by Ken Douglas
“ How’s he get the job?”
“ The prime minister appoints him. He serves for five years, that way his term overlaps the election. In theory he’s not beholden to the prime minister or party in power. He’s supposed to be above politics.”
“ Is he?”
“ Usually.”
The day was fading away as they made their way through the bar toward the dock. There were a few tourists and locals gazing toward the setting sun, hoping to see the green flash, a group of yachties playing cards at one table, a foursome playing bridge at another. Palm trees swaying in the breeze grew along the fence that guarded the north side of the club, a rich housing development bordered on the south and with the road behind and the gulf in front, the yacht club was truly cut off from the daily grind of Trinidad. It was a world unto itself.
“ My boat’s at the end,” Ramsingh said as they left the bar and stepped onto the main dock.
Halyards clinked against aluminum masts, wind generators hummed, a local was hammering a board into the dock, replacing one that had rotted away. These sounds Broxton understood, but there was another, like a west Texas coyote howling long and high in the distance. He stopped and cocked his head, curious.
“ It’s the wind blowing through the roller furled mainsails. Spooky sounding. I don’t like it,” Ramsingh said. “I don’t know why people have them. I can see a roller furled headsail, but what do you do in a blow if the gear jams or the sail bunches up and you can’t get it through that slot in the mast?”
“ I don’t know,” Broxton said. He didn’t understand a word Ramsingh was saying.
“ Exactly,” Ramsingh said. “Give me a main you haul up and reef at the mast any day. It’s the only way.”
“ Sure,” Broxton said, convinced the prime minister was talking to build up his courage, because Ram had to know by now that he didn’t know the difference between port and starboard.
“ There she is, Gypsy Dancer.”
“ That’s it?” Broxton said.
“ That’s her,” Ramsingh said.
“ You’re kidding? We’re not taking that out there,” Broxton said, pointing to the ocean.
“ Yes we are.”
“ It’s so small.”
“ Not so small. My wife and I sailed her around the world.”
“ Shit.”
“ She’s twenty-seven feet and she sails like a witch.”
“ Shit,” Broxton said again.
“ Not scared are you?”
“ Yes.”
“ You’ll get over it,” Ramsingh said as he jumped onto the boat. “You’ll have to undo the lines, take them off those cleats as soon as I start the engine.”
“ Sure,” Broxton said. He shivered when the small inboard sprang to life, but he unwrapped the line from the cleats and jumped on board. They motored from the yacht club and Ramsingh pointed Gypsy Dancer toward the setting sun. When they were in deeper water he turned the boat back toward the club.
“ Are we going back?” Broxton said, almost wishing they were.
“ We have to face into the wind to raise the main.”
“ Oh, yeah, I forgot. Want me to take the wheel?”
“ Yes,” Ramsingh said, and he stepped up on the deck when Broxton relieved him. At the mast he fed the main halyard into a self-tailing winch and cranked it up. The snapping sounds the sail made as it flapped in the wind reminded Broxton of gunfire and he shuddered.
“ All right take her around,” Ramsingh said, stepping back into the cockpit.
Broxton spun the wheel to the right and kept the boat in the turn till the wind was at their back and Ramsingh shut off the engine. They sailed like that for a few minutes, the main powering the boat at three knots over a calm sea toward the glow on the horizon where the sun had been.
“ The end of the line,” the Rasta driver said as he pulled up in front of Drake Road.
“ Take us all the way in. Right up to the dinghy dock,” Dani said.
“ Your wish is my command,” he said, turning left onto the dirt track that led into the shipyard.
“ You’re not from here, are you?” Earl said.
“ Dallas, born and bred.”
“ Why here, driving a taxi bus?” Earl asked.
“ They’re not so up tight here. Live and let live. Try that back in the States.” The driver stopped the van in front of the dock.
“ I still don’t get it,” Earl said as he stepped out of the van.
“ Jah is love. It’s all I need,” the Rasta driver said, then he put the van in gear and sped off.
“ Holy shit, that’s some boat,” Earl said, as they were approaching Sea King.
“ Two million dollars of sixty-five foot steel boat. She really is the King of the Sea. Wait till you see the state room.”
“ It would be gorgeous if it wasn’t for those two giant hook things hanging off the ass end.”
“ Those are the dinghy davits and yes they do kind of ruin the lines, but my father wanted them as an extra safety feature, because he doesn’t believe in life rafts.”
“ Say that again.”
“ He doesn’t believe in life rafts. They have no motor or sails, you have no way to steer them. All you do is float around in the ocean and hope someone finds you. Those poles on each side, by the oars, connect to form a mast. Under the forward seat is a mast step that my father had build into the dinghy. The sail is under the rear seat. Those giant hooks, as you call them, are designed to raise the dinghy with an electric motor. In an emergency we can grab our get-a-way bags, lower the dinghy and be in it in seconds. So although the dinghy davits ruin the lines of the boat, I’ve learned to like them. Besides, it makes raising the dinghy oh so easy.”
The sun was down and stars were dotting the sky as Ramsingh unfurled the jib and they sailed downwind past the Five Island group. Then he turned so that the wind was crossing the starboard side at twenty knots. Gypsy Dancer responded by heeling over and her speed increased to seven knots.
“ This is pretty much our top speed,” Ramsingh said. “Once we get out there it’ll be choppy and we’ll be fighting a cross current. We’ll have bigger wind, spray in the face and maybe a little rain.”
“ Swell,” Broxton said.
“ You might want to take your shoes off.”
“ Sure.” Broxton kicked them off.
“ Okay, why don’t you take the wheel while I go below and get the life jackets and tethers.” A few minutes later Ramsingh was back. “All right, slip this on,” he said, handing Broxton a blue inflatable life vest. Broxton put it on. “If you wind up in the water, pull on the chord and the vest will inflate, but it won’t make any difference, you’ll die anyway, because I won’t be able to find you in the dark, so don’t fall off.”
“ You’re just full of glad tidings,” Broxton said.
“ And to aid you in staying on board we have these,” Ramsingh said, and he clipped a line to the front of his vest. Broxton watched as he clipped the other end to the binnacle. “Now you’re secured to the boat.”
“ You went around the world tied to the boat?”
“ Only when we were on deck after dark or in bad weather. Tonight we’re going to get both.”
Earl looked at the darkening sky as they motored toward Boca del Monos, Monkey’s Mouth, the westernmost and smallest of the four openings between Trinidad and Venezuela that separated the Gulf of Paria from the Caribbean Sea. This was his first time on a sailboat, but he’d raced plenty of speedboats across Lake Dallas, so he wasn’t worried about the crossing to Grenada. Nothing bad could happen on a boat that topped out at ten to twelve knots.
He settled himself back in the cockpit. Soon, he thought, they’d be through the opening and into the sea. Then they could put the boat on automatic pilot, go below and screw till sunup. Life was good and it was getting better.
“ You want to take the wheel while I let out the sails?”
“ Sure,” he said, getting up.
“
Just keep it pointed to the slot between the land on the right and the small island on the left.”
“ Gotcha,” he said.
She pushed a button and he heard the whirring of a powerful electric motor. He watched, fascinated, as the mainsail pulled out from inside the mast. The boat picked up speed as the sail came out and she kept her finger on the button until it was out all the way. The boat heeled over a little and Earl felt the apparent wind as it soothed across his face. He glanced at the knot meter. Seven knots. It seemed faster.
“ Now the jib,” she said and he watched her as she took the lines off the large starboard winch and let it lay slack. Then she moved over to the port side and pushed another button and the port winch started turning.
“ Are all the winches electric?” he asked as the sail came out.
“ No, just the two big ones. They have the jib sheets on them.”
“ What?”
“ The lines that control the big head sail. It’s too big to handle by hand.”
The jib filled as it unfurled, and she kept her finger on the button until it was all the way out. Sea King heeled over more and for a second Earl thought he was going to fall off, but he held onto the steering wheel and grabbed another look at the knot meter. Nine knots. He turned his attention back to her, long hair flying around her face as she pulled the jib sheet tight into the jaws of the self-tailing winch. He looked at the wind instrument. Twenty knots. Twenty knots of wind and they were doing nine knots over the water. He tightened his hands on the wheel. He felt the adrenaline zip through him, lighting up the hair on his arms, sparking across his skin, tingling at the back of his neck. His palms were sweaty on the wheel and the wind was whipping across his face.
“ You okay, Earl?” she said.
“ I had no idea nine knots could be so fast.”
“ We’ll do eleven or twelve once we pass through the Bocas.”
“ Shit,” he said.
It seemed like they were flying. And they were still in the gulf. And then it was calm as they entered the narrow channel between Trinidad proper and Monos Island. Sea King moved flat across the water, powered by the motor, the wind useless as it blew over Trinidad’s high mountains, ignoring the sailboat below.
Earl used the calm moments to catch his breath.
“ You want a drink?” Dani asked.
“ Shot of tequila and a beer if you can,” Earl said.
“ Okay, just keep her pointed through the center of the channel,” she said, before going below, leaving him alone with the boat, the sea and the night.
“ What the-” Earl said, ducking as something flew by his face. Bird, he thought and he raised his head as another one whipped by and he knew it wasn’t a bird. “Bats!” he yelled as another one, then another flew by. He felt his skin crawl, he wanted to swat at them, but he was afraid to take his hands from the wheel. Another zipped by, inches from his face, and he followed it with his eyes. “Jose y Maria,” he said, staring wide-eyed at the bats swarming around the boat. There were hundreds, thousands of them, silently flapping above the water, over the deck, and back to skimming the sea again. It was a miracle they didn’t get caught in the sails.
Then as quickly as they’d come, they were gone, flocking toward a small bay off to the right and again Earl was alone in the dark.
“ You say something, Earl?” Dani said as she popped up from below, holding onto the boat with her right hand, balancing a shot glass and a beer in her left.
“ No, nothing,” he said, staring at the salvation in her hand.
“ Here you go,” she said, stepping up to him. He downed the tequila in a quick gulp and then took a long pull on the beer.
“ Aren’t you having anything?” he asked.
“ No.”
“ Look ahead,” she said and Earl followed her pointed finger.
“ Holy shit,” he said, staring at the boiling seas, three foot swells coming from all directions, churning as evil as any witch’s caldron.
“ Confused seas where the Caribbean meets the Gulf,” she said. “We’ll keep the motor on till we’re through it.”
The first hint of breeze started to fill the sails before she finished her sentence and in seconds they were full and Sea King was bucking and thrashing through the end of the churning passage. Earl held the wheel with a tight right handed grip and tossed the beer can over the side with his left.
“ Keep her straight, Earl,” Dani said.
“ Yeah.”
“ And stay away from the rock on the left.”
“ What rock?” he said. Then he saw it, large, dark and forbidding, hogging the center of the channel.
“ A little to the right,” she said, her voice calm, reassuring.
He pulled the wheel to the right and felt the boat turn.
“ Too much, come back a little.”
He obeyed, feeling the sweat dripping down his back as they sailed up to it. He checked the knot meter. Eight knots. Eight point two, three, five, seven. Sea King heeled back over and Earl pulled the wheel sharply to starboard, convinced they were going to hit the rock, then they were past it and into the choppy, churning, open sea. Sails full, wind whipping his face, knot meter reading ten-five and rising.
Huge swells, made more powerful by the current, slammed into the side of the boat. Sea King’s bow bucked to port with each hit, then jerked back to starboard. The wind, howling now, kept the boat heeled over so far to port that her rails were in the water. Spray slapped his face, salt stung his eyes, and sheer terror stabbed at his thumping heart.
Then they were past the bubbling, boiling seas and had only the swells, the wind and the current to contend with. The rails were still in the water, sending spray shooting over the side, showering them like they were under a giant sized salt water spigot, and Earl watched, horrified, as Dani white knuckled the stainless steel bimini supports in an effort to keep herself from going over the side.
“ We’re in trouble,” she shouted.
“ No shit,” Earl shouted back.
“ I have to reef it in.”
“ What?”
“ I have to take in some sail.”
“ Do it!”
Dani pushed the furling button for the main. The motor whirred, then whined in protest, but the sail stayed full.
“ Head up some,” she shouted back to him.
“ What?”
“ Turn a little to the right.”
He did and some of the wind spilled out of the sail. She hit the button again and sighed as the sail started to wind itself into the mast, but again the motor screeched in protest. She let up on the button, afraid she was going to burn it out.
“ Turn all the way into the wind,” she shouted, pointing.
Earl pulled hard on the wheel, spinning it, feeling the boat shudder and quake. Would he ever see land again.
“ More,” she shouted and he obeyed, turning the wheel till they were headed directly into the wind and the waves.
The jib cracked like an amplified thunder blast.
“ Shit, shit, shit!” Dani jumped to the large port winch, where she took the jib sheet out of the self-tailing jaws. Then she grabbed a winch handle from a plastic holster in the cockpit, jammed it in the furling winch and started grinding, bringing in the heavy sail. The jib cracked again, sending the jib sheets whipping and twisting, smacking the deck, the shrouds and the sails with enough force to maim, or to kill.
“ Down!” Earl screamed.
Dani dropped over the winch like she’d been shot. The boom whipped over her head, breezing her hair in its killing arc. Now the main was thunder-snapping as the boom whipsawed from port to starboard and back again with the fury of a log riding the rapids.
Once the jib was halfway in she stopped grinding and pulled out the winch handle. Now she had to tackle the swinging boom. She thrust the handle into the mainsheet winch and started grinding on it. Earl could see that she was almost done in, but he didn’t know what he could do to help. He was at he
r mercy. If she succeeded and got the boat under control, they might make it. He had no doubt about what was going to happen if she didn’t.
Once the mainsheet was tightened and the boom’s violent motion curtailed, Dani went back to the button that operated the main’s roller furling gear. The boat was still rocking and slamming, but a lot of the fury had been tamed. He watched as the main again started to disappear inside the mast. Then it stopped.
“ It’s jammed,” she said.
“ Oh, fuck,” Earl said. The main was three quarters of the way in and still flapping.
“ I’m going to have to let it out and try again,” she shouted.
“ Hurry,” Earl shouted back.
She pushed the opposite button and the sail came out a bit. Then she pushed the other and Earl sighed loud enough to wake the dead as the sail retracted into the mast. “Are you taking it all the way in?”
“ No, we’ll need to keep some of it out for stability,” she shouted, but the ripping sound told them that the sail had gotten caught again, only this time the motor overpowered the canvas. There was nothing for her do to but to keep her hand on the button and get as much of the torn main in the mast as possible.
Chapter Eighteen
“ I talked to a friend of mine on the radio this morning,” Ramsingh said. “He’d just made the crossing between Trinidad and Grenada.”
“ You’re a HAM operator?”
“ Not licensed, but I use it every now and then to keep track of my cruising friends.”
“ Isn’t that against the law?”
“ Not for the prime minister.”
“ What did your friend say?”
“ He said that it was the worst crossing he’s made in the seven years he’s been in the Caribbean.”
“ Swell,” Broxton said.
“ This isn’t going to be like our last sail together. Then we were on a much bigger boat and the wind was just horrible. Tonight will be a lot worse.”
“ How much worse?”
“ You can’t imagine.”