Chapter 2 - RUNNING DARK


Caldwell H.I. Hackmatack III landed hard against the cupboards under the port berth, and the pain made him nauseous. He clenched his lips against the rising acid. Forcing himself upright against the extreme heel, he gripped the brass pole framing the berth.

"Not again," he swore to himself, as BALI tossed erratically. "Deep slow breaths. Don't let the fug of the cabin get you. Whatever it is, we're not sinking. Phew. That old kerosene lantern is sure ripe, and the stench of Walker's last cigar, and the Glenlivit on his breath." Caldwell stood still for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

He stared down at Walker, still out cold, oblivious, on his back, in the berth Caldwell had just slammed into. Caldwell shuffled aft, his bare feet sliding along the varnished floorboards, levering himself from hand-hold to hand-hold. BALI was now beginning to swoop and sing again, Cyr must have put her back to surfing downwind, the course which had finally lulled him to sleep. Reaching the companionway ladder Caldwell climbed up, the wet treads chilling his feet. He slid back the hatchcover. The cold sky sparkled with a million stars, wheeling about as BALI danced. The buffeting wind dried the sweat on his face.

"And what the hell was that?" he asked, tight-lipped.

"A piscadorous intrusion, the noxious minions nearly intersected our trajectory," Cyr intoned, using his mock-British accent, lifting his grand nose.

"And you couldn't dodge them, with the whole ocean to choose from?" Caldwell glanced over his shoulder at the storm jib, still intact and drawing nicely.

"Thought I was to cleave to this magnificent electronic line, come Tophet or Big Tide, old chap."

Caldwell had to laugh. Tophet or Big Tide, indeed.

"O for Crissake, Cyrano. You can dodge the obstacles. The LORAN just tells us how to find the drop-off point. Did they get a look at us?"

"I rather think so. But you know, the chap running that vessel looked suspiciously like our erstwhile classmate Sumner P. Dow. Do you think it likely?"

"The Dirty Dowist?" Caldwell laughed again. "What odds?"

"I suppose you're right, but it was a remarkably similar physiognomy."

"Phiz, my ass, Cyr."

"Now, now, Hacky. I'm not quite that desperate. Long as you're up, though, might you fetch me a wee dram?" Cyr woggled the tiller playfully.

"Mind your helm," Caldwell grinned, and duck back below. He slid the hatch closed against the penetrating chill, stumbled forward, groped for his clammy clothes.

"Now he's doing the Bloody Scots," thought Caldwell. This caper was too damned much like a stage farce. Like the ones Cyr had performed in at Andover. It would be just like the Dowist to come in with a critical review, and take the wind out of everyone's sails. "What odds?" Caldwell wondered again.

This wasn't supposed to be a gamble. Just a simple pick-up and delivery, point A to point B. The Colombian dropped a buoyed canister off the container ship at the designated co-ordinates, and BALI just happened to have a spare 55 gallon tank in need of ballast. Some old friends taking a summer cruise east of Mount Desert might end up alongside the new dock at that hideaway "hotel" on Small Point, after a leisurely outing. Sunshine, salt air, good fellowship.. and one helluva snootful of prime coke.

It seemed like a lark, when Walker and Cyr had approached him. Caldwell had been restoring his Uncle Henry's grand old yacht, BALI, one of the original Concordias, and he'd spent way more on her than his trust fund was yielding. Mumsy was getting just a bit pointed in her comments about "buckling down", and Caldwell wasn't looking forward to a row with his father's chosen trustees over additional funding. Not to mention Elaine's rather exorbitant habits. This delivery would certainly help maintain one of them.

Easy enough to partition the starboard water tank, and knock in a camouflaged end cap, accessible from the engine compartment. And his new partners were ready to finance all the finishwork. BALI had splashed back in the salt at the family slipway in Small Point in mid June, fresh brightwork glistening. This was supposedly her first major shakedown cruise. So long as the Federales didn't really give her a shakedown.

Caldwell's stomach had settled down in the fresh air, and he hurried into his socks and chinos and flannel shirt, slipped on his deck shoes and waterproofs, then grabbing the first bottle which came to hand in the larder, he climbed out into the cockpit, shutting the hatches behind him.

"Ripping, aren't it?" Cyr modulated.

It was all of that. Running dark, under a scrap of storm jib, BALI was surfing down the slopes and swooping up the rises, with the whole cosmos watching. The foaming crests around them shone with an unearthly phosphorescence. Caldwell stared transfixed.

"We really must cease indulging in these chemicals," Cyr went on, "although I wouldn't mind ..." He arched a brow at the bottle in Caldwell's hand. The Glenlivit, as it turned out. He handed it to Cyr without a word, and they sat in companionable silence for a while, passing the Scotch back and forth, as BALI cavorted downwind.

"You've got the feel of her, then?" Caldwell said, although it was obvious Cyr had mastered running at hull speed the way he learned his lines, his blocking, and the weaknesses of the women he captivated. It was tricky, keeping BALI from broaching in her headlong flight, but Cyr was playing her tiller with the little fingers of his right hand while he waved his left like a conductor.

"Mmmm. She IS a frolicsome wench," he pronounced, savoring the syllables.

For an instant Caldwell hated him. BALI was the epitome of marine architecture, a supreme moment in the history of sail, a boat to break your heart, and she was just another easy lay to Jean-Claude Theberge, known to his friends.. and enemies.. as Cyrano. The great pretender.

"Jealousy, jealousy, my dear Hacky," Cyr scolded.

How did the charming scoundrel do it? Body language? Telepathy? Caldwell laughed.

"Damn you. Unhand the lady." Caldwell reached for the helm, and they exchanged places. Cyr stretched himself like a fencer with a foil, thrust and parried at a fanciful opponent. Then he slumped onto the cockpit cushions.

"When do we get theah?" He sighed, in his native Lowellese, betraying how tired he really was.

"About daylight, if this wind holds," Caldwell answered, looking over his shoulder.