The Whiskey Sea

by Ann Howard Creel

  By five o’clock the sun was almost down, and after Rudy waved her on board, Frieda followed Dutch’s orders to prepare the boat for departure. She started the engine and made some final checks; then they cast off the mooring lines and pulled out slowly into the inky night, as black as a bottomless pit. Dutch took the helm, and Frieda pulled on her heaviest overcoat, one that belonged to Silver. A sense of the surreal came over her; she couldn’t quite fathom that she was doing this. Finally. For years going out on a boat to make a living had been held just beyond her reach, and running for rum had been nothing but fantasy. Now here she was. It was happening. A plunge into the unknown. Her awareness sharpened, while a handful of stardust scattered around her vision. The night sparkled. Every breath she took was like a hook, but she had to concentrate on what lay ahead. They would be running dark, and she had no idea how things would go.

  When she thought of Silver, she had to shift the look he had given her earlier into a hidden compartment of her mind. He knew. Instead of her usual routine of making dinner and settling in for the long winter’s night, this evening she’d readied herself for the job ahead. She had decided to tell Bea the truth, and Bea in return had halfheartedly tried to talk Frieda out of it. Halfheartedly, and Frieda couldn’t blame her. The lure of easy money had infected almost everyone by now.

  But Frieda said nothing about it to Silver, who sat on the divan and stared at her. Probably Hawkeye had come to tell Silver already. He was always the first to tattle on her to Silver, who followed her with that admonishing stare of his until she closed the front door behind her.

  Dutch steered the boat, and Rudy picked up a pair of binoculars to scout out any trouble before it arrived. Two other boats were heading out of the same small dock area just behind them.

  The water was dark except for the complex mix of red and white lights, some moving and some staying put, but Dutch knew what he was doing. He made a discreet run across Sandy Hook Bay, avoiding buoys, beacon lights, channel markers, anchored craft, and shipwreck carcasses listing on shoals. He couldn’t open up, because of all the obstacles, until they were out on the ocean. At low throttle the engine barely purred. Her four-inch exhausts were underwater and had a small silencer installed. While they were underway, there was very little for Frieda to do. Most of her work would happen in between the runs. If she was doing her work well, the engine would barely need attention. She had serviced and checked everything ahead of time, and everything was perfect. All she had to do was monitor the engine and spring into action if anything went wrong. She had time to enjoy the patina of deep waters quickening with reflected lights, the air dancing with little mists, and the stars that materialized and blinked to brilliance as the boat reached farther beyond city lights.

  Rudy, a baby-faced redhead who wore circular, wire-rimmed eyeglasses like Ben Franklin’s, could’ve passed for a teacher if his life hadn’t been on the sea. Frieda remembered him as a shy boy, a few years ahead of her in high school, who had married an exuberant high school sweetheart right after graduation, and up to recently they’d lived with his parents in a rambling fishing shack, much added on to, on Fourth Street. This year, however, they’d moved into their own place, a remodeled Victorian farther away from the water and winds. Frieda had heard that Rudy’s wife was pregnant again, and she congratulated him now. Their firstborn son was as redheaded as Rudy, and Frieda imagined a whole baseball team of little redheads in his future.

  As they swung past several anchored sailboats, Rudy asked her, “You ever sailed? I mean, on a sailboat.”

  Frieda answered, “No.”

  He lowered the binoculars and gazed out over the black bay as if every swell was magical. “I learned when I was a kid. It’s different. No engine sounds. Just wind and sea.” He glanced at her. “Peaceful, you know?”

  “And slow.”

  “Fast enough to have gotten the first explorers here.”

  Frieda smiled, but the tension of the night, her first night out, made her lips tremble. “I was just thinking earlier that you look like a teacher.”

  “That so? Well, thank you, I guess.”

  Frieda gulped. She couldn’t believe they were having a casual conversation while on their way to commit a crime. It was obvious Rudy was used to this.

  Rudy said, “OK, so you’re right. Sailing’s a lot slower. But the quiet makes up for that. It’s like you’re a part of the sea, gliding where the wind takes you. Using nothing but nature’s breath. It’s more relaxing.” He grinned. “You have to understand, I’ve got a kid at home and a baby on the way. I need peace and quiet sometimes.” He stretched before taking his post in the bow. “When I’ve put up enough money for the kids’ future, I might buy me a little sailboat. Teach the kids while they’re young, you know?”

  She nodded and then finally smiled a real smile. Rudy was nice. She wished she had known him better before.

  Farther out beyond Sandy Hook Bay, the lights of New York City to port, Frieda could see that hundreds of boats, out of every large and small dock, pier, and inlet along this section of coast, were headed for a similar soiree. Dutch opened the throttle, and soon they were gliding along the sheer surface of the water at close to thirty knots, sending up white water on either side like the wings of a bird, a third of the keel fully up and out of the water as they raced along.

  They cut a wide course around the lightships on the way out to sea and then dove full throttle into the rolling swells of the Atlantic. The sea spanked the hull, and Dutch kept up the pace until they smacked face-first into a dense fog. Dutch turned to starboard, skirting the shore, and yelled out to Rudy, “Watch out for breakers!”

  A few minutes later Rudy shouted back, “Breakers ahead, sir.”

  Frieda said, “How do you know?” after she had swallowed the knot forming in the back of her throat. She had to put her faith in Dutch’s abilities. The fog felt like a premonition of doom, but she’d placed her life and fate into his hands. What else was there to do?

  He said, “I feel it in the swell.”

  Dutch grunted his discontent but whipped the boat back toward open waters and kept pushing. Even with the fog it was clear he had a plan and appeared to know exactly where he was. Rudy spread out flat on his stomach in the bow, searching through the thick air for any dark patches, indicating boats. She sat next to Dutch and kept an eye on the engine compartment. He seemed to sense her questions before she asked them.

  “No turning back now,” Dutch said in his hoarse voice. “I got lots of thirsty patrons to feed, bless their bloodsucking souls.”

  She had no idea how he planned to find a boat five or so miles out to sea in the midst of this gloom. Frieda knew how to work engines to their maximum potential and tong for clams near the shore, but she was as much a novice to the deeper seas as any other landlubber. But Dutch kept on, as if his eyes and will alone could cut through the dense curtain.

  Frieda raked away long strands of hair that were sticking to her face and lips.

  Dutch continued: “I had to know where the waves were breaking. I’m thinking thirty-five to forty minutes from the breakers; that’s what it usually takes. Then we’ll stop and listen for the yachts’ bells. They should be ringing all the time in this fog.”

  The engine needed no attention, so Frieda simply sat and shivered as they plowed ahead into near-zero visibility, and she hoped to high heavens that nothing was out there to run into. Her stomach clenched as the wraiths of mist twirled before her, and she tucked her face back into the collar of the big overcoat. Something sharp caught in her chest as she thought of the two lives entrusted to her care. Bea. Silver. And then the crawl of shame. She’d never fathomed an existence that included heading out in dangerous seas in search of contraband. She was breaking the law and aiding others to break it, too. Now a part of keeping the liquor flowing, she was old enough to know that liquor was often overused; it erupted in bar fights, left wives and children behind, and could even fell the strongest of men.

  Except for
the low hum of the engine, all was silent, and they flew over the thick, black sea, a small boat racing away from the rest of the world. Far from shore and at the appointed time, Dutch slowed down, and they listened. About ten minutes later they heard ships’ bells, and Rudy exclaimed, “Hot damn.”

  Frieda peered through the fog as they drew closer to encounter one of the strangest scenes she’d ever witnessed. The ships—big black birds in the mist—were surrounded by hundreds of other boats of all sizes and designs, everything from slow old tubs to speedboats built just for running. They drifted about and fended off the others like goslings surrounding the mother goose, and Frieda was stunned to realize that the atmosphere was something akin to a party. Here was a flotilla of boats strung together to break the law and make money, and no one seemed to have a care in the world. A floating liquor establishment out in the middle of the dark ocean, like some kind of magical, mythical circus. It made Frieda think of pirates, mermaids, gods, and sirens of the sea. No one acted the slightest touched with doubt, even with jellyfish, like flowers, floating in the water about the boats and danger from the coast guard boats looming. Transactions were at hand, and the booze was in demand. She was stunned again to find they had to wait their turn. Now this was a story, a real story.

  As they drew closer, she could see hand-lettered wooden signs hanging in the large boats’ rigging listing the prices and the types of liquor for sale. Champagne was thirty to forty dollars a case, depending on the label and quality, and whiskey and most others were thirty to fifty dollars, depending on the same things. Dutch pulled their boat closer as other boats loaded and left, while Rudy kept watch for the coast guard. Although the fog was still hugging the water, it seemed to be thinning. Frieda didn’t know how to feel about that; it made the return safer but also made them easier to find.

  Dutch pulled up to the Canadian three-masted schooner named Eva Marie, where about fifteen other boats were conducting their business, their engines running and ready for immediate departure, their hulls thumping cheek to cheek around the big boat, all of them rolling and bumping and lowering cargo into their holds. The schooner was all burly men, gleaming faces, low lights flooding the deck, full of people and crates, and a sense of enthusiastic purpose. People worked quickly, determinedly, and zealously. She blinked several times. She could scarcely believe it. She had tried to imagine this moment ever since Dutch had hired her, but nothing she’d pictured had come close to this energy and the feel of this orderly chaos. These people had a burning fire in their bellies, and the scene felt as if it could at any moment combust into flames. She had no other way to describe it but to say that out here these people were alive. More alive than landlubbers. More alive than people playing it straight.

  The crew of the big boat threw out lines, and Frieda helped Rudy put over the fenders. Dutch was deciding what label liquor he wanted, while some of the men got off their boats and scrambled aboard the Eva Marie to stay for a while. This close, Frieda could hear music and saw some couples—the men wearing striped blazers and Oxford baggies, the women wearing chemises and T-bar shoes—dancing on the deck, as though this were a party. Some people had obviously come out here just for the excitement, and she could understand why. The vitality was catching, and she wished she could scoop it up in her arms and carry it back with her. People seemed mesmerized, as if under a spell, and everything hinged on these incandescent moments. Men moved the liquor with eager agility and handled the sales untiringly as if there was nothing else in the world as important, while someone strummed a banjo and women danced and sang. Laughter, smiles, and music reigned over a sense of avid determination. This was a place of business after all, but the most jubilant of businesses. Maybe it was the lure of wealth, the excitement of breaking the law, the glory of success.

  For a few long moments it was as if she’d left her body and was hovering somewhere above the water looking down on this pandemonium, peering down on a play acted out by newly redeemed people. If that were true, then who or what was the redeemer? She found she didn’t care. She loved all of these people now as she had never loved people before. What was happening to her? She was shocked to find that she wanted to belong here, she wanted to be a part of it. She had joined their fray, their slinky and illustrious private club, and she breathed deeply in elation. She rubbed her upper arms to make sure it wasn’t a dream, that she was really experiencing that unbelievable sight and huge tide of emotion.

  She made herself go below deck to check that the engine stayed dry, but she wanted to know everything that was happening above. She could hear Dutch order three hundred Johnnie Walker Black, two hundred of Dewar’s, and a hundred of Booth’s High & Dry, then others she couldn’t remember. She had no idea what kind of liquor Dutch was ordering, and it hit her how sheltered a life she had led so far. Silver had kept her and Bea away from anything like this.

  All was well with the engine, so she peered up from below to watch the action. Dutch paid by pitching his money—a roll of large-denomination bills held by a rubber band. The men on board were so busy with loading and keeping the boats coming and going that they didn’t even count it. Even in this shady business there was a code of ethics. Dutch told her that other boats didn’t even require payment in advance; instead, they let the contact boat captains pay the next time they came out.

  Before they began loading, the crew of the Eva Marie threw down a mattress for the crew of the Wonder to place on the deck against breakage. Crew on board the big rum boat tossed the bags over without taking the time to aim carefully. It took another hour for Rudy and Dutch to load 750 cases—burlap sacks holding six straw-wrapped bottles each—from the deck into the holds.

  “My first time out,” Dutch said to Frieda, who was now helping load the cases into the boat, proving to Dutch that she could indeed do more than just engine work, “I smashed fifteen cases.”

  Even with the mattress a few cases ended up broken, but the boat slowly filled, and the Wonder began to settle lower and lower into the sea, until they were only about a foot above the water. Rudy told her the most popular liquor types were scotch whiskey, French brandy, and Cuban or other West Indian rums, but buyers on shore had a taste for everything. Scotch had a particularly swanky allure.

  Throughout the loading process, Frieda kept checking the engine compartment, which was supposed to be watertight. Throughout the loading process, Frieda kept checking the engine compartment, which was supposed to be watertight. She had covered it with a canvas tarp just in case and listened and smelled for any signs of overheating or any unusual noises. The swells amounted only to low rollers that night, and the two boats rubbed against each other just occasionally, the fenders groaning under the pressure and the wooden sides of the old Eva Marie creaking.

  Everything was going smoothly. She was doing her job. Although she had only just begun, the idea that this could ever be taken from her was unfathomable. If it was possible to fall in love with a job, she had done it at first sight. Here she was out on the water doing work that was a perfect fit for her strengths and desires. Could such happiness come out of the unexpected? Or was unexpected happiness the best happiness of all?

  Dutch chatted with the crew on the other boat as he caught and stacked the cases fore and aft, but Rudy remained mostly silent as he, too, worked. Frieda kept her head down, not wanting to call attention to herself. At one point she caught one of the rum boat’s crew peering at her, and she quickly turned her face away, put up her collar, and tugged down her woolen cap.

  When all the business was completed, Dutch swung the rudder around, and the heavily laden boat struck out in the fog for shore. Loaded down, they couldn’t go as fast as before, but the fog also wasn’t as thick anymore. Almost two hours later, just offshore they left the murky gloom as suddenly as they had entered it. The change was like a heavy curtain being lifted. The lights of the city looked like diamonds tossed against a palette of black velvet, and the Sandy Hook Light and then the Twin Lights called them home. Now that
he could see, Dutch pushed the boat faster, and as they cut through swells, the sea spray blew into Frieda’s face, waking her again and again to this new reality. Her mind and body felt so free. She was reborn, filled with freshness and the possibilities of the future. Her life would never be the same. Frieda began to breathe normally. She hadn’t realized that something had been caught in her chest until she let it go, and then she found she could take in full breaths and release them all the way to the bottom of her lungs. Her head cleared; her heart filled with exhilaration. They had done it, and she had been an essential part of it. She finally fit somewhere, and until that night she hadn’t known she had wanted such a sense of belonging.

  “Picket boat in pursuit, sir,” Rudy said calmly.

  Exhilaration changed to panic in one held breath. She turned and saw the coast guard picket boat running dark in their wake. No! It couldn’t be. The guard boat shot tracers that lit the sky like fireworks over the river on the Fourth of July. If there was any doubt they’d been spotted, it no longer remained. She clenched the edge of the bench seat and held on for her life. Here she was, her first time out, and she was going to get caught, maybe go to jail. She imagined the confines of a cell, the look on Silver’s face, Bea’s disappointment. Her body became flimsy and weightless; she could have slipped over the side of the boat and let the sea suck her under.

  Dutch sped up, but the boat rode too low in the water, and if they went any faster they risked being swamped. The boat thumped heavily over the swells as they drew closer to shore. Still, Frieda hoped, the Wonder might run faster than the older, typically slower guard boats. She wasn’t the praying type, but she looked up at the stars and closed her eyes. Please, no. I’ve only just started. Give me a chance. Don’t take it away just when everything is finally at my fingertips.

  Only a trace of worry on his face, Dutch remained surprisingly calm. “Don’t put up a fuss if we get caught,” he said to Frieda. “Go along with it. Worst thing that can happen is you get a fine and a year’s probation. They could take my boat, but there’s ways to get her back.”