Chickenhawk: Back in the World

I stayed awake long after John and Ireland were asleep. This was getting too nutty. He misses his watch. He starts fights. He’s too stubborn to admit that he’s wrong when he is. Cal Fisher knows what we’re up to—how do I know Cal’s not a cop? Or knows a cop? How the fuck can we keep making so many mistakes and pull this off?

I’m leaving. Tomorrow. Then a pang of guilt hits me.

Who’ll stand my watch?

Who’ll stand my watch! Are you kidding? Who cares! You could hire a chimp to do what I’m doing. It’s not my fucking problem. Tomorrow, I’m calling Patience and telling her to send a plane ticket.

What’s she going to use for money?

Borrow it from somebody.

Who? The only guy who’d lend you money is on this boat with you.

Somebody will.

Okay. You quit. Then what? Go home and look for work?

My book. Books. I’m working on two.

Your books are a waste of time. Mental masturbation. Be real. You’re no writer. You’re as much a writer as Elliott is a fucking rancher. No one’s going to buy your book. Can’t you read between the lines of those polite fucking rejection letters? You’re not a writer; you’re not anything. You’ll be lucky to get a job mowing yards, pumping gas. And then John and Ireland will cruise through High Springs in a few weeks; maybe they’ll stop and let you pump gas for them, pockets bulging with cash, saying, Too bad, Bob. They gave us each a fifty-thousand bonus, too. Dammy! Wanting; having. Here, take this—they stuff a couple of twenties in your pocket—little something for you, Bob. Buy some shoes or something, eh? Bye, Bob. They hustle off in new Corvettes, leaving ten dollars’ worth of rubber on the road, loose bills fluttering out the windows.

Better poor than poor and in jail, I say to the other voice that lives in my head and argues with me. Tomorrow I’m leaving. I’m no fool.

The other voice laughs.

I was grim as death the next morning. John noticed, but thought I was just pissed at him for last night. He said he’d been an asshole. I nodded.

We hauled the anchor and motored over to the fuel pumps to top off. I jumped on the dock while John and Ireland helped the fuel guy get the hose to the Namaste’s tank. I wandered over to the two-hundred-foot yacht and stared at the bow. A few chips of paint were missing and silvery metal gleamed through. This was a stainless-steel hull? Two hundred feet of stainless steel cake with a helicopter topping. I hated this man.

Why’re you stalling? My bicameral companion said.

I’m going. Just have to say good-bye first. Just pissed at this rich guy. Two hundred feet of—

“What’s up, Bob?” John said behind me.

“Nothing.”

He must have read my mind. “You know, Bob, this is the point of no return. When we leave here, we won’t touch land again until we get home. This is it.”

What’s he think? I’m scared? I may be leaving, but I’m not scared. “I know. Just woke up feeling shitty, is all. I’m—”

John nodded and went into the dockmaster’s office to pay for the diesel fuel. I stared at Ireland, my mouth muttering, “Gonna quit.” He shrugged and glanced down at the water. John came out of the office and jumped aboard the Namaste. They looked at me, heads cocked. I looked at them.

I walked over to tell them, Sorry, I’ve had it; I’m quitting this stupid mission. You guys’ll need my share for new tires anyway—

I stared at John. I remembered the things he’d done for me, like buying me the typewriter—everyone deserves the right tool, he’d said—lending me his car or truck in the middle of the night and never complaining, lending me money and never mentioning it. I watched Ireland pulling in the bow line. He turned and looked at me expectantly. I could hear him saying, Whaty wrong, Ali? He was hardworking, funny. He was loyal.

An hour later we were under sail, heading for Colombia.

CHAPTER 16

A twenty-knot wind sped us toward the Guarjira Peninsula. It was like being sucked down a whirlpool, faster and faster as we got closer to oblivion.

This was the first time we’d sailed downwind; running with the wind, it’s called. John had us attach a pole to the end of the staysail and push it out starboard to catch the wind. We put on a large jib and let it billow out on the opposite side. We sheeted out the mainsail until it was nearly perpendicular to the hull. The Namaste fairly flew before the wind. I decided to experiment with the old way of figuring your speed, the knotted string. I tied a knot every fifty feet in a hundred-yard length of twine. I threw one end overboard, tied to a board. I counted seven knots going through my fingers in thirty seconds—three hundred fifty feet in thirty seconds equals seven hundred feet per minute, equals forty-two thousand feet per hour. Divide by six thousand eighty feet—one nautical mile—and it equals just about exactly seven nautical miles per hour. I made sun shots and calculated our speed with modern instruments—seven knots. Those old guys knew what they were doing.