The Navigator: A Perilous Passage, Evasion at Sea
Chapter One

Joe Anderson’s conversation with the water-taxi coxswain was interrupted as a sleek black cigarette boat roared by and cut across the bow, raising a mountainous wave. Joe’s reaction was instant shock and then rage, believing he had encountered them before. Perched near him at the helm, the obese coxswain scowled, reestablishing his broad rear on the seat.
“A sorry lot, that is. Bloody drug runners, I’ll grant you.”
Raising a hand to shelter his eyes and squinting in the glare off the bright blue Bahamian water, Joe watched the cigarette boat throwing up a rooster tail of spray, barreling toward Man-O-War Cay ahead. It was not so much the appearance as the sound of the cigarette boat’s engine that made Joe’s pulse quicken. One night not two months ago at the remote Great Sale Cay, he had heard that guttural roar with a peculiar throb, throb, throb that would cost him dearly. Captain and owner of a forty-foot motor yacht, he had

brought to the Bahamas a young couple on a weekend charter. Joe had anchored out and taken them ashore in the dinghy for an evening cookout on the beach. Drinking a couple of beers as he tended the fire that night, he had paid little attention to the sound of another boat approaching in the lagoon, assuming its occupants also would anchor out until daylight. But a few minutes later, he heard it start up again. Peering out into the gloom, he was shocked to see that his boat was being towed away by a black-hulled cigarette boat. Shouting, waving his arms, he ran out into the water, trying to see who and what was going on. They were stealing his boat.
He ran to his inflatable dinghy and pushed it into the water, jumping in and starting the outboard. As he sped toward the escaping boats there was a burst from a machine gun. Bullets raked the water in front of him, and he turned away violently. Air rushed out of the inflatable, now punctured and sinking. He turned toward the shore and beached the flooded dinghy. His terrified passengers ran over to him, and the three of them watched helplessly as their sailboat was towed through the pass and out of sight.
They were stranded on the uninhabited island for the night with no way to call for help. It was not until the following afternoon that another cruising sailboat sailed into the little bay and discovered them. Joe reported the piracy to the Bahamian authorities, but it was too late. His boat, his only means of livelihood, later was found sunk in shallow water south of Miami, a total loss. The U. S. Coast Guard speculated that it had been used for a drug run and then burned and abandoned. Uninsured because he couldn’t afford the premiums during the recession, Joe was left stranded in the Bahamas with virtually nothing.
So this cigarette boat passing the ferry on the way to Man-O-War had this same throbbing engine sound, and it had a black hull. Joe was as sure as dirt that it was the very boat that had hijacked his yacht, but on that moonless night at Great Sale Cay, he had seen nothing to help him identify it for sure.
“Seen that boat around here before?” he asked.
The ferry coxswain nodded. “Not often. Just every now and then. Hear that damn engine at night sometimes. Ain’t nobody but fools or crooks run like that in the Abaco.”
They watched the cigarette boat barrel up to the narrow inlet, slow, and disappear around the turn inside.
“You on vacation?” the coxswain asked.
“Got a little job here,” Joe replied. “I hope.”
In fact, he was desperate for this job. This was what had brought him out today, made him climb out of the half-mildewed bed of the rooming house in the seedy section of Nassau, pack his one seabag, and head to the Abaco to report to a prospective employer docked at Man-O-War. Ever since his boat was stolen, he had been unemployed and stuck in the Bahamas for two months, all during the economic downturn. It had been a downturn, all right, leaving Joe unpaid and without much prospect for a captain’s job. Unfortunately, he had chosen to remain in the islands, hoping for a job delivering a boat back to the US. But with the recession going on, there were fewer boats in the Bahamas and little, if any, need for captains. Instead of using his scant savings to buy a plane ticket home, he’d spent too much looking for work here. Now the money was gone and the prospects were slim. If he didn’t get this job, he didn’t know what he would do.
In his early adult life, he had earned a master’s degree in English, served on active duty for four years as a naval officer, enjoyed married life and a successful career teaching. But then there had been the painful divorce followed by the midlife crisis. That was when he bought the boat and became a professional captain. But with few charters in the suffering economy, and the loss of his boat, he had fallen so far. In his younger adulthood, Joe had believed that a man who was intelligent, thoughtful, sensible, educated, and courageous had the ability to shape his future and improve his situation. But at this point, he was feeling more a victim of circumstance than an agent of purpose. With his master’s license nearly expired, he desperately needed employment. It was mid-July and hot as hell in the Abaco, so most boats had long since left for Florida. He felt extremely fortunate to find a job to apply for that would take him back to the States.
Reaching Man-O-War Cay a few minutes behind the speedboat, the water taxi entered a narrow little coral-lined pass into the interior lagoon. He stood at the gunwale along with a pair of other passengers peering past some sport fishing boats and a few sailboats anchored in the harbor. Most transients had long since headed north for cooler, less storm-prone areas. Climbing onto the pier, he set out to find Mission, and its owner, Alex Smith.

It occurred to Alex as he restored the extra lines and other gear in the bow locker that, if some emergency occurred requiring them to get at this equipment, then the bundles of cash might be discovered. There was no better place on his sailboat, however, to hide something so bulky as two million dollars in hundreds because at sea, the bow locker is almost never opened. His cash would be delivered after midnight from his Bahamian bank, which he intended to put in the locker then and pull the big duffel that held the spinnaker sail over to hide it.
Perspiring in the deck locker under the July sun, he climbed out and closed the hatch. The latch handles were almost too hot to touch. He blew on his hands and looked across the lagoon to see if the water taxi had arrived. It ran between Marsh Harbour and Man-O-War Cay during the day, and he was irritated that this new boat captain hadn’t shown up yet. Accustomed to deferential treatment his business and social position afforded, Alex demanded the same from hired crew. It was not likely, however, that this individual he’d found through an agency, this so-called sailing master that they’d dug up out of the bars in Nassau, could be counted on for any business acumen, let alone promptness. Of course, Alex hadn’t wanted anyone too sharp. All he needed was someone who was sailor enough to stand watches on the long trip to Charleston, would do what he was told, and keep his mouth shut.
As CEO of Smith-Southern, a publically traded distribution company in Atlanta, he had secretly skimmed off profits and salted them away offshore in the Bahamas. With the Lehman Brothers debacle and economic downturn that followed, the company suffered some big losses, until he began some under-the-table price-fixing with Barlay & Company, their biggest competitor. Struggling to regain his wealth, he searched for new opportunities until just this spring. As he moved up to chairman of the board, the company began secret talks for a proposed merger with Barlay. The highly profitable deal had been finalized and would be announced publically on July 25th. In order to take maximum advantage of the merger, he would have to buy all the stock he could before that date. And to maximize his gain, he would need to use his offshore savings, which would be taxed if returned to the US. To avoid those taxes, and avoid having to reveal how he got all that money, he had decided to withdraw from the Bahamian bank two million, which, with a little strategic palm greasing, they were able to provide in US dollars. He planned to hide the cash in his boat and sail to the States. Of course, he would need to launder the money once he smuggled it in. Making a few quiet inquiries, he had made a deal with a banker in Charleston, South Carolina who would handle it for a reasonable enough fee. So all Alex had to do was get the cash to Charleston in time to buy stock before the merger was announced. Luckily, he had the boat to take it there.
His dear wife, Frances, would throw a royal tantrum if she found out, he realized, but she knew nothing of business, so it wouldn’t be too hard to keep her in the dark. The problem could be the boat captain, and that was why he was fortunate to find this Joe Anderson, who sounded like a real loser. That kind of man Alex had manipulated many times, and this one surely would do for money whatever Alex wanted.

Joe squinted in the afternoon sunlight, looking for Mission. A couple of hundred yards down the lagoon, he saw a mast towering above all the others. That just had to be the Smiths’ sailboat. Joe had spent many days and nights at sea, having once owned a sailboat himself in younger, more prosperous years. The opportunity to sail a bigger boat would be thrilling.
He gazed at the little village that sprawled along the shore and went up a sloping hillside. Dozens of tiny, brightly painted wooden houses along narrow little streets lay nestled among palm trees and blooming bougainvillea, hibiscus, and oleanders. He spotted a wood-framed barn-type building with a sign, Albury’s Boatyard.
Looking down the shoreline, he spotted the moored cigarette boat. Its name, Blaster, was scrawled across its stern in ugly red and gold letters—a title well signifying the owner’s lack of respect for sea and nature. His anger welled up again as he wondered if this could be the very boat that had hijacked his charter boat. Its deck was cluttered and in need of paint. A man with long stringy black hair stuck his head out of the engine compartment to toss a toolbox on deck. When the man looked up, Joe looked away, not wanting to be noticed. Somehow he was going to find out more about this Blaster.
But not now. First of all the job. He walked down the shoreline the hundred yards to Albury’s. His heart beat faster, more from anticipation than exertion and oppressive humidity. Jutting out from there was a pier with the large white-hulled sailboat alongside. As expected, the boat moored there was Mission—one of the most beautiful and graceful sailboats he had ever seen. Her sixty-foot-long white hull with gold leaf accent lines glistened along the gunwale more than four feet above the shining water. On deck were lacquered teak handrails and gold paint, trimmed with chrome hardware. The sunlit white hull, with its towering mast, was reflected in the still blue water, creating an inverted mirror image, so pristine that it was difficult to tell which boat was real and which was phantom. Once, when his daughter was little, he had seen the Cinderella Castle at Disney World reflected just that way, dreamlike in the sun.
Just perfect, he thought, pausing a moment to just take a look. Someone was at work at the forward locker at the bow, pulling some equipment out and placing it on deck—the owner, Alex Smith, and not some captain who already had been hired, he hoped. Joe took up his duffel again and walked with quickened steps down the pier. Noting that the man was dressed in navy blue Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt with his yacht club insignia on it, Joe hoped his own unpressed khakis and polo shirt weren’t disqualifying. When he introduced himself, the owner gave him an appraising look.
“Captain Anderson,” Alex Smith said, giving a welcoming grin. “Come on aboard.”
Smiling back, Joe raised his duffel bag over the lifeline, grabbed the stanchions, pulled himself on deck, and went to shake hands.
“Give me a second to finish this,” the owner said and turned back to the locker. “I’m just rearranging some stuff.”
He climbed down inside and began stowing in the last few items. “Glad to have located you,” Alex called over his shoulder.
“Fortunate for me too,” Joe replied. He passed down a couple of life jackets and watched Alex try to stick them in.
“I better put these in another spot,” Alex said, tossing them back out, leaving what appeared to Joe to be considerable storage space.
Joe offered him a hand up as he climbed out of the locker and closed the top. He noticed that there was a newly installed keyed lock on the hatch—a very unusual kind of fitting.
“Going to sea, you don’t want to store anything up here you might need underway,” Alex said, sounding more like making an excuse than an explanation. “Well, let’s take you below.”
He took up the excess equipment taken from the locker and led the way aft. Picking up his bag, Joe followed him, ducking under the mast stays and slipping under the canvas “bimini” that sheltered the cockpit. As he squeezed past the three-foot-diameter wheel, he noted that even the cockpit was outfitted in varnished teak and chrome. Alex was the kind who would have the best of “toys,” even a million-dollar boat, and Joe’s excitement increased in the realization that he going to get to play with it. Obeying a brass plaque at the hatch that said, “Remove shoes before going below,” they both pulled off their leather boating moccasins in the cockpit. Following Alex down the ladder, Joe caught a few words in a woman’s voice.
“I’m too angry to see anybody.” Her words were muffled, but clear enough, punctuated by the sound of a slamming door. Joe paused, uncertain. Alex shot him a glance, giving a grin and an apologetic shrug.
“Not to worry,” he said with emphatic pleasantness. “Come on down.”
Joe tried to ignore the curious exchange and descended the ladder. Happy that there was plenty of headroom for his height, he looked around at the salon, which sparkled with afternoon sunlight coming through the windows, reflecting off the teak interior set off with blue cushions. To his left was a sofa and coffee table, to his right an oval dining table with wraparound seating, and the galley behind. Then he realized that the boat was air-conditioned. Well, of course, he thought.
Explaining that his wife, Frances, had retired for a “much-needed nap” in the after stateroom, Alex led him forward to the bow cabin. It was roomy enough to have a built-in chest of drawers and chair, just aft of the bunk, which was V-shaped to follow the contour of the bow. There was his own head and shower, as well. Alex pointed out the third little cabin, across from the head, which had double-decker bunks. The upper was covered with a stack of navigation charts.
“I started pulling out the charts for our trip to Charleston,” Alex said. “I’m counting on you to take over the navigation duties. I take it you’re qualified for all that?”
Joe nodded, reaching into his pocket. “I hold a master’s license, Mr. Smith,” he said, producing the document, hoping the owner wouldn’t notice it was nearly expired.
As the owner looked over the license, Joe recited his experience and qualifications.
“I charge two hundred a day, plus expenses.” Joe tried to say it with confidence, but he was afraid his voice betrayed his desperation.
Alex listened, sizing him up, and then smiled. “Done,” he said with a dismissive wave. “And call me Alex.” He thrust the charts into Joe’s hand and led him back into the salon, where he opened a teak liquor cabinet.
Much relieved, it occurred to Joe that getting this job had been pretty easy.
“Grab a couple of glasses from the cabinet behind you,” Alex said, and produced a bottle of Chivas Regal, a bottle of club soda from yet another drawer, and then led Joe back to the galley freezer for ice.
Joe watched the glasses being filled, nodded thanks for the one handed him, and wondered if the production of this bottle of Chivas wasn’t a little bit of one-upmanship.
“So, here’s to our safe arrival,” Alex exclaimed, holding his glass up to offer a toast.
Joe settled back on the sofa, offered a toast to their trip, and sipped the scotch. “Mighty fine,” he said, realizing it had been months since he’d tasted good whiskey, and beginning to think he actually was going to enjoy this job.
“I’ll buy you a whole case of that if we pull this off,” Alex said, and then looked away.
“Pull what off?” Joe asked, pretending to concentrate more on the tasty liquor than on the remark.
“Oh, just the trip,” Alex said, taking a seat at the dining table across the salon and not elaborating on his answer. Joe noted a shadow of concern passing over the older man’s face. “I need to get this boat back to Charleston as soon as possible.
“Oh, really?” Joe asked, taking another big sip of scotch. “Why?”
“Cumberland Island rule,” Alex answered. “Damned insurance company says we’re not insured during hurricane season if the boat’s south of the Florida-Georgia border.”
“I see,” Joe said. “No insurance for a boat like this is pretty serious.” He started to tell about losing his own uninsured boat, but decided to save that story for later.
“You better believe it. And we’re already way late getting out of here.” He smiled to mask his concern. “Don’t worry, we’ll enjoy ourselves.”
“You can’t imagine what a pleasure this is for me,” Joe said, reminding himself about how fortunate he was to find this ticket out of the Bahamas, no matter what the circumstances. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to sail a fine boat like this.”
Alex nodded. “I imagine it has, ole man.”
Joe took a big swig from his glass, realizing that this man was passing judgment on him. He supposed that he looked a little like someone who had been stuck in the islands a bit too long. Well, he didn’t want sympathy, and it was a little irritating to read that in Alex’s tone. Having worked for other rich boat owners, he knew that this one was the type more likely to be motivated by his own convenience than by any concern for others.
“We’ll take you out for some conch chowder,” Alex said, getting up and pouring another shot in Joe’s glass, “when Frances wakes up. She was just going down for a nap when you arrived.” He cast a quick look of concern toward the after cabin, took a swallow from his glass, and leaned closer. “I should make you aware,” he whispered, “that Frances is sometimes a little, uh, agitated.” Then he smiled. “But I’m sure you’ll find her an interesting and engaging person.”
Joe shrugged. “We all have our problems.”
Alex rubbed his eyes. “Occasionally, she gets her medicine screwed up, and it upsets her more than a little bit. You may see a side of her that’s sort of excitable. If it happens…well, she can get a little unpleasant.” He gave Joe an intent look. “I hope you’ll be understanding.”
Joe smiled. He could identify with wifely issues. Maybe a problem wife was not better than no wife at all. “Of course, Alex,” he said. “I’m pretty good at rolling with the punches.”
“I’m sure you are,” Alex said.
As it turned out, Frances did not appear that evening. At one point, she called her husband back to their stateroom, where he closed the door. Enjoying the relaxing buzz of alcohol that was washing away all his anxieties about getting the job, Joe helped himself to the Chivas. Sitting back to relax, he heard a faint and muffled discussion in the after stateroom. In a short while, Alex reappeared, carrying apologies from his wife.
“I convinced her to take another of her ‘calming-down pills,’ as we call them,” Alex said in low tones. “It’s best if she’s down for the night.”
The two men climbed up on deck, slipped on their shoes, and walked down the pier and across the road to a tiny open-air restaurant near the water. A dozen or so young people in scanty bathing suits sat around in the cafe, drinking beer and eating hamburgers or conch fritters. Off in a corner, sat the man he’d seen on the cigarette boat that afternoon, along with another unpleasant-looking character. As he stared at them, the long-haired one noticed, met Joe’s gaze for a second, and then looked away. The waitress, a buxom, pretty-but-not-beautiful brunette in her thirties, with a slightly hard-bitten look, smiled at Alex and came over to take their order.
“Bea, I want you to meet Joe, my new captain,” Alex introduced, taking her hand as he did so.
She nodded at Joe, but gave her attention to Alex.
“Bea takes care of me well every time I come here,” Alex said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Don’t you, Bea?”
“You tell me,” she said, giving him a sharp look and pulling her hand away. Joe didn’t miss the hint of coyness in her eye.
At her endorsement of the night’s pot, both ordered a bowl of conch chowder. While waiting to be served, Joe glanced at the two men from Blaster, drinking beer and eating pizza. Although he could not hear what they said, it was obvious their conversation was crude and slurred, increasing his dislike of them. Were they the ones who had hijacked his boat? It had been too dark at the time to recognize them. Did they know him somehow? He swore to himself, somewhere, sometime he was going to find out.
When Bea delivered the conch chowder, Joe realized he was very hungry. He enjoyed it so much, he had a second. After being stuck in the Bahamas for two months, it was funny that he would miss conch chowder.
As they ate the chewy conch in a delicious garlic-and-tomato broth, they discussed the voyage. Alex’s plan for the next day was to provision the boat and have some last-minute repairs done. They would leave early the following morning and sail north inside the Abaco and then turn west over to Great Sale Cay, and then head northwest and drop off the Bahama Banks into the Gulf Stream, heading straight for Charleston. As Alex described the trip, Joe noticed that the unkempt men had fallen silent, and he wondered if they could be listening.
“We’ll be well offshore when we leave the Bahamas,” Alex said.
“Quite a trip,” Joe replied, lowering his voice, stifling an urge to tell Smith not to talk loud enough to be overheard. “Most people cross over to Florida and follow the coastline, staying offshore just enough to ride the Gulf Stream.”
“I’m anxious to move the boat on north,” Alex said, tilting his bowl to retrieve the last bit of chowder. “Not only have we got the insurance problem I told you about, but I also have some business to attend to.”
“What made you wait so late in the year? Most folks are gone by now.”
Alex gave Joe a quick glance. “Oh, just the business problem,” he said. “Nothing of great importance.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” he replied, to which Alex grimaced, making Joe realize there truly was something. “Ordinarily, I would be making this kind of trip without the boat owner.”
“And miss this trip myself? Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alex replied. At that, they fell silent, finishing their chowder while Joe pondered his curious defensiveness.
Bea appeared with two generous slices of key lime pie.
“On the house,” she said.
Alex grinned. “Everything?” he asked.
“Take what you get and be happy,” she replied, giving him another of her sharp but coy glances. She dropped a check on the table and went off. Joe reached for his wallet, but Alex shook his head.
“On me, ole man,” he said. “You’re with me now.”
“Many thanks.”
“Meet you out front,” Alex said while waiting for his change.
Joe walked on outside, took a deep breath of the humid, warm air, and thought how wonderful it was to be there. In the twilight of the evening, he could see a motor yacht gliding down the lagoon, its red and green running lights reflecting off the mirror-still water. He read its name, Sea Splendor, another magnificent craft he had noted at anchor that afternoon. As he watched it moving through the lagoon, the two men from the cigarette boat came out of the restaurant and paused nearby, also watching the yacht pass. “You s’pose it’s that one?” one of them asked the other in a raspy, intoxicated voice.
“Hell if I know,” the other answered. “It’s either got to be that one or the sombitch on the big sailboat.”
“Funny hour for a tourist to be coming in if he ain’t got somethin’ goin’ down,” the first man said. Joe glanced at them across the gloom and realized they had not noticed his presence.
“I guess we’ll have to take ’em both,” he thought he heard.
“Shut up,” said the other, giving him a nudge, seeing Joe’s form in the dark. The two men paused and then sauntered off into the night.
Joe watched the yacht make the turn toward the pier where Mission was docked. He then turned his attention to the two men heading on toward the pier where the cigarette boat was moored. It struck him as curious that people like that would choose to be in sleepy little Man-O-War when they could be spending the night in Freeport or somewhere more exciting. They were up to something.
He looked back at the restaurant to see if Alex was coming. Through the glass door, he could see Alex engaging the waitress, Bea, in a quick conversation, giving her hand a squeeze as he did so. She nodded, and Alex smiled and headed toward the front. Joe turned around so that Alex wouldn’t notice that he had seen the exchange.
They had a pleasant walk back to the boat. The sun had set, and lights were going on in the tiny houses, providing the main street illumination. A small, aging rust-red Opel came by, causing them to move to the side of the narrow little lane to let it by. The driver stopped, however, waved a burly arm at Alex, and spoke.
“I received yer fan belts,” he said. “Came in on the ferry.”
“Great!” Alex said. “And what about the water pump?”
“Didn’t come.”
“What?” Alex exclaimed. “After all this time?”
The driver shrugged. “Way it is round here.”
“Damn!” Alex said. “Well, what can we do?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” Alex said. “We need to leave soon as we can.”
“Doing my best.” With a wave, he revved up the little car and headed on down the narrow lane.
“That’s Marvin Mann,” Alex explained. “He operates the boatyard. Damn, we need that part.”
“Water pump?” Joe asked.
“Yes, the seawater circulating pump for the engine. I ordered it two weeks ago.”
“That’s the Bahamas,” Joe said, giving the sign of resignation with his hands.
Alex shot him an irritated look. “I expect better performance than that,” he said and quickened his pace, leaving Joe a step behind.
Joe paused, wondering if that remark was a bit pointed toward himself. Arriving at the pier, they stopped to admire Sea Splendor, which was now moored across from Mission. Its occupants were visible inside, an older man and a younger woman, having a nightcap before bed. The interior furnishings reflected even more wealth than the prodigious yacht itself.
“Sea Splendor’s quite a name, even for that boat,” Joe remarked.
“About as ostentatious as you can get,” Alex replied. “Fitting enough for that old fart.”
“You must know him.”
“You might say I’ve made his acquaintance,” Alex muttered with a scowl. “He started out slinging hash and ended up owning about fifty meat-and-two restaurants. Now he thinks he’s hot stuff. Come on, let’s have ourselves a toddy, too.”
Joe followed him aboard Mission, thinking that Alex, with his boat, didn’t have much room to talk.

Just to be sure this derelict captain was going to sleep well, Alex dug into his liquor cabinet and urged a brandy on him. As expected, this so-called captain finished off his snifter and accepted another. As they talked, Alex kept an eye on the clock and sipped at his own glass. When he held the bottle out to pour another, Joe refused, but Alex splashed another shot in the glass anyway, knowing Joe would think it impolite not to drink it. He estimated that the man had put away at least ten good ounces of booze. Proof of Joe’s intoxication occurred when he stood up, reached out for the mast that projected downward through the salon, and knocked over a deep-sea fishing rig resting there. The rod fell, its heavy reel making a large clunk. He apologized, picking it up to see that it was not damaged, and whispered that he hoped he hadn’t awakened Frances.
“Not to worry, my friend,” Alex said. “When she’s had her sleeping pill, a herd of elephants couldn’t wake her.” He watched Joe stagger into the bow cabin and close the door. The question was, for how long could he manipulate this Joe Anderson character, keep him in the dark about the money, and then how much would it take to pay him off to keep him quiet? He had been surprised to learn that this charter captain was an educated man, a former naval officer with a college degree. That would make him more challenging. Yes, there was a lot to be worked out, but then, there’d be more than a week to devise a plan. When there was an opportunity to make money, Alex Smith could be ruthless.
He made his way to the after cabin where Frances was sleeping, quietly opened the door and peered in. As expected, she was sound asleep. In the early years of their marriage, he had shared his plans and schemes with her. Over the years, however, as her condition grew worse, he found that he no longer could trust her to be on his side, to keep his secrets, and to satisfy his love. He still loved her, but she simply was not enough, not for an adventurer. Closing the door gently, Alex glanced at the clock again. Two things to do before the night was over: receive the cash and stow it, and have one last tryst with that pretty, sexy, if a little bit too plain, Bea.

The V-berth required a little technique to get into. Joe discovered that the best thing was to turn around and sit down, then swing his legs up in the air and down into the center, his head aft and feet forward. Once in, however, he found the bed comfortable, provided one was wary about sitting up and bumping heads with the overhead. The problem of being six-two was fitting in. What he didn’t much like was that the dinghy was stowed on deck above the overhead hatch. The only way out of the forward cabin, therefore, was the narrow little passageway that led past the head and the middle stateroom. He would have liked it better if that hatch could be opened all the way in an emergency. Perhaps Alex intended to put the dinghy in the water and tow it astern when underway, but you couldn’t do that safely in open ocean. The thought flashed through his mind of being trapped in the cabin, unable to open the hatch, water gushing in the doorway. What? Was he jittery about this trip? After thousands of hours at sea? Yes, something about sailing with Alex was disturbing, and then there was the uncertain threat of the cigarette boat.
“What the hell is that all about?” he said aloud. Then, realizing that the Smiths were just thirty feet away, he hoped they hadn’t heard him. Probably not, he guessed, since both his stateroom and theirs had shut doors, and the air-conditioning was still running. In the dark, the slightly dank smell of a boat, despite air-conditioning, was still there. He sat up and opened the hatch a crack, as far as it would open under the dinghy. He listened to the purr of the compressor pump that ran the A/C, the thought occurring to him that this was one fine way to get back home, even though being divorced and his daughter through college and out on her own didn’t leave him much of a home to go to.
As he turned on his side to fall asleep, it seemed funny that he could live to be this age and still have so many unanswered questions. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought he had the answers before; he had believed once or twice before in his lifetime that he knew it all. But now he realized that it all had resulted from the dogged, blind drudgery of responsible manhood. Caring about things had gained him nothing. So now he wouldn’t care. Truth and utopian ideals, after all, Plato to the contrary, were not static but dynamic perceptions, always changing with events, as relative as time and space.
An hour or so later, semi-conscious, he heard movement in the salon and then the sound of steps on the companionway. Deciding he would relieve himself, he got up and went into the head. Someone hopped off the boat onto the dock, and was speaking in muffled tones. Through a small porthole, he saw the silhouette of Alex, still dressed, talking to two shadowy figures who seemed to be carrying packages of some kind. Though they moved out of Joe’s line of sight, he could hear them climbing aboard and walking forward. Creeping back into his cabin, he heard their footsteps above him on deck. The hatch up at the bow was being opened and something being placed inside. Then the hatch closed, and the sound of footsteps went back aft. There was a little more whispering in the cockpit area, and then the sound of the men climbing off and going down the pier.
Perhaps it was just the spare parts Marvin Mann had mentioned being delivered. But at such a strange hour? If Alex had expected it, then why hadn’t he said anything about it? Or was it drugs or some other kind of contraband to be smuggled into the States? Joe’s first thought was that he wanted nothing to do with this. In the morning, he would take his leave and be done with Alex Smith. But then what? Go back ashore here and rot away waiting for another opportunity? And living on what? No, he was too desperate to get home. Whatever this was all about, there’d be no one in the remote Abaco to care, no coast guard, no customs inspections, no boarding. There would be no danger of that until they arrived in Charleston. By that time, he would have figured out some way to deal with the boat owner and his contraband, whatever it was.
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