Chickenhawk: Back in the World

We spent a couple of hours moving bales from the left side of the cabin, stuffing them forward and to the right, to get to the locker under the bunk on the port side. It was slow and heavy work in a stifling, cramped, rolling space. We’d shove a bale up to the top of the pile and it’d roll back when the Namaste lurched. Eventually we uncovered the locker. Ireland and I pried up the cover. Seawater sloshed over some spare ropes and tools, but we didn’t see anything that could be the source of the gas. Disgusted, we took a break under the dodger.

“That stuff makes me see spots,” Ireland said. He lit a cigarette and sucked deeply. “Ah. That’s better!”

An hour later, we wrestled all the bales back to the port side and burrowed our way down to the starboard locker. We could get to the latch, but there were still too many bales wedging it shut. Took another hour to shift the load clear. We pried up the locker cover. This was the low side of the boat, and the water was deep in the locker. Apparently the silicon caulking had missed the real leaks. We saw the problem: paint cans. The seawater had eaten through the three steel gallon cans of paint and a gallon of paint thinner that everybody’d forgotten about. The paint and solvent were sloshing around in the water, raising an invisible cloud of noxious gas.

Overcome by the fresh blast of fumes, we ran out under the dodger to get fresh air. It was maddening. If we weren’t in this storm, we’d be able to open some hatches and vent some of the gas away, but the storm was worse than ever. Waves crashed onto the dodger. We were taking water through the overhead cabin vent, and it was screwed down tight. We tried to talk the problem away. Maybe we could just live out under the dodger for a few days? That was nuts; must be the gas. We shrugged and went below.

We formed a bucket brigade, scooped up the foul goo in pans, and passed them back to John to pour overboard. I could see stars in my eyes; my head throbbed. We got most of the slop out and began passing up coils of rope saturated with the shit, which John threw overboard. We passed up two boxes of rusted, paint-covered tools and John stashed them in the cockpit. Then Ireland and I wiped the locker clean with rags. By sunset the locker was clear and the bales repacked. We were so exhausted and sick, we just drank coffee for dinner. We sat around, groggy and stupid, and stared at the waves crashing over us. This smuggling racket was getting to be very much like real work.

On the morning of the fifth day since we made the pickup, I was alone, standing on the deck next to the cockpit with my arms folded, relishing the sea legs I’d acquired. The sky was clear. The Namaste was pitching, waves were washing across the deck, but I was able to keep my balance without thinking about it. I stood there, the wind rushing through my hair, taking deep breaths, flushing out the nagging residue of the previous night, savoring the moment, when I saw land. I called down the hatch for John.

“Puerto Rico,” John said. “We have to head farther east, stay away from land.” He pulled Rosalinda’s lines and the boat headed off on a course parallel to the coast. We were ten miles out, and John was worried that the Coast Guard might see us and want to investigate. Coming down we hadn’t worried about the Coast Guard; we were just another yacht then. Now we were a nice prize for a Coast Guard cutter’s crew. We would definitely make their day.

That night we kept in sight of the land lights from Puerto Rico and then Saint Croix, working our way toward the Anegada Passage between Virgin Gorda and Sombrero Island.

A huge Lykes freighter came within a mile of us and John hailed it on the radio, requesting a position check. Their loran worked. The radio operator told us our position. John checked the chart. We would make the passage by dawn, if we didn’t get stopped.

CHAPTER 18

The sea changed when we sailed through the passage, as though we had entered a different land. The difference was more a coincidence of weather than a geographical change. The wind was dying, and the Atlantic was filled with huge swells instead of the choppy seas of the Caribbean. We felt good. Not only was it New Year’s Eve 1981, but we’d gotten across the Caribbean, past the pirates, into the Atlantic. The Caribbean was small, constraining—hell, it had only taken us five days to cross. The Atlantic was wide-open territory—home country, it seemed. We headed due north, away from all land, far away from the usual traffic, and, we hoped, far away from the Coast Guard. That night we broke out a bottle of Cruzin rum and had a party. It was the first hard stuff I’d drunk in four years. Two drinks made me stagger. I was reminded of earlier days and I didn’t like it.