by Peter Dixon
Billy pointed to the tastefully lettered sign encased in wrought-iron grillwork over the entrance to a small, well kept two-story hotel, La Casa California, and said, “This place has got to have a bath. Maybe even a hot tub!”
Bougainvillea grew in tangled, colorful profusion around the stonewalled inner patio. A small fountain in the center of a pool spouted water from the mouth of a bronze tuna. They walked on toward the desk, passing a Coca-Cola machine and an ice maker. Sarah remarked, “Just like a Ramada Inn back home.”
There was a tub, hot water, clean white towels, and a wide window that looked out over the red-tiled rooftops of Puntarenas. Sarah inspected the large room, liking the Spanish Colonial furnishing and the little vase of flowers sitting on a chest of drawers. She remarked, “It’s five times larger than the cabin. I love it.” She put her arms around Billy and said with utmost sincerity, “Thank you for getting us here alive. Now for a bath, and afterward I’m going to get my hair done.”
Billy climbed out of the tub and thought about cutting off his beard. He glanced at his reflection in the steamy mirror and saw a different person. He looked older, harder, with sun-squint wrinkles about his eyes. Then he remembered why he had grown the beard and said, “While you’re being styled, I’m going back to the harbor and shoot some video of Lucky Dragon unloading.”
“Please be careful.”
“Not to worry. We’ll meet back here at sundown. Then take a walk along the harbor and have dinner.”
She smiled brightly. Billy saw a glint of anticipation in her eyes and thought, I guess it’s true. Women like to be romanced.
A hundred and fifty feet from Lucky Dragon’s long dark hull, Billy hid behind stacks of cardboard cartons and triggered the camera. He was close enough to hear Santos shouting orders to the stevedores and the metallic clank of deck winches hoisting out clusters of frozen yellowfin. He panned from the unloading to the clipper’s bridge. Through the viewfinder he saw Captain Gandara talking with a Latino cannery representative who leaned against the railing that Billy had so painstakingly varnished only weeks before.
Billy panned slowly downward, following a cluster of tuna being loaded onto a truck. Then he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. To the west he saw the blue-gray copter descending toward the ship. A minute later Arnold settled the Hughes gently on the landing pad. Billy had to admire the man’s skill and gave a silent thanks that he was still among the flying. He taped the pilot as he jumped out of the cockpit and dropped down the ladder without stepping onto a rung. Arnold hurried to the bridge and joined Gandara. The pilot seemed excited, and Billy thought, At least he was sober enough to land.
He felt a moment of panic as he saw a group of Lucky Dragon’s crew walking along the dock toward him. He recognized the old seaman from the mess hall who had an appetite for dolphin stew and murmured, “I gotta get out of here.”
Billy left the docks to explore the commercial area of Puntarenas. He was hungry and thought, It’s time for that steak and salad.
The crowded restaurant was clean and busy. Prosperous businessmen talked softly as if they were making deals and didn’t want others to overhear.
Billy paused at the entrance and saw there was a small table available at the rear where he could watch the door. He glanced up and down the sidewalk, entered, and seated himself. He placed the camera case between his feet, and the waitress arrived to offer a menu and a smile. He studied the list and thanked Miss Montoya, his high school Spanish teacher, for helping him acquire a rudimentary vocabulary. He recognized ensalada, bistec, and papas fritas and ordered his lunch.
With an overflowing plate before him, Billy shifted his attention from the businessmen to satisfying his cravings. The taste of lettuce, tomatoes, sliced cucumber, fried potatoes, and a not-so-tender steak brought a contented glow. He chewed the last bite of steak, glanced toward the door, and choked. Shoving his way into the restaurant came Gandara, the chief engineer, and the Latino cannery buyer. They moved through the room until the manager intercepted them and seated the three a few tables away. Billy fought down panic, picked up the menu, and held it over his face. He looked for a way to escape. Was there a bathroom with a window leading to a back alley? There might be, but that would mean standing and revealing himself. Now what do I do? he thought.
The restaurant was packed, and Billy saw two business types eyeing his table with a look of pained impatience. A moment later the waitress presented his check. He fished out his wallet and left enough on the table to pay his bill. Remembering the camera case, Billy picked it up and walked nonchalantly for the exit. Fearful of being seen, he kept his face turned away from Gandara and the others, and hurried past them.
As a potted flower turns to sunlight, Billy involuntarily glanced at the captain. Their eyes met. Gandara’s went wide with surprise. Before he could escape, the captain quickly stood and blocked his way. Gandara’s hand shot out and he seized Billy’s wrist. Then the captain forced him into a chair. As Billy sat, he placed the camera case by his leg and hoped it was out of sight. With more warmth that Billy expected, Gandara said amiably, “I’m glad you made it, niño.”
“No thanks to you, captain.”
“Who picked you up?”
“I paddled my surfboard back.”
Billy saw Gandara’s look of admiration and the captain said pleasantly, “You’re a strong young man. You would. And I owe you a month’s pay. Make it six months…if you’ll forgive my sailing off so rapidly.”
Billy thought fast. He would agree to anything to escape the man’s mocking smile. From deep inside came a decision to stand up to him and finish what he started. “It’s a deal. I’ll take the money, and I want my job back.”
Gandara’s smile faded and Billy added, “I need the money to get home.”
Billy watched him consider. He wondered why he had been so foolish. Was it hate for this man? Before he could think it through, the captain said, “Your time aboard will not be so happy, niño.”
“I just want to get home.”
“Very well. You will be working in the galley, and there will be no more jumping into the net. Collect your gear and report to Mr. Santos before midnight. I’m sure he will greet you warmly.”
With a nod, the captain dismissed him. For a moment Billy stared into the older man’s aristocratic face. Gandara’s expression hardened, and Billy sensed there was murder behind his cold, hard eyes. He picked up the camera case and walked away, forcing himself to stand tall. He stepped outside into the moist heat of the street. After a deep breath to calm himself Billy noticed that the hand gripping the aluminum case ached. He switched it to his other and saw his fingers were trembling. He asked himself, Why didn’t Gandara say anything about the case? He thought for a moment and decided: Because his attention was totally on me…like a shark about to jaw down on a fish. Now, what do I tell Sarah?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He sat in the Westsail’s cabin, listening to Benny Seeger’s distant voice crackle out of the shortwave radio’s speaker. Reception was good, and Billy explained how he had managed to get back aboard Lucky Dragon. Benny’s calm response helped ease his tension. “We’re a day’s sail west of Puntarenas. We should make port about three in the afternoon tomorrow. Over.”
“He’s sailing in the morning, Benny.”
“Okay. Take the camera and that handheld marine band radio. Use channel 17. We’ll be monitoring you full-time. And Billy, shoot as much tape as you can without endangering yourself. Over.”
“I’ll tell Sarah you’ll pick her up here. She’s at the Hotel California. The sloop’s at the commercial dock, that’s the north side of the harbor.”
“Will do. And Billy, he’s going to be watching you. Be careful, son.”
He liked Seeger’s concern, liked being called “son,” but it was no time for sentiment, and Billy ended the transmission. “You’re talking to an expert. See you, Dad. Sarah out.”
Billy switched off the radio and turned to open a
locker. Inside, crumpled and stiff with dried salt, lay his waterproof getaway pack. He found a plastic bottle, filled it with water, and stuffed it inside the bag and thought, Here we go again. Do I tempt fate and bring my surfboard? Maybe I’d better, to stay in character. And how do I get the camera and radio aboard?
He thought of a way that might work. What’s next? he thought. Tell Sarah what happened. That’s not going to be easy.
Sarah looked so different that it startled him. Her hair color was the same, but the close-cropped cut, plus the dress and a smear of soft red across her lips, made her look older, sophisticated. He told her of his encounter with Gandara and the radio talk with Benny. When she got over her shock, her eyes flashed anger. “Don’t you understand? He’s letting you back aboard to kill you. I mean you could go to the law and put him away for attempted murder. They’re witnesses to what he did to you. And you’re a witness to what he has been doing!”
“Where do I file charges? Cuba? Nigeria? Taiwan?”
He took a deep breath and went on. “Sarah, I have to do this. What’s my life worth if I don’t?”
She saw the futility of arguing with him. There before her stood a real man, hard, determined, and focused on having his way. She perceived that other men, over the course of humankind, had stood before fearful women and told them the same sort of nonsense before going off to kill each other. And she responded, she was sure, like all those anguished women in the past and said, “Oh, Billy. I love you.”
They embraced. Billy pulled away, fighting back tears. He mumbled that everything would work out, and told Sarah not to worry because he would be careful and come back to her. She could only shake her head and let her own tears flow. He wiped them away with a finger, reached for his day pack, and stepped out the door.
He waited in the dark among the cardboard cartons of tuna cans until the dock was deserted. It was only nine o’clock, but that was a good time to make his move. This early, most of the crew would be in town eating and drinking. Later they would return drunk and happy, or fighting mean. This was the time. He fitted the straps of the getaway bag over his shoulders. The waterproof bag was heavy now, weighted with rocks he had picked up along the road to the harbor. Billy made a final check of the dock and moved from among the cartons. He was wearing his surfing trunks and carried swim fins. Tucked into the waistband of his trunks was a coil of fishing line with a large treble hook and a four-ounce lead sinker tied to one end. The hook’s sharp points were sunk into bits of wine bottle cork to keep them from snagging his skin. He eased off the dock and dropped into the warm, placid water. The tide was flowing in, and most of the garbage was moving deeper into the harbor. Five minutes later he was floating off Lucky Dragon’s stern. Above him the seine skiff rested on the huge net. He checked for movement, listened for sounds of talking, and sniffed the air for cigarette smoke. Nothing. Billy pulled the coil of line out of his trunks and removed the cork from the hooks. With a final searching glance, he tossed the weighted line. The hooks dropped amid the net and snagged the webbing. He gave the line a tug and it grew taut. He then tied the other end of the line to his waterproof getaway bag and released the pack. The weight of the rocks pulled the bag under and it sank out of sight. Billy thought, You’d better not leak, or there goes a good camera and radio.
When his hair was dry, Billy stood, shouldered his day pack, and picked up the surfboard. With a feeling of dread, he walked along the harbor seawall for Lucky Dragon.
As Billy reached the top of the gangplank he saw Santos grinning at him contemptuously. “The captain told me you would be coming aboard. You must really want to get home, niño.”
Billy put his gear and surfboard down on the deck and said lightly, “I’ve got a girl….”
“So, the artist is also romantic.”
Santos kicked his pack lightly and said, “Everything out, niño.”
Billy had expected the routine and spread his belongings across the deck. The mate prodded his things with the point of a shoe, seemed satisfied Billy wasn’t smuggling contraband aboard, and asked, “Your little bag? The one with the things to survive. Did it save you?”
“It helped.”
“Where is it now, niño?”
“It sank.”
The mate sensed that Billy might be teasing him, or lying, and growled, “You will bunk in Mr. Lessing’s cabin. Now, report to the galley, and there you stay, niño.”
The cook and his helper had left the galley a mess. The wide stainless steel sink was coated with grease, the deck needed sweeping and a mop, the refrigerator held spoiling food, and there was no coffee in the urn for the returning crew. He set to work, and in an hour had the galley in order. As coffee brewed, he slumped into a chair thinking about Sarah and Chatter and what would happen next. His thoughts were snapped back to the mess hall by the sound of Arnold’s slurred, alcoholic voice. Billy stood and quickly retreated to the galley.
“All that talk about overfishing,” Arnold proclaimed loudly, “is bullshit. Flying today I saw more pods than ever…less than a day’s sail from port.”
They stepped into the mess and saw Billy behind the serving counter. The captain nudged Arnold and pointed at Billy. “There he is, Mr. Lessing. Our prodigal Billy returned from the sea. Certainly by an act of God. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Lessing?”
The pilot eyed Billy, smiled drunkenly, and said with a shrug, “With Billy, who knows?”
Gandara leaned on the counter and stared at the young man, challenging him with his intense green eyes. “Tell me, niño…are you a ghost come back to haunt me?”
“I’m real enough, captain. Want a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Fix you a ham-and-cheese sandwich if you’d like one.”
Without waiting for a reply, Billy set three mugs and cream and sugar on the counter, and took the pot from the stove. He poured, and the captain asked, “Why did you come back, niño?”
Billy filled the mugs and thought about an answer.
“Could it be that you seek revenge?” Gandara said, almost whispering.
Billy leaned closer to the captain. “Revenge has nothing to do with it.”
“Then why? And I want the truth.”
“I think what happened to me, after you sailed away, was that I learned to love life.”
The captain considered his words carefully, as if he had just heard a profound statement. Trying to comprehend Billy, he said, “You are a very complex young man, or so simple that it is a miracle you are still alive.”
“You take your pick, captain.”
Gandara looked beyond Billy and surveyed the galley. “You make good coffee, niño. And you’ve cleaned the galley. Do your work well, honor my ship, and you’ll finish the voyage.”
He took a mug and started for the deck. Arnold followed him and Billy heard Gandara tell the pilot, “With any luck, Mr. Lessing, you’ll find those pods again and we’ll be back in a week with full freezers.”
Arnold glanced over his shoulder at Billy and gave him a concerned look of warning.
* * *
When the crew had come aboard, and the ship was quiet, Billy left the galley and silently moved for the stern. He reached the dark mound of the net and began climbing over the pile of mesh. Near the seine skiff he began feeling for his fishing line. After a few anxious moments his fingers touched the hook, and he slowly hauled in his getaway bag. As he shook the water from it a nearby sound of someone coughing caused him to freeze.
“So, what did you catch, Billy?” Rocha asked softly as he stood up in the skiff.
Billy decided on honesty. “Stuff I don’t want Gandara to see.”
“I could tell him.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“You stay out of my skiff, and I’ll think about it.”
“I’m a galley slave now. How come you’re sleeping in the boat?”
“None of your business.”
Billy turned to leave, half expecting to be attacked. Rocha spoke again, softer now. “Bil
ly, would you paint a new name on the skiff?”
He sensed that Rocha was in some sort of emotional turmoil, and that he was reaching out to him. “Sure, any name you like. What’s going on, buddy?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you later. And Billy, you watch out.”
“You know something I should know?”
“Yeah. If you have eyes in the back of your head, keep ’em open.”
“Thanks, Rocha. We’ll do some fancy lettering tomorrow.”
Clutching his bag, Billy turned from the boatman and walked off into the darkness thinking, What does he know that I don’t?
After hiding the camera and radio in the dry stores locker, Billy entered the darkness of Arnold’s cabin and heard the pilot snoring. He hoped he was drunk enough not to wake and slide his Colt .45 from under the pillow. Billy eased into the top bunk and listened to Arnold’s labored, alcoholic breathing.
His shoulders and neck ached from tension. He forced himself to relax by thinking of swimming with Chatter in a sea of such clarity that he could view the bottom miles below. His fantasy of becoming a water breather swept away his worries, and Billy was carried into an underwater dreamworld where he became the first of a new species of aquatic humans. Chatter was at his side, his guide and companion. He was growing flukes and fins, and his forehead was enlarging like a dolphin’s.
At dawn, as Billy worked in the galley under the watchful eyes of the hungover cook, Lucky Dragon cruised slowly out of Puntarenas.
Across the channel, obscured amid the fleet of fishing boats, the Westsail’s engine started with a rasping sputter. While the motor warmed, Sarah focused binoculars on the black-hulled clipper and thought about Billy deserting her. She knew it was foolish to follow him, but she had to try. No, that’s wrong. Trying doesn’t get you anything. I’ve just got to do it. At least I can learn what heading they’re taking, and then radio Benny.
Lucky Dragon turned at a bend in the channel and vanished from Sarah’s sight. She slipped the dock lines and shoved the throttle forward. With the engine roaring full power the boat moved into the channel. Outside of the harbor mouth she saw the clipper and took a compass bearing on the ship. It was heading west-southwest, directly out to sea, and quickly outdistancing her. She entered the cabin and switched on the shortwave radio. “Big Ben…Big Ben…”