Flotilla
Page 10
Jeb wasn’t at the dinner for some reason. He appeared later, painters cap still on his head and his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. He caught my eye and made a small motion for me to go outside. I found him outside, the firefly of his lit smoke bobbed and danced while he talked.
“You know about your Dad? About this deal he had going?”
“Which one?” I asked. It was a fair question … Dad had a number of things cooking at any given time. He didn’t keep me up to date on all of them. Jeb flicked the butt off into the water and his face was lit briefly by the flare of his Zippo. I heard it clink shut and he was in darkness again.
“You’re dad wants to run the gambling here on the Colony,” he drawled. “I told him it was pointless but he had to try anyway. Sahid’s the exec in charge of all gaming on the Colony and Rick thought he could sweet-talk him.” That made sense, I thought, remembering the guy and Dad talking earlier today. Jeb continued: “It fell apart like I told him it would. You’re dad has no sense for negotiation. He thought if it made enough sense to him, it should make sense to everyone else and Sahid wasn’t convinced. I told him to sell it to Sahid but he didn’t.”
“Uh-huh.” Why was Jeb telling me all of this? Back when I worked for him, he spoke maybe 20 words to me including the two words “you’re fired”. After that, he didn’t acknowledge my presence and I did the same. So now, Dad’s in trouble - I’m not exactly sure what kind or how bad – and Jeb is telling me all kinds of stuff that my Dad never bothers to tell me.
This place is a floating nuthouse: people are trying to kill you, rob you or cheat you every minute of every hour of every day. Then they’re having some kind of moment with you like someone should be making a flavored coffee to celebrate with! Is there any point where you’re allowed to shout ‘enough is enough’?
Apparently not.
“So anyway – your Dad’s trying to impress Sahid as a ‘fixer’ of some kind. Some fix…he tried to bribe the ESPN chopper with a story and now they’re all pissed off and trying to find the ‘exec’ who authorized them to land. Your dad faked it all – it’ll be a massive stink before it blows over.” Jeb finished his second cigarette and turned to go inside. “Anyway, thought I should let you know what you’re up against before you go home and he’s drunk under the table.”
Yeah … thanks a million. This whole thing made me weary and I suddenly felt very tired. I wanted to go home. I made some excuse to Jeb (who didn’t deserve an excuse at all) and started walking for the Horner. I found Dad just as Jeb said I would, asleep and sitting on the floor leaning against our ratty lounge couch. He had an empty tumbler next to him and I could smell the peppery odor of tequila. I went to bed where I read for a couple of hours before my eyes were heavy enough to shut.
Dad did this to himself, I kept repeating. He keeps trying to get ahead somehow and all he gets for his trouble is more trouble. I don’t know why he bothered…was fishing so bad? I was so angry for him and sad for us that I didn’t know exactly how all of this was going to get better, if it ever did.
Mitch Cutter found me the next day, slipping my mask on and getting ready to snorkel it. Dad was still passed out in his stateroom and I wasn't going to waste my time trying to get him up. That meant that I didn’t have a hose tender but so I was getting prepped to do what I could.
“Your Dad told ESPN that he was a Pacific Fisheries exec?” Mitch howled. “What’s wrong with him?” Somehow, he got word about the conversations between Dad and Pacific Fisheries. Now he was here to gloat.
“I don’t know, Mitch,” I growled. “Is it any different than your Colony Cares crap?” The Colony Cares thing was a website he set up to accept donations for ‘The Underprivileged Youth on Fishing Colonies”. What a load. He snapped some strategic pics of the colony, trying to impress people with the squalor we lived in. It was halfway convincing…he caught some of the Children of the Burning Man dressed only in red Naugahyde and it went from there. He shrugged.
“I’m just a kid trying to get by,” Mitch said. “What’s your Dad’s excuse?” I swear he had no sense of tact, that guy. Meanwhile, I was trying not to throw myself at him fist-first. Show up to our boat and start throwing stuff around about my Dad? What was wrong with him, anyway?
“I guess he’s trying to get by, too,” I said. “Not all of us were blessed with your looks and charm.”
“That’s for sure,” Mitch agreed. He managed to take a potshot from me and deflect it right back in my face. Classy.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Nope…heard the blowout between him and Rackenaur was a beaut.” He looked at me with some kind of pity on his face. I despised him at that moment. “Why do you put up with him?”
I threw my mask down like a hockey player losing his mitts and flew at him. What a schmuck…how long was I supposed to take it, anyway? It was kind of weird – I didn’t even realize I was moving until I was moving, if that makes any sense. At first I was terrified, first time in a fight and this was with a kid bigger than me, but I was throwing my first punch before I could stop myself.
Mitch reacted quickly, getting his hands up and blocking the fist. At the same time, he grabbed my hair and got my face up. He backhanded me, hard, and sent me backward. I flew for a few feet, almost into the water and stopped myself. I was sniffing back blood as I charged again. We both went to the deck, wrestling and trying to throw punches. A few kids started to crowd around, yelling stuff. A guy across the way saw us both and ran over – I didn’t realize he was there until he was shoving us apart.
“Knock it off, the both of you,” he shouted. “Mitch, get out of here.” He gave us both a shove to keep us apart but we barely noticed. Our blood was still up and we were both looking for a way to get to each other. “Move, I said!”
“Not my fault your dad sucks,” Mitch said from his corner. I lunged again but the guy from the other boat swung a beefy shoulder around and I bounced off. Not really graceful, I managed to land my tailbone hard on the decking, bruising it. The guy and Dad were cordial and he stuck a finger right in Mitch’s face.
“One more word out of you and I’ll hang you off my dock as bait,” the guy snarled. “One more … go ahead!” The violence in his eye made an impression on Mitch. He sniffed at me and sauntered away. The crowd slowly dissolved and I got painfully to my feet. The fisherman turned toward me, no kindness in his eyes. “You got fish to feed,” he said. “Get to ‘em.”
I finished my chores, avoiding talking to anyone that day. Dad appeared later and by some unspoken agreement, we did everything in total silence. He checked the pens over, saying nothing, just looking and nodding. I was grateful for once not to have him in my face complaining about something. My clumsy end to the fight had gotten around the colony and so I stayed inside, not ready to laugh that one off. Dad disappeared somewhere later that evening…the Gun Range, I think. I fell asleep that night with the dull ache of my tailbone competing with the dull ache in my heart.
Our current position is: 34°18'10.70"N 120°23'45.29"W
Chapter Six - The Ensenada Run
It was late in the summer when the Ensenada Run happened. I haven’t thought about it much until now, because it was so weird and terrifying that I didn’t want to think about it. This other stuff that’s happening now…I guess I should have seen it coming. Those two nights in Ensenada were just one more clue, among all the others, that things weren’t alright on the Big C.
Healthcare was something everyone thought about. We were pretty much left to our own devices out here. Accidents were handled by the ship’s infirmary or you were taken on a 12 hour boat ride to shore. If you're hurt enough to need a medevac, Pac Fish will pay for it. But you'll find a way to repay them … they'll make sure of that.
Other stuff, like getting a prescription filled, that was a little different and slightly touchy. They didn’t have a full pharmacy on board the Phoenix and some meds were still too expensive to justify getting one. Some members of the co
lony had set up a quiet business on the side going on the other side of the fence to Ensenada, where they’d pick up the drugs they needed and run them back.
I walked into the salon one morning and Dad had the flyer in his hand. “2 day trip to Mexico,” he said. “Any takers?”
“We’re going to leave the ship for 2 days?”
“We have to,” Dad explained. “You're out of your meds.” I guess the supply Mom sent with me was almost gone and something was preventing her from shipping a refill out from the mainland. “Pac Fish requires that a legal parent be here to take shipment.” Uh-oh.
Dad had lost custody of us when he left us years ago. Mom spent a lot of money she couldn't afford trying to track him down. When that didn't work, she got his parents’ rights suspended. Years later, when I was 12, Dad reappeared and spent a lot of time trying to rebuild our relationship. Although Mom tolerated his presence for our sake, she never got around to filing any paperwork.
“So you can ship me out to the middle of the ocean but you can't ship my pills,” I said.
“Pretty much,” Dad replied. “I got Jeb and Riley to keep an eye on things. I like to get out of the house once in a while. Don’t you?”
Sure, why not?
The boat was another pilothouse yacht like the Horner. We had to be there by 5 in morning. I bundled up for the trip – Pacific or not, Mexico or not, the morning air out here is cold. I helped myself to some nuked breakfast burritos they had on board. Other than that, it was a pretty boring ride … you can only look at the sea so much when you live there to begin with.
Dad passed the time pointed out stuff like the rusting metal fence that marked the border. That really caught my attention. It stretches all the way out into the sand and I watched it, wondering just how many people tried to enter the country at that point.
We arrived in Ensenada around eight that evening – it was a longer trip than the ride out from Long Beach. The partiers on the boat disappeared and we took our time checking into a cheap place Dad knew about. The next day, we did a lot of window shopping with Dad keeping his whistle wet at almost every cantina we passed. Dad had been here before, his Spanish was okay and he knew a few good beach places. Me on the other hand, it was my first trip down this far. Inwardly, I was so nervous about the trip I brought my passport and ID, just in case I needed to beat feet for the border. After a few hours, I relaxed and got into the spirit of being a guero tourist.
The trip wrapped up around three that afternoon and we were on our way back to the Horner. The skipper of our boat was a crusty old white guy named Greg. I didn’t know him but Dad did and spent most of the trip talking at him through the door of the wheelhouse. I tried to pass the time with the other kids on board but we ran out of ideas about halfway through the trip. We were passing La Jolla around sundown when Dad snagged me. “Need you to do me a favor,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“There’s another boat from the colony on its way here,” he said. “Something came up.”
“And?”
“So the declaration was for two days only,” he said. “They’re gonna try to go back down with some of the same people. I can’t go; I have to sit this one out. They want you to ride back and give the cops some story about losing your wallet.”
Getting involved in the colony drug thing was the last thing I wanted to do, even on a dare. I hate to say it, but I wussed out. “Com’on, Dad,” I whined. “I’m getting tired and stuff.”
“I know,” he replied. “This’ll make us some brownie points that might come in handy later. Will you do it?”
I held out for a favor of my own. “I’m off pen patrol for 3 days,” I said.
“One day,” he countered.
“Two,” I said. He hesitated – he really liked not having to do this.
“One day,” he said.
“Aw, come on,” I started to whine for real.
“One day,” he said firmly. He leaned in close, “You might want to save my gratitude for something else that you need.” He stayed leaned in that one spot, doing his little pin-you-to-the-wall-with-his-eyes thing. I was concerned, trying to think about what he might know.
“Deal.”
“Good, thanks. I’ll let them know.” He turned and disappeared back into the wheelhouse. The other boat was on its way and slid up next to us 20 minutes later. They were going to use the same boat for the trip since it was the one with authorization to go across the border. When the boat docked alongside, everyone not going back down south would transfer across.
I was scared and pissed. Dad’s hokey schemes were usually harmless ... now he was asking me to involve myself in God-knows-what. I trusted Dad not to put me in harm’s way but what about Greg the skipper?
Greg was a big wheel in this pill scam the Colony had going on. All of the different colonies in the LA area were in on this – it was huge. There were at least 3 boats on the colony that never fished; they just handled getting the drugs to the various colonies – sometimes they’d do an overnighter for emergencies. Dad tried to get in on the business and who could blame him? This was right in line with his 'no fishing anymore' plan.
I'm sure there was more to the story. I knew that the guys that did this were shipping more than prescription pills. It was kept quiet … we were out in International waters but were still under jurisdiction of the CG, the DEA and anyone else who wanted to come aboard and see if we were acting as a conduit of illegal activity.
I’m sorry if this sounds almost mobbed-up; it wasn’t. The guys who did the run were pretty noble about making sure people could get drugs they could afford. The other stuff…well, they seemed to keep it in its place.
When the other boat arrived there was a flurry of people transferring from one boat to the next. Packages and people were handed across and we aren’t talking about water taxis. Everyone had to vault the rail. An older woman had to be eased gently across the rails and there were some tense moments as she teetered above the water between both boats. Then they added some fuel from a stack of gas cans that they brought up from below deck one at a time. Doing all of this took half an hour or so. Dad and Greg stood talking in the wheelhouse until the last packages were gone.
“Awright,” Dad said, making ready to vault the rail. “Do what Greg says and you’ll be fine.” He grinned and rumpled my hair briefly. “This will help me out, pal. Thanks.” He grabbed a handhold and was gone. Greg appeared in the wheelhouse door.
“Hold one,” he said to Dad. He said to me: “Do you have your wallet with you?” I nodded. He held out his hand. “Gimme.” I didn’t want to, but handed it over without a word. He turned and spun it straight out at the boat – managing to neatly smack the cabin wall where it dropped to the deck.
“Rick! Keep an eye on that!” he called. Dad immediately grabbed the wallet before some of the kids had a chance to go through it. Then Rick was back inside the wheelhouse, gunning the engines. He scored a tight 180 on the water and we were heading south again in seconds. Within a minute, the boat for home was a small dot in the distance. I had not moved in all this time, holding onto the railing and staring at the going-home boat. I was hoping that somehow this was a joke. My hopes sank lower with every passing whitecap.
After a few minutes Greg called to me. “Want some dinner?”
“I guess.”
“They sent us a care package to tide us over,” he explained. Hoisting a plastic grocery bag filled with paper take-out boxes, he handed it to me. “Warm these up in the galley and I’ll join you in a few minutes – we don’t have to change course for at least an hour.”
I opened the bag to find that, when you were making an illegal run into Mexico for prescription pills or whatever, they fed you good. Viet Pho, noodles, chicken and vegetables were neatly organized in different packages. They even included some egg rolls and mustard.
Greg walked in as I pulled steaming plates from the microwave. “The simple pleasures,” he commented. In an under-the-counter cooler
, he pulled out a beer for himself and a soda for me. “Help yourself,” he added. We sat and ate; Greg used old lacquer chopsticks while I stabbed pieces of meat with a kiddie-size plastic fork.
“Know what we’re doing?” he asked, chewing a broccoli spear.
“No,” I cautiously replied. This whole deal was twitchy and, frankly, I was too scared to ask.
“It’s no big deal,” he reassured me. “Last minute deal for some extra pills … cancer meds or something. Anyway … they asked us to come back for it and I said okay.” He took a sip of his Pho, looking out to the vast horizon beyond the galley windows. “I’d just go back myself, but the cops know me. I can’t just motor back into the harbor without a good reason.”
“And so you need me to lose my wallet?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he replied. “Actually, you really did lose your wallet because you’re going to go to one of the places you visited today – a cop will be escorting you – and they’ll hand you the wallet you misplaced. Now, the next part’s tricky. The wallet will be empty and you’re going to start a fight with the guy or girl who hands it to you. You need to make enough of a stink so that the cop believes you but not too much so that he feels like taking you into the station for a statement. Got it?”
I realized that Dad had buried me in something up to my neck … exactly what I was afraid of. “I knew I should have held out for three days,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Dad,” I explained. “I told him I wanted three days off of pen patrol and he got me down to one day.”
“Ha!” he laughed. “Rick puts you into this caper and all you get is one day off?”