of this size to berth along the inner side of the breakwater. As I said, I remember seeing big cruise ships docking there in my younger days. And these little squares that represent the hotels you were just mentioning – they are the likes of the Westin, the Marriot and the Hilton. Some of them are twenty stories high. And they have substantial grounds. Swimming pools. Decorative gardens. All on the widest section of the breakwater.’
‘OK,’ said Richard. ‘So access should be easy enough, though you see the recommended routes on the chart all come up from the south, as you were saying, Juan Jose. They come straight in past the lighthouse and harbourmaster’s offices at the point of the breakwater on one side and the port authority building part way down the Malecón on the other. If we go in on that heading we should end up here, where the loading and unloading facilities are located. But, of course, we don’t know what state the facilities are in, though if no one there is answering our radio calls then I guess they’ll be deserted. I hope Maxima was careful going in.’
‘If that is actually her sitting in the outer area where the beacon’s signal is coming from,’ added Antoine as he joined them. ‘I’d have thought a yacht like Maxima would have gone under the road bridge and into the inner marina. Always assuming she doesn’t have a private, secure dock.’
‘Which I know she does. But let’s just assume it’s her for the time being,’ suggested Richard. ‘We’ll find out the truth one way or another pretty soon. And she must have been careful, because I doubt the emergency signal would still be broadcasting so clearly if anything too terminal had happened to her. Now, Mr Cheng, let’s get some good old-fashioned ship-handling planned. After we get past Isla Santa Isabel we’ll use the quieter water in the lee of the island to swing south, track south-east across the harbour itself – still well out – swing round and head back in from the south along the recommended route on the chart here, keeping an eye out for the Faro lighthouse on our port beam and the port authority building to starboard. Slowly and
carefully. Hoping that the dock we need is clear. And that Katapult8 and Maxima are waiting.’
Once the immediate plans were made, Richard used the slightly less stressful period between their passage past the Tres Marias and towards the reefs at Isla Santa Isabel to try and work out something more long term. He had experienced a wider range of weather conditions than most, but he had never had to face an ARkStorm before. He really had very little idea of what to expect beyond the threat of a truly biblical downpour lasting in the region of forty days and forty nights, as it did for Noah in Genesis. But he knew a woman who did. And Dr Jones was happy to take his contact, for she was prioritizing the National Guard and those like Richard, who were trying to help them, consumed with unreasoning guilt that she had warned California of the imminent disaster but not warned Mexico, where the real damage was being done.
‘I believe you have already experienced the primary storm front,’ she said quietly, her face on his Skype contact frowning with concern. ‘It was you, was it not, who reported the precise height and nature of the storm surge and the effect of its first impact on Baja California Norte?’
‘I flew over it in a helicopter,’ he admitted. ‘I’m on shipboard now, and much further south. I’m at one hundred and six degrees west, twenty-one fifty-five north, coming up to the reefs at Isla Santa Isabel. We still have high seas, though the storm surge has passed. The general conditions are severe storm, but everything except the rain seems to be easing. What I need to know is: what do I have to expect? Medium term and long term, if possible?’