Chickenhawk: Back in the World

Five miles away from Santee Point, the wind dropped off, becoming too variable and too weak for sailing. John elected to drop sail and motor the rest of the way. I watched him push the starter with anticipation. Everything depended on that engine. Grind. Grind. Growl. The exhaust burbled out from under the stem. John engaged the propeller and the Namaste grumbled ahead. I breathed a sigh of relief that puffed out as a cloud in the frigid air and joined Ireland on the foredeck.

Ireland and I let down all the sails, rolled them up, and tied them with hanks. We made a neat job of it. We wanted the shore team to be impressed at what professional sailors we were. Look, guys. Forty-four days at sea and we’re still cooler than you’ll ever be if you live to be a hundred. Even with the heat of the effort, Ireland and I were shivering by the time we got back to the cockpit. A local radio station said it was thirty-eight degrees, but out on the water it seemed much colder than that. Ireland and I went below to warm up while John piloted.

We hugged the stove.

“You looking worried, Ali,” Ireland said. “You don’t like the plan?”

“You don’t look so confident yourself,” I said. “I guess the plan’s okay. What the fuck do I know about this business? I just have a bad feeling about it, is all. My guts tell me it’s a wrong move.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ireland said. “Twenty of our people are just a few miles away. They’ve got it covered. We get to that fucking creek, Ali, we got it made.”

I smiled. “You should know better’n me. But I guarantee I’ll never do this again, Bob. Too many things can go wrong.”

Ireland nodded. “Me neither. This is my last trip.”

John called us.

He was pointing ahead. “See that light?”

“Yeah,” I said. A light blinked on top of a channel marker.

“That’s it. That’s Santee Point.” John started laughing. “If those motherfuckers want to catch us, they’d better do it in five minutes, ‘cause we’re outta here.” He cupped his hands by his mouth and yelled to the world, “We’re fucking history!”

We motored past Santee Point and into the mouth of Five-Fathom Creek at one-thirty. According to John’s chart, it would take us another two hours to get to the pickup point. I watched the Atlantic disappear into the mist behind us. I heard the waves washing the rocks at Santee Point as a farewell salute. The sea had been my home for six weeks. It was powerful, vast. The sea had put my life in perspective. I missed it as land surrounded us. Someday, I promised, I’ll be back.

A mile into the creek, it narrowed to about a hundred feet. The chart showed that it got narrower. The sides of the creek were berms raised when they dredged the creek through the surrounding marsh. Stars twinkled overhead. They were stars in the sky again; not stars floating next to the planet. The chill of the night entered my bones and I shivered. My breath puffed out in clouds. The only sound was the chuffle-gurgle of the engine. John had Ireland stand out on the deck with the blazing floodlight scanning the side of the channel so he could steer. The light, which seemed adequate at sea, was now overkill, lighting up the night like a flare.

“John, people can see that fucking light for miles.”

“What do you want? You want us to run aground?”

“If you just let your eyes get used to the dark, you can see,” I said. “I can see the damn banks without the thing.”

“I’m not taking any chances. We run aground now, Bob, we’re really fucked.”

John knows what he’s doing, I thought. We’re both listening to our guts. John knows what he’s doing. I’m just jumpy. He’s right, the trip’s almost over. We got past the Coast Guard, the shore team’s cleared the creek. We’re home free. I’ll see Patience tomorrow with thirty thousand in my pockets—a successful hunter home with a bountiful catch. It’ll be great. Happiness is warm money. Then why am I feeling so damn depressed? Maybe I’m just tired. Up thirty-six hours straight. Tired makes you stupid, jumpy over nothing. I used to make terrible landings, made dumb decisions in Vietnam when I got tired. Tired can kill you.

I stood next to John watching the floodlight scanning the banks. “How long before we get there?”

“Hour and a half,” John said.

“Okay. I’m going below to catch a nap.”

“A nap? Now? You can sleep now?”

“Yeah. I used to do it in Nam. You know, between flights. I want to be alert when we get there. There’s nothing for me to do now, right?”

John shook his head. “No. We’re just driving home, Bob.”

I stepped into the hatch. “Wake me when you need me.”

John nodded.

I crawled on top of the marijuana and wrapped myself in two blankets. I was tired, but that wasn’t why I was trying to sleep. I was trying to sleep to get away from the foreboding of doom I was feeling. I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong with this move. I didn’t know what. It might just be I needed some rest. Needed rest.