Why would she leave? Charity thought. For a trawler, anything other than flat seas and calm winds were reason enough to stay put in a safe harbor. The Bimini over Sea Biscuit’s fly bridge was a good fifteen feet above the water, and the boat presented an awful lot of surface area to the wind.
Going back down to the salon, Charity turned on the VHF radio and plucked the mic from its holder. She checked that she was on the hailing frequency and called for Sea Biscuit. When there was no answer, she hailed again.
“S/V Cattitude calling Wind Dancer,” a man’s voice replied. “Go to seventy-two.”
Charity switched frequencies and hailed what she assumed was the catamaran, judging by the name.
“Wind Dancer, the trawler you arrived with yesterday left before dawn. It went west-southwest, toward Northwest Channel.”
Northwest Channel was a natural, very deep channel to the Tongue of the Ocean, part of the Bahamas surrounded by shallows with a bottom depth of over six thousand feet in places.
“I thought it was too shallow that way.”
“It is for you,” the man replied. “I’ve crossed it under power with the centerboards up at high tide. That trawler probably draws the same.”
“Thanks, Cattitude,” Charity said into the mic. “Wind Dancer standing by on sixteen.”
She changed the radio back to the hailing channel and sat at the navigation desk. The chart of the Berry Islands was spread before her. She studied the contour lines of the shallows to the west of her location and saw that the guy was right: there was a natural winding channel of sorts. Not in the true sense of the word; it looked more like wide shallows that got barely four feet deep in some places, a tidal plain twisting this way and that. But Savannah had told her that they’d been to these islands many times. Perhaps she knew the way.
There was nothing to be gained by trying to figure out why she left without saying goodbye. In two hours, Savannah could be ten to fifteen miles away and there were dozens of small coves.
Perhaps she was embarrassed after her revelation, Charity thought.
So rather than ponder it further, Charity began preparing to get underway herself. She had no cell phone signal here, and Victor would be leaving Nassau within the hour. With no way to let him know she’d moved to a new anchorage, her best bet was to intercept him out on the blue, by sailing a reverse course from Hoffman’s Cay toward Nassau.
Getting her foul weather gear from a small hanging locker, she stuffed it into a waterproof bag, along with some fruit for later. She poured the coffee into a large thermos, then carried it up to the helm. Opening the hidden compartment at the helm, she carefully wrapped her Colt in its oilcloth and stored it away.
The current had changed with the rising tide, and Dancer’s bow was pointed toward the open ocean, about forty-five degrees off the wind. Charity sat at the helm and opened the little cabinet beneath the wheel house to start the engine, then thought better of it. Conditions were perfect to do something she didn’t get a chance to do very often: sail off the anchor. Instead of starting the engine, she turned on the batteries and checked that they were fully charged. The small wind turbine mounted high above the aft rail had charged the batteries all night.
Everything was in the green, so she toggled the switch to raise the mainsail. The halyard slowly hauled the sail out of the boom furler, as she eased the tension on the main sheet, letting the wind move the boom out to port. The mainsail snapped at the wind, as if Wind Dancer were anxious to test herself against it. When the main reached the top of the mast and with the sail luffing in the strong wind, Charity flipped the switch for the anchor windlass.
Timing the maneuver was critical. When the anchor broke free from the sand, it would still be dangling ten or fifteen feet below the boat and could get fouled on something. She’d have to haul in the main just enough to hold the boat in place against the current until the anchor was seated.
With a deft hand on the toggles, she waited, feeling her boat’s movement against wind and water, as the windlass slowly pulled Wind Dancer forward. Charity felt the anchor give and eased the boom inboard just a little, diminishing the luff. The anchor snagged again, but she held the main, turning the wheel slightly into the wind. Soon she felt the anchor come up off the bottom and, after a few seconds, heard the heavy ten-foot chain rattle across the roller on the pulpit, as the anchor seated itself.
She turned the wheel off the wind slightly, the main snapped, and the seventy-six-year-old vessel heeled a few degrees, gathering forward speed. Toggling the port staysail winch, she unfurled the smaller foresail at the bow, adding more power. Once set, she eased off on the sheet as the staysail pulled Wind Dancer forward.
Manipulating both the main and staysail winches from experience, Charity set each, then quickly set the autopilot to maintain course and went to the bow to secure the anchor. Back at the helm, she took a moment to pour a mug of coffee, then switched off the autopilot.
Beating to windward, Dancer gathered a little more speed. It was a fine line to dance; pointing upwind too much would cause the sails to lose lift and not be able to provide the power to overcome the water’s drag on the hull. Pointing more to port, away from the wind, would give her more speed, but it would also take her dangerously close to the shallows. And the channel was far too narrow to tack back and forth.
“Bravo!” she heard the man on the catamaran say over the radio, as she passed between the northern tip of High Cay and the rocks just off the southern end of Little Harbor Cay. She picked up the old conch horn from the corner of the cockpit and blew her reply. The old shell had been with the boat when she got it, and she just left it laying loose on the deck, a throwback to an earlier time.
The sonar showed the bottom swiftly falling away below Wind Dancer’s hull, as the old sloop moved out into the open ocean. Once clear of the islands, Charity eased the wheel to port slightly, turning just a few degrees more to the north, away from the wind. This slight maneuver provided more lift and power to the sails, increasing Dancer’s forward speed.
She spun the wheel to starboard, using the boat’s increased speed to tack across the wind. At the same time, she glanced up at the wind indicator at the masthead and adjusted the sheets for a beam reach on the wind point she planned to steer. The sails continued to luff for a moment as the bow came about, crossing through the wind. The mainsail and boom swung across the Bimini top, then snapped again as the wind filled the sails from the port side.
She adjusted the main slightly, as Wind Dancer began to pick up speed after the turn. Her waterline length was just over thirty-six feet. On most sailboats, or any displacement hull boat, it was this measurement that limited speed. Unlike a planing hull, which used engine power to climb up and over the wave created by the bow, a displacement hull couldn’t outrun its bow wave.
She glanced down at the small chart plotter on the pedestal. With only the two sails deployed, Dancer was making just over six knots.
Reaching down to the console, Charity toggled the starboard genoa winch, unfurling the larger headsail. Dancer heeled slightly more, as she began to accelerate.
Built in the thirties from a design by famed naval architect John Alden, Wind Dancer had competed in many long-distance races in her early years, winning quite a few. Charity looked at the knot meter again and smiled; just a shade under eight knots, nearly maximum hull speed.
Continuing her southeast heading, she waited until the islands were barely visible on the horizon, two miles to the west. Confident that she was near a rhumb line between Nassau and Hoffman’s Cay, she turned slightly more to the south and readjusted the sails. Now all she had to do was keep an eye out for the boat bringing Victor to her.
Her radar screen was empty, save for the islands to her west — and she was moving away from them. The range on the unit, figuring the boat bringing Victor was a typical speed boat with a six-foot profile, was about ten miles. Z
ooming the chart plotter out so she could see New Providence Island, she judged that she was indeed very close to a line drawn from there to Hoffman’s Cay. There wasn’t any reason for the boat Victor hired to stray more than ten miles from a straight course, so she felt confident that she’d be able to intercept them. They might not have a radio on, but Victor should easily recognize her dark blue hull and dark sails against the dull gray sky.
Victor had messaged her two days ago, when she passed near Chub Cay, that he’d be leaving at nine o’clock local time, and gave her the name of the boat. Charity looked at her watch. It was near that time now.
For her to sail to Nassau would take most of the day, but it was only an hour or so in a go-fast boat, and she was headed toward them. She knew she’d be in Victor’s arms within an hour, so she enjoyed the time with her boat.
Seas were beginning to build, but the slow rollers were barely three feet and at regimented intervals. Coming out of the east, Wind Dancer took them on the port bow, sending a sheet of fine mist into the air, as she charged through, unperturbed.
An hour passed, and Charity began to worry. She tried hailing the boat but got no response. She stared at the chart plotter again. There was nothing between Nassau and the Berry Islands except forty miles of ocean. Even if the boat changed course due to weather and headed for Chub Cay or one of the other islands in the southern part of the Berry Islands, she’d see them on her radar screen. Those islands were within its range still.
She turned slightly more south, to keep them in range of her radar, and adjusted the sails for a broader reach. Wind Dancer slowed slightly, and the waves were more on the beam than bow, sometimes sending sheets of spray high into the air. Protected by the Bimini and dodger, Charity forged onward. Every fifteen or twenty minutes, she tried to hail the other boat to no avail.
Off Chub Cay, Charity’s cell-phone picked up a signal, chirping an alert that she had a message. Snatching it up, she saw that it was from Victor, saying he’d be leaving this morning. It was dated Wednesday evening, New Year’s Eve.
She quickly replied that she had to change anchorages, and was underway, eight miles east of Chub and headed toward Nassau. The cell signal held for nearly twenty minutes, but there was no reply.
Another hour passed as the southernmost of the Berry Islands began to fall off the radar screen behind her. It was unlike Victor not to respond right away. He always had his cell phone on him. If he had a signal, which he would just about anywhere in Nassau, he would always reply within minutes.
The closer she got to the midpoint of the forty-mile crossing, the more she worried. She saw other boat’s echoes on her radar screen, but all were either heading in the wrong direction, or were moving too slowly to be anything other than a trawler or another sailboat.
Maybe leaving the Berry Islands wasn’t such a good idea, Charity thought, as she looked astern once more. He might have left earlier, due to the weather, and headed to the lee side of the island chain. He could be at Hoffman’s Cay now and not have a way to contact her, but he’d see the ugly boat there and maybe guess that she’d changed anchorages to be away from it.
Checking her watch, she estimated that if Victor had left on time, he’d already have been there, found her gone, and would somehow have convinced the boat’s owner to do some island-hopping to find her. It wouldn’t take them long to get within cell distance of Chub Cay. Then he’d get her message and head back to Nassau.
By noon, Charity was certain that something had gone wrong. Maybe the boat Victor had hired had engine trouble and turned back. New Providence Island was on the horizon, but she knew from the past that she wouldn’t get a signal on her cell phone until she was within three miles.
She had a satellite phone she could use, but it was for dire emergencies. They’d gotten separated a few times in the past, but had always known where they were headed and often reunited there. They’d come up with a plan in case something like this happened. They’d each get close to civilization and wait until they were both in range of communication.
When she did pick up a cell signal, she waited anxiously for a reply as she sailed as fast as possible toward the harbor, but none came. She tried calling several times, but it kept going directly to voicemail.
Charity contacted Harbour Bay Marina, just across from the boatyard where Victor had his boat hauled out, and requested a day slip, possibly overnight. The woman told her that they had plenty of room for as long as she’d like.
It was just after one o’clock local time when Charity spotted a massive cruise ship exiting the harbor. She passed the buoys at the harbor’s western inlet, giving the ship a wide berth and staying to its windward side so the ship didn’t deflect her air as it passed. She sailed into the cruise terminal’s huge turning basin in Nassau Harbor and only dropped her sails and started the engine when the harbor’s physical restrictions forced her to turn the bow into the easterly wind. More cruise ships were preparing to leave.
She couldn’t understand why people thought that was enjoyable. Crammed in like sardines, going to tourist trap ports, and bypassing the real beauty of the islands.
A smaller cruise ship was docked on the outside of the terminal. Like the others, the crew was bustling around, preparing to take their passengers to the next so-called paradise. A dozen or so people stood on the Delta Star’s sun deck, gawking down at her as Wind Dancer sedately cruised past them.
When she arrived at the marina, there was a young dock hand waiting to help with the lines. Using the bow thruster, Charity maneuvered Dancer around, backing into the slip with practiced precision. She tossed the smiling young black man a line as she shut off the engine, then hurried along the starboard side deck to tie off the bow. She tipped the young man, and he told her where to find the office to pay for the slip. When he left, she went below to grab her bag, having already slipped the Colt into a hidden side pocket.
Hurriedly, she went to the office and paid for one night. Leaving the office, she walked to the entrance, where she could see the masts of Victor’s ketch across the street.
When she arrived at the gate, the guard said that Victor had left less than an hour earlier and hadn’t come back. She dug her phone out of her bag and reread the text message Victor had sent two days earlier.
“Do you know where I can find a boat called Dripping Wet?”
The man frowned down at her through the window. “Why yuh wanna find dat no-gooder?”
“My boyfriend,” she began, pointing to Victor’s boat. “That’s his boat, Salty Dog; he hired the owner to take him to where I was in the Berry Islands, but he never made it.”
“Don’t suhprise me none,” the old man said. “Dat mon ain’t di most dependable one around here.”
“Can you tell me how to find it?”
He pointed to his left, toward the bridge. “On di uddah side of di road,” he replied. “Just past a place called Celebrity Status on dis side.”
“Thanks,” Charity said, hurrying off.
When she arrived at the marina’s office, she asked at the desk where to find Dripping Wet.
“End of the dock on the right,” a young British woman said. “You can’t miss the bloody thing.”
The disdain in her voice, coupled with the words of the gate guard, didn’t paint a favorable picture of the person Victor had hired.
The woman was right; Charity spotted the boat before even reaching the pier it was docked at. Dripping Wet was a gaudily painted Cigarette boat, about forty feet long. A man of about thirty was lying on the padded engine cover wearing nothing but a Speedo.
“Are you the owner?” Charity asked.
The man raised his head and looked in her direction. “Guilty as charged. Name’s Beaux Chapman; that’s with an X.”
“Did you have a charter this morning?” Charity asked, raising her sunglasses to her forehead. “To take a man to Hoffman’s Cay?”
Chapman sat up, reached for a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “Guy never showed,” he replied, a bit of a south Louisiana accent in his voice. “Waited around for two hours for the sumbitch. You know him?”
“You were supposed to bring him to me,” Charity replied. “His boat’s here getting repairs.”
The man’s eyes moved up and down Charity’s body. “I can’t think of a single reason that’d hold me back.”
“So you have no idea where he is?”
“Sure don’t,” Chapman said, stepping up to the dock. “But me and this boat are right here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charity said, putting her sunglasses back on and turning to leave.
The man grabbed her arm to stop her. “Just a minute, sweet thing.”
Her reaction was completely reflexive, elevated by the stress that had been building all day. She grabbed the man’s wrist and turned under his arm, breaking his hold, then continued her turn, bringing the man’s arm up behind his back. Easily deflecting his other hand when he reached for her, Charity stepped in behind her adversary. She wrenched his wrist up to his neck and shoved hard, planting a foot well behind her for leverage.
Beaux was off-balance, off-guard, and way out-classed. He tripped over his boat’s combing and sprawled sideways on the engine cover, toppling a beer, then tumbling onto the cockpit deck, legs and arms akimbo.
“I’m a woman,” she hissed down at the man, “not a thing! And most certainly not a sweet thing. You can take this ugly, forty-foot penis extension of yours and shove it up your ass.”
Several people on boats around them erupted in laughter and applause at the scene, hooting and yelling. Charity strode confidently back toward the foot of the pier, one hand covertly resting inside her bag, a finger on the Velcro tab that would open the Colt’s hiding spot.
Back on Bay Street, she looked up and down the block. A couple passed her, the man carrying a suitcase, and turned into the marina. Behind her sunglasses, Charity noticed the tall young man’s eyes stray toward her for a moment too long. His Asian-looking girlfriend yanked his arm and they continued toward the docks. She overheard the very petite young woman tell the man that Chapman was waiting, and she couldn’t help but think the young man had better be on his guard.
Enduring Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 4) Page 6