Uncharted Waters

by Scott MacKenzie

  “I couldn’t help but overhear that you just got in today. Boy, oh boy, what a feeling!” I can’t place his accent. It could be rural middle America, or maybe even Canadian. Whatever it is, I would rather he mind his own business.

  “Thank you. We had a good passage, but it’s a nice feeling to be on land,” Tenn says to our friendly neighbor.

  My attention is on the man at the bar with the dark sunglasses. I wonder when he will approach us, and what the game plan will be. Crazy Lady is only steps away from the customs office, and this is a rather busy marina. I can’t imagine how they will unload a ton of cocaine without being noticed.

  “That is super. Wow guys, good for you. The wife and I are sailing our yacht around the Azores. That’s adventurous enough for us,” he says and laughs as if something he said was funny.

  Tenn says something to our idiot neighbor, but I don’t hear her. I’m focused on the man at the bar who is now leaving. Before he walks out the door, he takes off his dark sunglasses and turns around, looking me dead in the eye. I instinctively look away, although I can see out of my peripherals that he has left.

  “Two more, please,” I shout to the waiter behind the bar.

  Our rosy-cheeked, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing neighbor raises his large, empty cocktail glass. “Make that three.” Again, he laughs, and this time Tenn laughs, too.

  I want to talk to Tenn in private about the man I suspect is watching us, but the waiter puts round three on the table. I have no idea what will happen next, and I can only wait and see.

  “To Horta,” Tenn says.

  “To Horta,” I answer, raising my glass.

  “To Horta,” the man next to us says, raising a colorful cocktail that is topped with whipped cream.

  We drink. Tenn seems amused by the cheerfulness of the man. I’m happy to see her destress so I decide to warm up to our neighbor.

  “I’m Vince, and this is Tenn,” I say to the man.

  “Mick, Mick Taylor. My wife Barbara is here somewhere shopping, which is pretty standard. I drink and she shops.” He laughs again.

  This time I laugh with him, too. That might have something to do with round three, but he is starting to amuse me.

  “So, was it smoothing sailing?” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Actually, no. Our engine died pretty early on, so we were at the mercy of the winds,” Tenn tells him with no small amount of pride in the fact that we roughed it most of the way.

  “Tell me, did you see whales?” he asks.

  “We did,” I answer.

  “Wowee. How was the weather, did you hit any storms?”

  “We did. We actually were knocked over by one,” I tell him. I start to feel like a real salty sailor telling tales of the sea, and I enjoy his interest.

  “Phew, I can’t imagine. I tell ya, you two are braver than I. Did you catch any fish?” he asks between pulls of his ridiculous cocktail.

  “Lots,” I answer.

  “What about the over two hundred kilos of cocaine in your deck?” he asks casually.

  Tenn and I both watch as he pulls from the curly straw, slurping the last of the contents of his drink. He clinks the ice around and then tries to get what is left at the bottom with a long pull from his straw, the suction causing an awful slurping sound that is so loud it fills the room.

  Twenty-Three

  A larger woman with shopping bags in hand wearing a colorful dress walks into the café and stands in front of Mick.

  “Mr. Taylor, I’ve been looking all over for you. Get off your keister. We have dinner reservations,” she orders.

  Mick leans in and puts his big, red face into our personal space. “Look, everything is going great. Relax, have a nice meal, sleep well. We will come by tomorrow midday and I will have my guys take a look at your engine. It’s nice to meet ya.”

  Mick gets up and looks at the bags in the hands of the lady who is obviously his wife. “Nancy, you know we can’t take all of that with us,” he says, shaking his head.

  Together they walk out of the café and into the streets of Horta, leaving me and Tenn alone. We are both stunned and don’t move a muscle. Finally, I turn to Tenn, her mouth open in shock.

  “Did that just happen?” she asks, still looking at the door they just walked out of.

  “I think it did?” My answer has the tone of a question.

  We both sit quietly and process. Tenn finally breaks the silence. “Holy shit.”

  After a delay, we turn and look at each other again and break into laughter.

  We stay in our seats for the entire night. I could swear the bar is floating on the ocean so I look for handholds on my way to the restroom. I get my pizza and beer, and Tenn orders most of the menu. When the bartender cleans our table, we simply lift our glasses so he can wipe underneath them. He stacks chairs all around us and shuts off all the lights except where we are sitting. We refuse to take the hint that it’s time to go until we are told they’re closing.

  Both Tenn and I are drunk, and our walk back to the boat takes longer than it should. As we make our way down the colorfully painted concrete dock, I notice the man in the dark sunglasses sitting with his wife drinking martinis on a fancy sailboat. I conclude that he is a typical pompous rich sailor and does not have anything to do with our business. He does not return my wave.

  When we climb aboard Crazy Lady, it feels like walking into the front door of our home. Tenn slips out of her clothes and under the sheets.

  “Make love to me, Vince,” she says in a sleepy voice. Her eyes are closed, and she is smiling.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and kick off my shoes as Tenn begins to snore. I chuckle at how quickly she falls asleep. The bed feels different tonight. We are safely tied to a dock, and I have no worries. I haven’t slept a full night for nearly a month. I ease back into the soft mattress and put my head on the pillow. I feel heavy, parts of my body finally relaxing after having stayed alert for the entire passage.

  I fall into the deep sleep that my body has been craving. I’m a dead weight and my soul retreats into places unknown.

  Even the smell of bread in the oven and percolating coffee isn’t enough to get me out of bed. The sun comes through the window above me, flooding the cabin with light. I hide under the blanket and refuse to leave the comfortable bed.

  “Are you okay? You’ve been sleeping for twelve hours,” Tenn says from the doorway.

  I answer with a long grunt.

  “Okay, well, the bread is on the counter and the coffee is ready.”

  I answer with a shorter grunt.

  All the parts of my body that had turned off are slowly waking up. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait before trying to stand. Tenn comes in and passes me a coffee, and when she looks at me, she laughs. I can feel my hair standing on end.

  “Thank you,” I say as I take the mug.

  I sip it slowly. I really do feel like a new man. Or maybe I feel like the same man, just the world around me is new. Whatever the case, the change is for the better.

  It’s odd that Crazy Lady is not moving. When this big, heavy boat is tied to a dock, it feels as stable as land. When I stand up, I grab a handhold as I would every morning, out of habit. I make my way up the steps, poke my head outside, and breathe in the fresh Azores air. It’s strange to see all the boats around us. The sounds of halyards hitting against masts, the chatter and laughter of fellow sailors, and the hum of the town is stimulating.

  My much-needed rest has heightened my senses. I’m delighted by the world around me and have found myself in a rather pleasant mood this morning. I drink my coffee and take it all in with a smile on my face.

  “Morning sunshine,” Tenn says from behind me, where she came up to grab two shopping bags.

  “Morning,” I tell her.

  She walks over and passes the bags to me. I quickly put down my coffee and accept. When my hands are full, she leans up and kisses me lightly on the lips.

  “We are long overdue for bacon and eggs,” T
enn says while I set the bags down on the galley table.

  I couldn’t agree more so I end up making breakfast. Tenn is in an affectionate mood, hugging and kissing me at every opportunity. Aside from the fact that we both finally got a good night’s rest and we’re no longer sailing, we’re both relieved how everything is working out. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are not the intimidating criminals we were expecting, and this hand off might not be a hard as we thought.

  “How long of a sail is it to Portugal?”

  “We’re in Portugal right now.” I smile.

  “You know what I mean,” she says, punching me in the arm.

  “It is eight hundred and twenty nautical miles. Crazy Lady is an awesome boat, but she ain’t quick, so it could be another eight or nine days at sea.”

  I look at Tenn out of the corner of my eye to gauge her reaction. She looks around the cabin slowly, contemplating again being confined to the boat for over a week.

  “We need some quality land-time— I want these feet on the dirt,” she says, raising her legs and waving her toes around playfully. “Let’s go on a hike today.”

  I flip eggs in one pan and turn the heat down on the burner where the bacon sizzles. “I think we might have a few matters we need to attend to before we go on our nature walk,” I tell her. I turn off the burners and slide our feast onto our plates. There’s a familiar loaf of bread in the center of the table. You would think we’d both be tired of Tenn’s homemade bread, but it has become as important as our morning coffee.

  “Oh yeah. Right,” Tenn says with a sheepish smile, looking around the cabin.

  We share a laugh and dig in, both eating more than we should, slouching in our seats. I really feel like a new man. It felt so good to sleep undisturbed that my body is craving the bed again. I look at Tenn and am about to suggest a nap, but she beats me to it.

  “We nap now,” she says while she beelines it to the aft cabin.

  I follow close behind her. With our bellies full and in the late-morning sun, we return to bed like children, with no cares or responsibilities. We hold each other, making silent negotiations with our feet to decide where they will rest. Then our hips, arms, shoulders, and heads find their spots. We wiggle and adjust until we are satisfied with how we are intertwined. I lightly tug at her blonde curls and run my fingers through her hair.

  I don’t sleep. I don’t think Tenn does either. But we rest. We end up making love in a slow carefree way, then return to our tangled rest. I want to tell her I love her, but it feels strange to say. Love isn’t said — it is felt, and I know we both feel it this morning. Our tired heads are heavy on the pillows, and we face each other with easy eyes. Her lips are closed and smiling.

  “Vince,” she whispers, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Yes,” I whisper back.

  “I don’t want this to ever change. I like being on this boat with you, and I want the two of us to sail forever.”

  “I want that, too,” I say.

  “Once we get the money, you could get another fancy boat and be a loner again, you know.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want that. I was alone for long enough. A captain needs a crew.”

  “We make a good crew.”

  “Yes, we do.” I smile at her.

  “And when you say captain, you are referring to me, of course,” she taunts, then starts to tickle me.

  “Aye-aye! You are the captain of this ship, and I’m your first mate,” I answer, trying not to giggle and embarrass myself.

  “Can we please go for a little hike, Vince?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

  “Maybe some exercise will do us some good. We need to find a marine shop to get the parts for the engine, too.” I don’t think Mick really intends to fix our engine, but it gives him a good excuse to get onboard at least.

  I turn over to lie on my back. I take a few breaths and try to get used to the idea of leaving this bed.

  Tenn walks around the cabin naked, trying to find clothes she hasn’t worn in at least a month. She finds some and gets dressed quicker than I thought.

  “Come on, lazy bones,” she says, tugging at my arm.

  I get myself ready, and then we are on our way. When we get on deck, I see a large yacht moored next to us that wasn’t there the night before. I would put money on it belonging to Mick and his wife.

  I noticed a sign last night, just a short walk from the marina, advertising car rentals. We decide a car is needed, and we rent the cheapest one they have. The lady renting to us suggests we hike around the top of the volcano that Horta is famous for. We take a map and head to where she suggested we start our hike.

  It feels good to drive a car; I can tell Tenn enjoys it too. The windows are open, and we cruise away from the town of Horta, toward Caldeira. All the wooden street signs point where to go, and after a very short drive up the mountain, we arrive at the start of the hike.

  Tenn leads the way down the trail. I still have moments of feeling like the ground is moving beneath my feet, and my ears feel the pressure of the high altitude. When I get a better look at the crater, I’m instantly grateful for having come.

  It is the distinct shape of a volcanic crater, but having been dormant for so long, it’s covered in lush green. The flat base, and all the way up the edges, is full of green grass and shrubs, save the blue hydrangeas. If we were here in July, the landscape would be all blue, but we are a little early for that, so they are just scattered among the green. To the east, we see the island of Pico. I imagine what it will look like as we sail past it on our way to the mainland.

  We talk very little on our hike around the crater, partly because we are in awe of the beauty, but mostly because we are out of breath and concentrating on where to step on the uneven ground.

  It takes over two hours to do the hike and return to the car. Although we’re exhausted, the exercise has done us good. The worst thing we could do right now is overthink things, and there is nothing like a tough hike to clear your mind.

  The sweeping views of the farmland on the way back down to Horta are lovely. My ears pop and I feel a sense of clarity when they readjust. It was lovely being up high, but I’m meant to be at sea level.

  Once back in town, I get us to the marine shop to get a new starter. Luckily enough, they have one in stock, and after a swipe of my credit card, we are on our way, new starter in hand.

  A farmer’s market has popped up since we left, and a large section of the main street is now blocked off. We both agree that we cannot let this opportunity pass and take the time to buy as much fresh produce as we can carry.

  Our arms are full of bags, and we struggle to keep our energy up for this last stretch of walking. We both just used our legs more than we are used to and are feeling the effects of the hike.

  “My legs feel like wet noodles,” Tenn says as she walks down the ramp to the dock.

  I laugh at her analogy. Once on the colorful concrete docks, we see the yacht getting ready to pull away.

  “Hey kids!” Mrs. Taylor says loudly, before we are close enough to talk.

  “How was your day, Vince? Did ya see the crater?”

  We sure did,” I answer.

  “Good stuff. Alright, we are going to push on. You kids be safe,” Mick says with a chuckle.

  “See ya later, alligator,” Mrs. Taylor says with so much campiness it makes Tenn cringe.

  The Taylors continue smiling and waving at people on their boats. A customs officer passes us and rolls his eyes at the over-the-top tourists.

  Tenn and I look at each other with wide eyes. At the same moment, we start walking toward Crazy Lady.

  “Don’t run, don’t run,” I say, trying not to drop anything.

  We both slow down, casually walking to Crazy Lady, and climb aboard. I open the companionway door and Tenn gets to the cabin first, though I’m very close behind.

  The cabin doesn’t look any different than how we left it. If the Taylors did indeed remove all the cargo, they did so without di
sturbing anything. Everything is in its place and there’s no trace that they’ve been here, with one exception — the large briefcase on the table.

  Both Tenn and I stare at it. Tenn looks like she is a character in an Indiana Jones movie working up the courage to see what’s inside.

  “Should we open it now?” she asks, still looking at it like she’s under a spell.

  “No,” I say dismissively.

  Tenn gives me a strange look, and I can’t keep a straight face any longer. We both break out into laughter.

  “If you will do the honors?” I insist, motioning to the table.

  Tenn takes a few steps forward and tries to unlatch the briefcase but is unable to because it’s locked. I can see it’s just the standard little lock that came with the cheap case. I find the low-level security amusing.

  “Damn, they locked it. I guess that’s the end of that idea,” I say, trying to keep a serious tone.

  “Mr. Stark, since when are you a comedian?” Tenn scolds.

  I go into the forward berth where I know there is a toolbox, and though I could probably use a butter knife, a screwdriver and hammer will make quicker work of it. It takes some effort to move bags of sails, life jackets, and other random things to get to the toolbox.

  “Oh my gosh, Vince, hurry up!” Tenn shouts at me just as I find what I’m looking for.

  “Got it!”

  I hold up the screwdriver. “When the Phillips screwdriver came out, and then the Robertson, the guy that invented the flathead must have been like, ‘What the hell? I could have had this named after me,’” I say with a smile. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous to open it and I’m stalling.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? This is when you decide to try to be funny?”

  “Not funny?” I ask.

  “Open the damn case!” she shouts.

  I quickly obey her command. I angle Mr. Flathead screwdriver against the cheap metal latch and give it a good hit with the hammer.

  The entire latch comes off and dangles from one corner of the plate it was attached to. I give a few well-placed hits with the hammer to knock it totally free. I repeat this process on the second latch, again with little trouble.