Chapter 5
Mickey went forward and switched the engine off entirely, stood at the aft rail of Caliban and heard the voice again calling to her, even clearer in the fog now that silence enveloped them.
"Aiutami, help me—!"
It was important to keep cool and to move quickly. The life preserver was in its fitting starboard aft, and attached to it was a long line feeding from the boat. Inside the buoy was a light which turned on when it became horizontal in the water—‘Throw it! throw it immediately without delay’, then call David.
Micky tugged the circular life buoy out of its fitting and it was not as easy as it should have been; it was also heavy. Finally it was free and ready to toss off the aft rail, She tried to hurl it but it more or less just dropped and drifted astern as the rope paid out. The little battery powered safety light immediately flickered on. She could still see nothing. "Grab the buoy," she called, saying it the American way, ‘boy’, "Grab the booey," she corrected.
"Si, si," said the faint distant voice.
Suddenly David was standing behind her. She turned to look up at his face and was puzzled by his expression, fear mixed with anger. He reached out his hand as if he could still recall the life preserver, take it back. Then he shook himself and went to where it was attached to the rail and felt along the line, giving a pull. It was obvious to both of them that there was something on the end. What? Slowly David began to haul in and his shoulders struggled against a heavy weight.
Mickey went below and switched on the spreader lights, illuminating the whole deck, then returned to the stern. A thick steam was lying on the surface of the sea, denser and more impenetrable with every minute that passed. Mickey, watching her husband pulling in the rope, felt her throat catch as a heavy figure broke water. Two solid hands tightly gripped the ring, above, a brown grinning face, thick black curly hair wetly plastered against the skull.
"Get the swim ladder out and attach it," (David to Mickey cooly and rather unpleasantly).
The man in the water clung hard to the line and the life preserver, saying nothing. Mickey looked at him again. He must have been very tired since he was breathing heavily. Quite improbably he seemed to be smiling, directly at her, white teeth glistening. He was wearing a tee shirt which stuck dripping to his wide muscular chest.. The scene was now brightly illuminated, almost like a stage. Mickey flung open the lazarette and pulled out the ladder and attached it to the cleats on the starboard side of Caliban.
"You will have to swim around before you can climb aboard," said David harshly.
"Why? he looks totally exhausted," said Mickey. "We could put out the bosun seat and literally pluck him out of the sea using the mainsail halliard."
"That will not be necessary, Signora", said the man in the water. "I can reach the ladder." He then released the life buoy and swam around to the rather flimsy ladder and climbed aboard, slowly, with difficulty, because he was a big man.
He towered on deck, water streaming off of him, and shook himself almost like a dog. Then he scratched his chin. "You must want to know how I come here. I am just stupid fisherman with busted outboard engine. I have swum long way I think, half hour ago I saw your mast light before the ‘nebbia’, the fog closed in. Grazie Dio you are almost stopped, not moving, otherwise I am goner." He collapsed to a sitting position on the bridge deck and put his head in his hands.
For the first time David spoke. "Get him a brandy, Mickey, and bring me one too."
"Yes Sir," said Mickey. "I don’t think you’re being very hospitable, mein host. Aren’t you going to pull out some dry clothes? This guy must be frozen. Even though the sea is warm he’s been in the water a long time."
"Thank you, lady, yes I am cold."
"You speak good English," (Mickey did not say ‘good English for a fisherman’, which sounded so snobbish.)
David had disappeared below to look for some clothes but Mickey delayed going for the drinks. She was shivering, perhaps from the damp night air, perhaps from the sight of their unusual visitor who seemed to be making himself very much at home as he looked at her with smiling appraisal. She really could not control her curiousity and stared, catching his eye and he grinned again. He was wearing bathing trunks and water continued to drip down onto the deck making puddles. He stretched out his legs which were long, hairless, teaky brown feet beautifully shaped (‘just like a Bernini sculpture’) Mickey thought. She was very much given to thinking about Life in terms of Art. On the wet white tee shirt ‘Porto Cervo’ was inscribed in garish red letters. While the man was still breathing rapidly, he was not really suffering from exhaustion. Must be that he was a powerful swimmer, yes, those shoulders were enormous. Around his wrist he wore a gold bracelet and there seemed to be something on his ankle as well. Caliban was still bobbing about in the swell going nowhere, but Mickey no longer felt sea-sick.
"Yes I speak English. I have worked on yachts in my life," said the man. "crew on boats, big expensive English yachts," and he looked around at Caliban’s rather minimal dimensions with some slight disdain.
David reappeared, and peeling off his shirt, the big Italian slipped on one of David’s sweaters, almost laughing as his hands poked out of the too short sleeves. Comically, he held them out to Mickey who laughed too.
"Try on these," and David handed him an old pair of blue jeans. Under his arm he had a bottle of brandy, opened it, and without offering it first to the Italian, took a big swill himself.
A large arm came out and took the bottle away from him. The Italian tilted it to his head and drank thirstily, the brandy pumping down his throat, looking over at David who had turned his back and was beginning to coil rope. "Your hus-band" (Mickey giggled), "your hus-band is very quiet. Man comes out of the sea," and he spread his arms wide, grinning at Mickey. "He does not ask, he does not question."
Mickey tactfully turned aside while their visitor pulled off his wet trunks.
"I remember seeing some fishing boats awhile back," said Mickey. But they moved away. So what happened to you?"
The man looked at her thoughtfully, his head on one side. "My story is this � I am fishing alone with small boat and the ‘fuoribordo’, outboard you say, snags my net. I try to fix it but no use, maybe the pin is broken. All the other fishing boats have gone away to new place."
"Didn’t you have oars? Why didn’t you row?"
"Forgot oars," said the fisherman." I saw your boat and it looked near, nearer than it was. You were moving slow in the water. I think maybe you are fishing too. I am good swimmer, so I try to catch you."
"Yes, you are a good swimmer." David interrupted. "I’ve heard cock and bull stories in my life but yours tops them all. What were you doing so far out in a little boat without oars?" He felt himself getting angry and also recognized a growing need to believe the Italian’s story—however far fetched.
"I only go where there is fish. "I pescatori sono povera gente. Si deve mangia’." The man ignored David, looking only at Mickey, pointed to his mouth and patted his stomach. "I am poor man, not rich man."
‘not so poor either,’ Mickey thought, looking down at the gold bracelet. ‘But he certainly is very handsome with that curly coal black hair and light flashing eyes—also he is downright flirting with me.
David was unimpressed. "We’ll go back right away to find your row boat, it can’t be too far off. When I do find it, I’ll repair the outboard and send you on your merry way. I have lots of pins and I can even make one for you. We have other things on our minds than a fisherman dumb enough to go to sea without oars." But he was thinking (‘You are one fucking big liar’) "
The fog cocooned them, thick as cotton wool in the brightness which lay upon the deck. Mickey went below to switch off the spreader lights. ‘How like a bad play this is’, she couldn’t help musing. ‘I could write the dialogue myself, clich� from start to finish. Put a sailboat on center stage and on it three people, well they should be strangers. As the drama progresses—time usually has to reveal the character of each actor before the action can continue. Who is this man? and why is David acting so strangely. What’s my role going to be?’
Now a foggy darkness lay inert upon the deck, voices continued to echo making the situation even more surreal. Mickey was cold and went down to the cabin and pulled out a sweat shirt. When she came back nothing had changed. Her husband and the Italian looked at each other.
"Scirocco," said the Italian, "too much calm. Wind will soon come from the other direction, and maybe by morning it begins to blow, blow hard. It is not normal for this time of year but still I feel it. Fishermen know what is with weather." He again smiled only at Mickey. "It is good of you to search for my boat."
David climbed back on the bridge deck and threw a few more sail ties about the mainsail, stowed the round life preserver in its fitting, hardened the genoa sheet. He then switched on the engine which made a hollow put-put. In the muffled atmosphere the motor too carried a slight echo.
Under power, Caliban’s prow slowly turned 180’ on its axis to bear back to where they had come from. The water, what they could see of it, was black and dense and oily. Visibility was now less than ten yards. His steps were slow and ponderous. Each move forwards was an intense, almost impossible effort and his brain felt the same way—full of fog. ‘Is it possible, this fantastic story?’ thought David. ‘Mickey certainly seems to believe it.’
Surprisingly, the Italian showed little interest in the search. He stayed where he was and sat looking at his feet, every once and awhile raising his head and stretching his neck from side to side. Then he lay back, eyes closed. He could have been asleep.
Mickey found her eyes turning to him, knowing that she could stare and be unobserved. Everything about him was perfect, almost god-like in proportion. Brown sinews ran down his arm to overlarge hands. Mouth in repose was calm and sensuous. Where had she seen him before—pictures, a photograph? That was it, not Bernini, he looked like Michelangelo’s David.
Mickey moved to the bow and sat down on the foredeck, looked to the east where the sun could be expected to rise in a few hours. David had instructed her to lean far out over the raking prow of Caliban, the neat dark slice of ocean where the bow knifed through, and search the smooth water ahead for the little row boat. She leaned out and stared, making herself almost dizzy, nothing but dense milky fog to be seen. Maybe searching would become easier at daybreak.
At a certain point David eased over on a ninety degree turn, proceeded about about ten minutes and then headed back to a point about five hundred yards from where they had been before. Mickey strained her eyes but could see nothing. ‘Just like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ she said to herself. ‘Why was David so persistant, certainly not out of the goodness of his heart since he was showing an outright dislike of their Italian guest. He just hated to have other people on Caliban, claimed that they always messed up and were dirty. The only other person he had ever taken to sea was his beloved uncle. At one point she heard the distant blast of a fog horn but it could be miles away. She went to get their own aerosol blaster, but David motioned her back, saying harshly.
"I can see well enough, keep a good look-out. You might miss the damn thing."
How like David to be so obsessed with disproving the Italian’s story! With immobility the cold invaded again, and with it, Mickey felt her sea-sickness begin to return as a bilious sour taste in her mouth. Maybe she was just tired. Six hours of constant attention was difficult enough at night. She called back, "I don’t see how you expect to see anything in this fog, and at night too. If you’re so interested why can’t we wait until morning?" David either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. Mickey looked at her watch, at least another hour before dawn. David continued his elaborate criss-crossing manoeuvres with concentrated deliberation.
As David swung the bow around yet again, Mickey had a hard time keeping her eyes open. "I think we should put him ashore at Porto Cervo, that must be the nearest place. Look at his shirt, he must come from near there anyway." all this to no one in particular, knowing that her husband was not listening. (Had she told David about the course change to the Sardinian resort? Well, he had only to look into the log). But she should have realized earlier that David HAD to find the row boat. For only then would he be able to get rid of the unwelcome guest.
She sat down again and this time closed her eyes (David couldn’t see her anyway). ‘Ho hum, ho hum you never knew what was going to happen on a boat’ she muttered. While it was highly unusual to pick up a man at sea, well, you never knew what was in store. Just take last year, just as they were beginning their cruise they found a little motorboat stalled outside the port entrance to St Raphael. Sitting in the cockpit was a cross little man, bright red with sunburn, who flagged them down and insisted that they tow him all the way back into the bay. Which they did, taking his line, wasting three valuable hours before the departure for Corsica. At the end he never even said ‘Thank You.’ Very irritating! Still, you couldn’t avoid it. That’s how sailors helped each other. Mickey had decided to be altogether philosophical about their unwelcome passenger.
Like anything could happen. There was the time she made a teeny-weeny little mistake tying the rubber dinghy to the stern and the knot worked its way loose. About an hour later David, making a tour of the ship, noticed the boat was gone and they were forced to retreat into the deep Corsican bay to look for it. David grim, a punishing look on his face, searched the shore with binoculars until he saw, unmistakably, their dinghy up on the shore. They came in as close as they could and anchored. A group of youths had pulled it up on the beach and were sitting on its side. David immediately jumped in and swam to shore and she could see him gesticulating, his arms waving about. The young men didn’t move off the dinghy where they were complacently sitting and one of them gave David—‘the finger’. At which point he turned his back and swam back to Caliban. Without saying a single word to her, Mickey almost fainted with surprise when he reappeared from below decks with a long rifle in his hand.
"You swim to shore and get Ariel," he said. "I don’t think this time those bastards are going to argue." Mickey slipped over the side into the water and swam to the beach. The boys had retreated into the trees. Looking back at Caliban Mickey saw her husband quietly standing there, his eye squinting along the telescopic sight, the rifle carefully aimed. It wasn’t easy but swimming slowly, she was able to push the dinghy back.
"I didn’t know you kept a gun aboard," she said. "My goodness, where did you get it?" Mickey was dumbfounded. Obviously there were depths to her husband she hadn’t dimly surmised.
"This is a fine hunting rifle, expensive, deadly. I bought it in France without a bit of trouble. The French aren’t as silly about guns as the English. I keep it well hidden. We’re going to be in ports where we might need protection. Without it, just now we would have lost a five hundred pound dinghy."
"Joshua Slocum didn’t carry a gun."
"Read the book again. He certainly did and Joshua Slocum didn’t live in a world dominated by delinquents, the Mafia, and drugs."
But he did as he was only too aware. He saluted its very existence, well wrapped, artfully concealed, behind his waterproof in the hanging locker. And it had been quite right, now that Mickey had seen the gun, to even teach her how to maintain it. Even further, he insisted that she learn how to load it, pull back the breech and fire it accurately. He had saluted her efforts saying she had a good eye and a firm hand. When they were alone on an anchorage, sometimes he would let a bottle float out to sea and they would both practice shooting. Mickey, who disliked violence, weapons, war, guns, was not happy, but had come to accept it.
As dawn began to lighten the sky David Hutchings looked down at his hands gripping and turning the familiar teak wheel of Caliban, solid, comfortable, reliable—as well known as the slim body of his young wife. A week ago he would have said that he had everything he wanted, needed— a woman he adored, a month of well earned holiday, and the boat of his dreams now in perfect condition.
If Mickey (still busy at the bow) were looking, (which she was definitely not), she would have seen a man struggling with indecision, torment, continuously asking himself again and again the one important question. ‘Why the Hell did I consent to DO IT?’
But he already knew the answer. Time had slipped by, inexorably, and he had not accumulated the money which would allow him to quit his job. The partners made real money (David was well aware) but at the same time they worked like dogs. What good did it do to make a lot of money when there was absolutely no time to spend it?
Both he and Mickey had seen retired yachtsmen, couples in their sixties and seventies, playing around in the Mediterranean without a care in the world. That was only half the story. When push came to shove these old folk had waited too long. They couldn’t hack it and the tough necessary jobs were way beyond them.
Though confident in his ability, David had no illusions about the difficulties the sea could throw at him. Wasn’t it true that in a pinch he could still climb the mast if he had to, without a ladder, using only his arms and legs? Sometimes you had to be a monkey. Sometimes you had to be a midget. (Just fitting himself into the engine compartment to clean the salt water filter needed the skills of a gymnnast).
The summer before, where was it—Calvi in Corsica? it had been the only way to get the sail down from a sailboat which came in, dropped its anchor near them. The wind was a howling Force 8. When the owner, fat, white haired and panicking, tried to lower his big mainsail, he released sail tension too quickly and the big sail jumped right out of its track at the top of the mast and flapped frantically about in the high wind threatening to tear into ribbons. The yacht took off and began to circle its anchor which now gave signs of beginning to pull out. Rocks were close, a disaster loomed.
David jumped in the water, swam over and quickly came aboard. First he released the main sheet, still idiotically tight; then he climbed up the mast using his arms and legs alone while they stared at him, mouths agape. He put the sail back in its track and down it came. Easy!
The poor scared old English couple in their fancy new boat had been so grateful they had shovelled bottles of scotch at him. David had refused the gift since he had been happy to help. The law of the sea was simple. An able bodied yachtsman always came to the aid of someone in trouble. But it did prove his point. There was a time to sail and a time to go ashore. What became more and more evident to him: in the full flow of his young manhood, only going to sea fulltime and nothing else—would ever satisfy him.
He called out to Mickey stuck in the bow of Caliban, dutifully searching the sea ahead for the lost row-boat with the broken outboard. It would never be found (he was slowly coming to awareness of this unpleasant fact). Time to begin looking for other meanings. He motioned her close so they could speak over the noise of the engine. "Enough Mickey, why don’t you turn in? You’ve been up all night. You must be exhausted."
"What are you going to do? You haven’t found his rowboat."
"Fuck his rowboat," said David uncharacteristically, "it probably doesn’t exist."
The Italian was outstretched on the deck and seemed sound asleep, his legs curled up around him. True to what he had said earlier, a wind suddenly picked up and made little riffs on the water, tiny crows feet. The arriving dawn had a gray yellowish cast in it and David squinted at the horizon looking for traces of the big land mass of Sardinia. Nothing was visible. Little whitecaps appeared out of nowhere and began to glisten on the sea. Their flag was now stretched out horizontally in a gathering North-Westerly.
"Take the wheel, throttle down, turn into the wind while I put up the mainsail."
David climbed over the sleeping Italian and undid all the sail ties, throwing them in the cockpit. "Now let go the Main sheet." He pulled the big sail up rapidly and fastened the down-haul and tied down the handy-billy. "No reason not to sail now that we have a nice wind."
He was now back in the cockpit with Mickey. "Release about two thirds of the Genoa and pull it in hard. Perhaps I ought to wake that big fellow before he falls overboard. Not that he would be any great loss."
Mickey slowly pulled out almost, but not quite all of the Genoa sheet, winching it in as it came slowly unfurled. Caliban made a great leap forward and the Italian stirred but did not wake. One hand reached out and grabbed a cleat.
"Almost a heading wind but we can’t be too far from Tavolara," said David, "a nice sheltered cove there so go back on 260’. Did you get a good fix on its lighthouse?"
Mickey interrupted. "I forgot to tell you, we’re not going to Tavolara. We’re going to Porto Cervo."
"Oh Jesus Christ Mickey. Oh my God! When did you change course?"
"Ages ago, after midnight. Don’t worry dear, nobody can lose Sardinia, it’s a big island and it’s got to be somewhere directly West of us."
"Oh God God!" said David. He grabbed his head with two hands and shook it. "Why can’t you ever listen to the simplest instructions? Why can’t you just?"
"Don’t climb on your high horse, first mate. You should be grateful. I saved us a lot of time and with the weather turning funny."
"First mate indeed. Has it sunk in that we now have a second mate too, thanks to you?"
Mickey paid no attention as she was now thinking about her stomach. "I think I better take a sea-sick pill," she said, grabbing the passage way cleat and moving down the ladder to the main saloon. She was beginning to get dizzy and a few tell-tale belches escaped, (always a first sign). "I hope I haven’t left it too long."
David stayed at the wheel. A worried crease split his forehead as he stared at the gathering sea. Mickey had certainly thrown in the spanner. Everything had been made plain as regards the unexpected arrival. The American had lost his cool and stuck that, that creep aboard to guard his gold. David frowned. Was this something he could live with? Looked like he’d have to.
Weather had become a lot more lively. Bits of foam had begun to fly off the seas rolling in from the North West. A particularly large wave rolled the Italian against the life-lines and he sat up. Holding on tightly, he eased himself down to the cockpit and stood next to David, at least five inches taller and forty pounds heavier, and shook his finger at him as one would to a naughty child.
"You don’t lose me that way—I tell you you are one big problem to all of us," said the Italian to David, folding his arms. "You do not go where you are told. And you do not give warning of the big police boat. You do nothing right."
"Never saw a police boat, not my fault, and my wife made a course change when I was asleep."
"Sleep!" said the Italian scornfully. "Plans must be changed. I am in charge of the delivery now.
"So why did you let me waste two hours looking for your bloody row-boat."
The Italian looked at him and laughed. "Was good for me, not you, used up time to slow down and wait for more orders."
David felt enraged but decided to crush his feelings for the moment. He felt certain though, that somewhere to the stern of them the large motor cruiser was shadowing them and had done so on the previous day. Was Lazzari aboard?
"So tell me where you want to go. It would be convenient—to know."
"Not far from Porto Cervo is small island called Mortorio, number 3 on your chart—Isola Mortorio, means ‘Death’. The Italian grinned and laid a heavy hand on David’s shoulder, "So go there and then we will see. Not perfect place like Tavolara since pleasure boats sometimes come from Porto Cervo to swim and do sub-aqua, scuba dive, but okay today, boats not visit when weather no good."
David hated to be touched by other men and shifted his body away from the weight. Every bone in his body was screaming, get this man off my ship. NOW! But he was also happy to go to Isola del Mortorio if it meant that the transfer could be made and he would be out of it.
He locked Caliban on a course just on the other side of the luffing point (where the wind is directly ahead and pushing against the boat) and went down to look at the chart. With all the back and forthing they had done this morning it was quite possible that they were much farther north than they supposed. It was even possible that they were somewhere up near the Straits of Bonifacio, a notoriously rough stretch of water, islands and shoals to turn gray the head of any ancient mariner.
He should really ask Mickey exactly where she was when she picked up the Italian, but Mickey was sitting at the table looking green and helpless. The wind was now whistling in the rigging and Caliban, though half-headed, was still tearing along at six and a half knots in a decidedly lumpy sea.
"Get a suppository," he said to her when she came back from a visit to the head. "If you feel like vomiting, nothing taken by mouth is going to help." Mickey obediently disappeared again, holding onto the cabin rails and almost tottering. She obviously wasn’t going to be much help and David realized he would have to deal with both problems, the ship—and the Italian, neither of which seemed unsurmountable. Was he being an optomist?—probably.
In the meantime he was hungry. He unhooked the gimbels on the little gas stove until it swung free, and put on a pot of water to make coffee. The stove immediately became level as it swung with the movement of the boat and soon the water was boiling. Bracing his legs against the uneven motion, he pulled out a frying pan, added butter and threw in some eggs, hoping Mickey would look the other way when she returned from her visit. He heard her pumping out and then the sound of gagging, plus more pumping. Tactfully he shielded his breakfast from view as she stretched out again on the berth.
He looked towards the cockpit where the big Italian sat calmly eyeing the horizon. He would give him breakfast. There was no harm in being civil until he could unload his ‘minder’, since that’s exactly what the visitor was. (In the back of his mind, wasn’t it true that he had known everything from the very beginning, only refusing to admit it consciously)? Not to worry, extra aggro but supportable given the reward which would soon be his.’
When the eggs were done, bread buttered and coffee ready, he took the mug and plate out to the cockpit. The Italian took it from him and nodded. They both scanned forward and back, from side to side but nothing was visible other than rolling seas which were now about six or seven feet from crest to trough. Plenty of movement but the boat wasn’t rolling, just ploughing doggedly ahead.
David sat down, ate quickly and immediately felt much better. Thinking of his helpless wife, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, outstretched, not taking her hand off her eyes, as though she couldn’t bear looking at him and anyone in the world who could enjoy food. Like all people who have never been seasick, the malaise was totally incomprehensible to him and he could only shake his head in mute sorrow.
He noted with satisfaction that under the rigid fiberglass cockpit canopy, and with the big windshield joining it in front, nothing wet was coming aboard and he smiled. Caliban was a marvelous sea boat. If the big motor yacht, ‘Our Good Thing’ was behind him, it would be rolling and tossing like Hell by now and giving one uncomfortable ride to all aboard. Most power boats were awful to be in under these conditions. Lazzari had cursed him soundly yesterday on the marine telephone, for not giving warning of the naval search, and David wished him every misery the sea could offer.
Casting up a weather eye, he saw immediately that it was just about time to shorten the jib a bit more, to working size, and they wouldn’t lose the least bit of speed by doing so, now reaching a satisfying seven knots per hour. Wind velocity was still rising and touching thirty every few seconds. There! it shot up to thirty-eight before settling down again. A good Force seven! Maybe he should roll up a reef in the mainsail soon. Still, it was fun screaming along.
Through all this the Italian was unfazed, finished his coffee, handed David the mug with one hand and with the other, released the auto-pilot, taking control of the wheel. He made a small correction to port and released a bit of mainsail at the same time, rather neat. Caliban ran a little more smoothly in the water and speed steadied at seven knots and better.
David watched all this (becoming somewhat annoyed) and went below again. Mickey was still lying down, had her hand over her eyes as though it could blot out the entire heaving world outside. Useless to offer her anything to eat despite the fact that it was far and away quite the best thing she could do. She was completely out of it. He sighed and took his waterproof out of the hanging locker and slipped it on. He arranged Mickey’s sailing coat to conceal the gun. Was it loaded?—Of course, not even bothering to check. The whole point was to keep ready for anything.
He briefly considered taking the wheel of his own boat away from the Italian, but the fellow had a grim set look about him as he stared into the rough seas. David climbed into the cockpit and sat down, thinking—the quicker they made the new rendezvous, the quicker they could unload their unwelcome guest so he had only to bear with it a few more hours. The Italian grunted and David stood up, peering ahead. A large dark shape loomed ahead of them about two miles off but clearly visible. It seemed to be an island or rocky promontory. The wind whipped around its nearest reaches and it looked extremely inhospitable.
"Isola del Mortorio?" asked David who had looked at the map and knew exactly where the island was—on the chart. Problem, he didn’t know where THEY were.
"Not Mortorio, I think we have to go back."
"Wait a minute. I don’t particularly feel like coming about in these seas. We have a lot of sail up right now."
"So make less sail," said the Italian.
David climbed out on the heaving bridge. It would have been wise to clip his safety harness on to the stainless steel cable which ran down the deck, but he didn’t. He carried with him the reefing winch handle intending to lower the mainsail a few feet and roll it up on itself until it was a more reasonable size for the conditions, and they could then make the turn quite easily.
"You keep her steady while I finish this," said David to the man at the wheel, inching out along the lee of the sail and holding on to the boom as he moved. Reefing the mainsail was something he could do with his eyes closed—in his sleep. He stood up, clutched the mast, and undid the halliard from the cleat. Slowly he began to release tension. The top three feet of sail came down but then the whole thing began to whip around him as it lowered. Now the winch handle was fitted into its slot, turned, and the sail began to wrap obediently around the boom. But at a certain point it stuck and David slowly moved aft on the bridge deck to hand-roll it a bit where it had made an unwieldy fold.
Suddenly the boat plunged to starboard, the boom skewing across his head as he ducked. He had nothing to hold onto and felt himself careening over the deck toward the gaping life rails, the sea ever ready to devour him. A free standing Gybe! the wind catching the whole sail in the turn. His arms stretched out for anything to hold onto, snatching, clawing, and found the lifelines with one hand. But most of his body was already on the other side of the wires and there he was, swinging, dancing out over the water. He heard himself screaming, voice echoing in his ears. Just when he thought he couldn’t hold on a second longer, with his other hand he managed to grab hold of the cable. With great difficulty he hoisted himself back, somersaulted, and lay flat on the deck, streaming water. A wave had actually washed over him but he had held on, Thank God he was fit! Unclenching his bleeding fingers, lying very quietly, slowly he began to breathe again. He lay face down for a few seconds, staring at the pool of water around him and slowly raised his head.
The boat had righted itself and was now sailing smoothly, a hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction, back to Mortorio where the Italian wanted to go, wing on wing, the jib on one side of the mast, the mainsail on the other. What had happened?
The shipwrecked fisherman stood at the wheel, waved at him and put his thumb up in the universal gesture of approval. David lowered his head again. There was no doubt in his mind. The Italian, a skilled sailor, had tried to send him overboard and had almost succeeded.
But now David wavered. Perhaps he was wrong and the Italian had only thought the manoeuvre was over and it was safe to do a controlled gybe—but was it controlled? The sail was still not reefed correctly and David (attaching his harness) slowly climbed back to the mast to finish rolling in. But the seas had moderated a lot, though it always seems that way when one is not headed into them. Holding on grimly, David completed the job and forgot the winch handle, left it there in its fibreglas slot on the mainmast.
Back in the cockpit the two men stared at each other and the Italian smiled. "I am Mimmo. How do you call yourself?"
"Alive," said David—"but barely."
"Ha ha", the Italian laughed. "I think you should go down and talk on the radio, or should I? They now maybe worry about us."
"I’ll phone. You sail."
He went below and again pulled aside the wet weather gear in the hanging locker to study the gun, then replaced the mac to cover the weapon. It wouldn’t be a bad time to just dump the Italian in the same water he came out of. It was also quite possible that he was now too fatigued to think clearly. He sat down heavily at the chart table and switched on the VHF. Mickey seemed asleep and had her hand over her face but slowly she removed it and sat up. Her expression was ghastly. "Go into the aft cabin and lie down," he said soothingly. "The boat rides much more quietly back there. However, I do think the seas are moderating, just something local and nothing more. Soon you’ll feel a lot better." (He wanted to be alone while he tried to reach ‘Our Good Thing.’)
Amenable, she rose to her feet and headed back. David sighed with relief and picked up the handpiece of the marine telephone, checking his power (which was fine). Now what were the code names agreed upon? Ah yes—He was ‘Wanderer’ and they were ‘Stay at Home.’ The radio became alive and he spoke into the handpiece in a businesslike controlled voice, "’Wanderer’ calling ‘Stay at Home’, ‘Wanderer’ calling ‘Stay at Home’, please come in if you read me."
Nobody was on Channel 39 and David tried again. There was a lot of clicking and static but no one responded and he was almost glad. It would, he was beginning to realize, be very very difficult to even mention what had just happened on deck without being thought a perfect fool. Only a moron would go up on deck in those seas without a harness, totally his own fault, or was it? His suspicions were there and it would do to keep his wits about him.
The easiest thing would be to pretend that nothing had happened at all, that he had not, five minutes ago, almost ended up a lonely speck in the sea. Caliban, true, had not gone to Tavolara as ordered—but so what? Not enough to put a minder on board to watch him, well, not just him there were the gold bars, the six million. Undoubtedly the best thing to do, the simplest, just put all the blame on the weather and he would try to feel his way along about Mimmo and his real intentions. At the island of Mortorio, the big yacht would be waiting for him and he would be able to rid himself of the entire unwelcome cargo, man and gold, and take off for parts East. Wasn’t life complicated enough without giving in to his imagination? He replaced the telephone and moved out to the cockpit.
Mimmo sailed Caliban well and his eyes were thin blue slits in his tanned face as he looked ahead. The boat galloped over the following seas and at the end of each large wave, the Italian corrected a little bit and the main sail then filled out again and the boat jumped forward. The wind had settled down to about twenty-five and gave every indication of staying that way. While large whitecaps crested and broke, they were now very evenly spaced. It looked like being a wonderful sailing day after all. The change in weather had just been a sudden squall.
David sat down, feeling his eyes getting heavy, tried hard to stay awake but couldn’t. Perhaps he slept an hour, and awoke with Caliban sailing very nicely along, the seas fully moderated, the wind a fresh breeze and Mimmo at the wheel, eyes scanning the seas ahead.
"Isola del Mortorio," said the Italian, pointing at a thin brown and green line. "You did not make contact with radio, and now I will try."
"No, my range is not very big and with the weather sort of freakish, anyway—If that’s it, seems like we’re almost there."
The sea had turned a rich royal blue, a wonderful contrast with the snowy white of the wave crests. The sky was now cerulean and in the far distance David saw dirty retreating cumulus becoming ever fainter.
"Might as well shake out the reef in the sail. This time why don’t you do it?" said David, reaching for the wheel of his boat, almost pushing the Italian away.
"Okay, no problem," said Mimmo flashing his white teeth. "Put something on those fingers is my advice, iodio and tape" He laughed a little snottily. "I have worked on big boats which hides mainsail inside the mast, not like this little one. Very good, expensive, much easier to work than this old barge."
"Old barge! You’ve got some nerve. I should dump you right here, almost worth losing a dinghy to get rid of you," but this was said sotto voce as the Italian headed forward. David, who hated jewellery on men, noticed that the Italian also wore a bracelet on his ankle! "Probably gay, just the sort of thing gay guys wore."
Grinning back at him from the deck, Mimmo expertly released the tension and pulled the sail free, and then raised it to its full height using only the strength of his brawny arms (not the halliard winch) a considerable feat with the sail full of wind.
‘Faggot weight lifter,’ mumbled David to himself. "stupid piece of beefcake!" he said out loud to Mickey who was now standing beside him, looking considerably better and admiring the Italian’s deft movements on the foredeck.
"Buongiorno, Signora, sta meglio?" said Mimmo, turning to her with his big toothed grin.
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