The Nautical Chart

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Coy smelled tobacco mixed with the acrid scent of the wick, which the breeze, beginning to freshen from behind Punta Europa, rapidly carried west.

  "She needs..." He stopped suddenly, feeling ridiculous. "Well. Maybe 'help' isn't the word." .

  El Piloto took a long pull on his cigarette.

  "You're the one who needs her, is more like it."

  In the binnacle, the compass needle showed 070 °. El Piloto touched the corresponding key on the repeater of the automatic pilot, transferring the course to it.

  "I've known women like that," he added. "Um-hmmm. I've known a few."

  'A woman like that... What do you mean, like that? You don't know anything about her, Piloto. There are still a lot of things I don't know myself."

  El Piloto didn't answer. He had abandoned the wheel and was checking the automatic pilot. Beneath his feet he felt the hum of the direction system correcting the course degree by degree in the swell.

  "She's bad, Piloto. Real bitching bad."

  The master of the Carpanta shrugged and sat down on the teak bench to smoke, protected from the breeze blowing stronger from the bow. He turned toward the motionless figure at the stern.

  "Well, she must be cold, with only that jersey."

  "She'll put something on."

  El Piloto sat smoking in silence. Coy was still standing, leaning against the binnacle, leg slightly spread and hands in his pockets. The night dew began to collect on the deck and seep through the ripped seams in the back of his jacket, the collar and lapels of which he had turned up. In spite of everything, he was relishing the familiar rocking of the boat, his only regret was that the headwind was preventing them from setting the sails. That would lessen the motion of the boat and eliminate the annoying sound of the engine.

  "There aren't any bad women," El Piloto suddenly announced. 'Just like there aren't any bad boats... It's the men on board who make them one way or the other."

  Coy said nothing, and El Piloto fell silent again. A green light was swiftly slipping up between them and the land, approaching the port quarter. Against the light from the lighthouse Coy recognized the long, low silhouette of an HJ turbolaunch run by Spanish customs. Based in Algeciras, this was a routine patrol to interdict hashish from Morocco and smugglers from the Rock.

  "What are you looking for in her?"

  "I want to count her freckles, Piloto. Have you noticed? She has thousands, and I want to count all of them, one by one, trace them with my finger as if she was a nautical chart. I want to trace a course from cape to cape, drop anchor in the inlets, and sail every inch of her skin, hugging the coast the whole time. You understand?"

  "I understand. You want to get her in bed."

  From the customs launch a light exploded, casting for the name of the Carpanta, for the registration number and port of registry on her sides. From the stern, Tanger asked what they wanted. Coy told her.

  'Jack-offs," El Piloto murmured, cupping his hands above his eyes, dazzled by the spot.

  He never had anything bad to say, and Coy had rarely heard him swear. He had the old upbringing of humble, honorable people, but he couldn't abide customs officers. He had played cat and mouse with them too often back in the days when he would row his little lateen-rigged sailboat, the Santa Lucia, to round off the day's work by picking up boxes of blond tobacco thrown overboard from merchant ships to people signaling with a flashlight, hidden outside Escombreras island. One part for him, another for the Guardia Civil on the quay, and the main portion for the people who hired him and never ran the risks. Tobacco could have made El Piloto rich had he worked for himself, but he was always satisfied with enough for his wife to have a new dress on Palm Sunday, or to get her out of the kitchen and invite her to a fish fry in one of the cafes around the port. Sometimes, when friends pushed hard and there was too much blood boiling and too many devils to get rid of, the fruit of one whole night's risk and labor fighting a murderous sea would be shot in a few hours' time, on music, drinks, and commercial ass in the dives of Molinete.

  "That isn't it, Piloto." Coy couldn't take his eyes off Tanger, lit now by the customs spotlight. 'At least, it isn't just that."

  "Of course it is. And until you go to bed with her you'll never

  clear the decks____ Supposing you ever get anywhere with her."

  "This woman's got balls. I swear."

  "They all do. Think of me. When I have a pain, it's my wife who takes me to the doctor's office. 'Sit right here, Pedro, the doctor's coming....' You know her. But let me tell you, she would bust before she'd say a word. There are women who if they were heifers would give birth to nothing but bulls for the ring."

  "It isn't just that. I saw an old snapshot. And a dented silver cup. And a dog licked my hand, and now it's dead."

  El Piloto took the cigarette from his mouth and clicked his tongue.

  "Out here, anything you can't put in a logbook is useless," he said. "You have to leave all the rest on shore. If you don't, you lose ships and men."

  Its inspection complete, the customs launch changed course. The green light on its side turned to white at the stern, and then red when it swerved and showed its port side before cutting all lights and getting on more discreetly with the night's hunt. Seconds later, it was nothing more than a shadow moving rapidly west in the direction of Punta Carnero.

  The Carpanta gave a heavy roll, and Tanger appeared in the cockpit. In the rolling of the swell she was moving at the pace of a toddler, trying to get a careful grip and maintain her balance before taking each step. As she moved past them, she put her hand on Coy's shoulder, and he wondered if she was getting seasick. For some perverse reason, the thought amused the hell out of him.

  "I'm cold," she said.

  "There's a slicker below," El Piloto offered. "You can use it." "Thank you."

  They watched her disappear down into the well. El Piloto continued to smoke for a while in silence. When finally he spoke, it was as if he were renewing an interrupted conversation.

  "You always read too many books— That can't lead to any good."

  X

  The Coast of the Corsairs

  You put your life within three or four fingers" width of death, the thickness of the ships wood hull. DIEGO GARCIA DE PALACIOS, Instruction nautica para navegar

  The east wind was blowing onshore, though it turned as soon as the sun rose a little above the horizon and they were again heading directly into it. It wasn't very strong, barely ten or twelve knots, but enough to change the heavy swell into rough, choppy waves. Pitching and propelled by the motor through a spray that sometimes left traces of salt on the cockpit windshield, the Carpanta passed to the south of Malaga, reached parallel 36°30 and then set a course due east.

  At first Tanger showed no sign of being seasick. Coy watched her sitting quietly on one of the wood seats affixed to the rail at the stern, wrapped in El Piloto's warm slicker with the lapels turned up to hide half her face in the darkness. A little after midnight, when the swell grew stronger, he took her a self-inflating life jacket and a security harness and fastened the carabiner to the backstay himself. He asked her how she was; she replied fine, thank you, and he was amused remembering the box of Drama-mine he'd just seen tying open on the bunk El Piloto had assigned her in a stern cabin when he went to get the jackets and harnesses. Sitting where she was, the night breeze in her face would make her feel less queasy. Even so, he told her she would be better off sitting on the port fin, farther away from the exhaust fumes. Tanger said that she was just fine where she was. He shrugged and returned to the cockpit. She held on another ten minutes before moving.

  At four in the morning El Piloto took over, and Coy went below to rest. In his narrow stern cabin, which hardly had room for a bunk and a locker, he lay down, still dressed, on his sleeping bag and minutes later, rocked by the waves, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep in which blurred shadows like ships floated through a phantasmagorical green darkness. Finally he was wakened by a ray of sunlight beaming thr
ough the porthole, rising and falling with the waves. He sat up in his bunk and rubbed his neck and injured eye, feeling the rasp of his beard on the palm of his hand. A good shave wouldn't hurt, he thought. He went down the narrow passageway toward the head, peering into the other cabin on the way. The door and porthole were open to let in the air, and Tanger was sleeping on her stomach in the bunk, still wearing the life jacket and harness. He couldn't see her face because her hair had fallen across it. Her feet, still in her tennis shoes, hung over the edge of the bunk. Leaning against the door frame, Coy listened to her breathing, punctuated by an occasional sharp intake or a moan. Then he went to shave. His swollen eye wasn't too bad, and his chin was painful only when he yawned. Considering everything, he mused, consoling himself, he'd come through the conversation at Old Willis reasonably well. Animated by that thought, he connected the water pump to wash up a little, then heated coffee in the microwave. Trying to keep from spilling, he drank one cup and carried another up to El Piloto. He found his friend sitting in the cockpit, a wool cap on his head, his beard gray against his coppery skin. The Andalusian coast was visible in the mist two miles off the port beam.

  "You'd no more than gone to bed when she vomited over the side," El Piloto told him, taking the hot cup. "She lost everything. That was one sick girl."

  Proud bitch, Coy thought. He regretted having missed the show—the queen of the seas and wrecks, all flags frying, hanging onto the taffrail and tossing her cookies. Wonderful.

  "I can't believe it."

  It was obvious he did believe it. El Piloto looked at him thoughtfully.

  "Seemed she was just waiting till you got out of sight." "No doubt about that."

  "But she never complained. Not once. When I went over to ask if she needed anything, she told me to go to hell. Then when she was a little calmer, she went below to bed like a sleepwalker."

  El Piloto took several sips of coffee and clicked his tongue, the way he did every time he reached a conclusion.

  "Don't know why you're smiling," he said. "That girl has class."

  "Too much, Piloto." Coy's brief laugh was bitter. "Too much class."

  "She even felt her way leeward before she heaved________ She didn't

  rush, just made her way calmly, never losing her cool. But as she went past me, I saw her face in the light from the cabin. She was bone white, but she found enough voice to tell me good evening."

  Having said that, El Piloto was silent for a while. He seemed to be reflecting.

  "Are you sure she knows what she's doing?"

  He offered Coy the half-empty cup. Coy took a sip and handed it back.

  "The only thing I'm sure about is you." El Piloto scratched his head beneath the cap and nodded. He didn't seem convinced. Then he turned to study the vague outline of the coast, a long dark blotch to the north. It was difficult to see clearly through the mist.

  THEY passed few sailboats. Tourist season on the Costa del Sol hadn't yet begun, and the only pleasure craft they sighted were a French single-master and later a Dutch ketch, sailing with the wind free toward the Strait. In the afternoon, nearing Motril, a black-hulled schooner headed in the opposite direction passed by a half-cable's length away, flying an English flag atop the spanker of the mainmast. There were also working fishing boats to which the Carpanta frequently had to give way. The rules of navigation demanded that all ships keep their distance from a fishing boat with lines in the water, so during his turns on watch—he and El Piloto relieved one another every four hours—Coy disconnected the automatic pilot and took the wheel to avoid the trawlers and drift nets. He did not do so happily, because he had no sympathy for fishermen; they were the source of hours of uncertainty on the bridge of the merchant ships he'd sailed on, when their lights dotted the horizon at night, saturating the radar screens and complicating conditions of rain or fog. Besides, he found them surly and self-interested, remorselessly eager to drag every inch of the sea within reach. Bad humored from a life of danger and sacrifice, they lived for today, wiping out species after species with no thought of anything beyond immediate gains. The most pitiless among them were the Japanese. With the complicity of Spanish merchants and suspiciously passive marine and fishing authorities, they were annihilating the red tuna in the Mediterranean with ultramodern sonars and small planes. Fishermen were not the only guilty parties, however. In those same waters Coy had seen finbacks asphyxiated after swallowing floating plastic bags, and whole schools of dolphins crazed by pollution beaching themselves to the while children and volunteers weeping with impotence tried to push them back into a sea they refused.

  It was a long day of maneuvering among unpredictable fishing vessels, which might plow straight ahead one moment and then turn suddenly to port or starboard to lay out or pull in their nets. Coy steered among them, changing course with professional patience, thinking of how sailors acted with considerably less circumspection aboard merchant ships in less carefully governed waters. Sailboats and working fishing vessels had theoretical right of way, but in practice they were well advised to keep a wide berth from merchant ships moving at top speed, with their Indian, Filipino or Ukrainian crews cut back to save money, commanded by mercenary officers and with a flag of convenience, a course set as straight as possible to economize on time and fuel, and sometimes, at night, with a minimal watch on the bridge, unattended engines, and a sleepy officer relying almost completely on onboard instruments. And if by day the engines or wheel were seldom touched to alter speed or course, at night such a ship became a lethal threat to all small craft crossing its path, whether or not they had legal priority. At twenty knots, which is more than twenty miles an hour, a merchant ship beyond the horizon could be upon you in ten minutes. Once, en route from Dakar to Tenerife, the ship Coy was second officer on had run down a fishing boat. It was five minutes after four in the morning, and Coy had just ended his watch on the bridge of the Hawaiian Pilot, a seven-thousand-ton traditional cargo ship. As he was going down the companionway toward his cabin he thought he heard a muffled sound from the starboard side, as if something had scraped the ship from stem to stem. He went back on deck just in time to see a dark shadow capsizing in the wake, and a faint glimmer that looked like a low-wattage lightbulb dancing crazily before suddenly going out. He rushed back to the bridge, where the first officer was calmly checking the set of the gyroscope. I think we just sank a fishing boat, Coy sputtered. And the first officer, a phlegmatic, melancholy Hindu named Gujrat, stood there looking at him. On your watch or mine? he asked finally. Coy said that he'd heard the noise at 0405 and seen the light go out. The first officer stared at him a little longer, moughtful, before stepping out on the wing bridge to take a quick look toward the stern and check the radar, where the echoes of the waves showed nothing special. Nothing new on my watch, he concluded, again giving his full attention to the gyroscope. Later, when the first officer reported Coy's suspicions to the captain—an arrogant Englishman who made lists of the crew separating British subjects from foreigners, including officers—he approved the fact that the incident had not been entered in the logbook- We're in open waters, he said. Why complicate life?

  AT ten in the evening they reached 30 longitude west of Greenwich. Except for brief appearances on deck, always with the air of a somnambulist, Tanger spent almost every moment secluded in her cabin. When Coy went by and found her asleep, he noticed that the box of Dramamine was quickly being depleted. The rest of the time, when she was awake, she sat at the stern, still and silent, facing the coastline slowly passing on the port side. She barely tasted the food El Piloto prepared, although she agreed to eat a little more when he told her it would help setde her stomach. She went to sleep almost as soon as it was dark, and the two men stayed in the cockpit, watching the stars come out. They headed into the wind all night, forcing them to use the motor. That meant they had to go into port at Almerimar at six the next morning, to refuel, take a break, and restock provisions.

  THEY cast off at two that afternoon, with a favo
rable wind: a fresh south-southeaster mat allowed them to shut down the motor and set first the mainsail and men the Genoa almost as soon as they rounded the buoy at Punta Entinas, on the starboard tack with the wind on her quarter and at reasonable speed. The swell had reduced, and Tanger felt much better. In Almerimar, where they had docked next to an ancient Baltic fishing boat refitted by ecologists for following whales in the sea of Alboran, she had helped El Piloto hose down the deck. She seemed to hit it off with him, and he treated her with a mixture of attentiveness and respect. After lunch at the seamen's club, they had coffee in a fishermen's bar, and there Tanger described to El Piloto the vicissitudes of the day's run of the Dei Gloria, which had been following, she said, a route similar to theirs. El Piloto was interested in details of the brigantine, and she answered all his questions with the aplomb of someone who had studied the matter down to the last particular. A clever girl, El Piloto commented as an aside, when the three of them were on their way back to the boat, loaded with food and bottles of water. Coy, who was watching her as she walked ahead of them along the quay—in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, her hair blown by the breeze, a supermarket bag in each hand—agreed. Maybe too clever, he was about to say. But he didn't.

  She didn't get seasick again. The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon behind them. The Carpanta was moving under full sail past the Gulf of Adra, showing four knots on the log and with the wind, now veering toward the south, abeam. Coy, whose swollen eye was considerably better, was watching the bow. In the cockpit, with hands expert at mending nets and sails, El Piloto was sewing up the jacket ripped during the incident at Old Willis, never missing a stitch despite the rolling of the boat. Tanger's head appeared in the companion; she asked their position and Coy told her. After a moment she came and sat between them with a nautical chart in her hands. When she unfolded it in the protection of the small cabin, Coy saw that it was number 774 of the British Admiralty: Motril to Cartagena, including the island of Alboran. For long distances, the smaller-scale English charts, which were all the same size, were more manageable than the Spanish ones.