Chapter 5 - IN DEEP
Dawn broke clear over the Jones Ground, revealing a barren expanse
of tossing whitecaps under a bright blue sky. Caldwell Hackmatack
was alone in the cockpit of BALI as she ran down the last few
digits on the entered LORAN course, illuminated numbers rolling
on BALI's cabin-mounted display. Cyr Theberge had gone below to
conjure one of his stylish breakfasts. Rich smells rose up to
engulf Caldwell when he slid back the companionway hatch cover,
and his stomach churned.
"I could use a hand, Cyr. Maybe you should kick Walker," Caldwell
suggested, as he reached in and clicked on the radar. The small
screen just inside the hatchway blossomed into light and its green
sweep began to rotate, flickering with sea-scatter.
"No need, pahdner," came a gruff drawl from the port berth, "Y'all
can keep da kickin for da dogs and wimmen." Walker was back among
the living.
"Well, shake it out then," Caldwell said, as BALI surfed down
another crest, whitewater frothing along her rail. He stared intently
at the radar screen for a moment, then sighed and reached back
for the tiller.
Walker hitched up in the bunk, only to grab onto the railings
for purchase.
"Woah-oo." He proclaimed. "Da pony she jump." But he swung his
legs out and proceeded to pull on the black hand-tooled cowboy
boots with silver toes and taps which were his trademark.
Cyr watched Walker with an amused grin, as he flipped a perfect
salmon and cilantro omlette in the big cast-iron skillet. Walker
Gonzales was always worth watching, as Cyr had learned early and
often at Andover. The Louisiana coyboy-clown act was almost perfect,
and you might laugh right up to the moment Walker kicked a leg
from under you. One of the great practical jokers, with the emphasis
on practical. Cyr and Walker had been running together for a long
time, but Cyr never forgot to keep alert around the "Coonass Cowboy",
as Walker portrayed himself.
"Coonass, my posterior," thought Cyr. Walker's past was always
carefully hidden, but Cyr had pieced together just enough details,
from casual remarks gleaned over many nights of chemical excess,
to know that Walker's mother had once been a domestic servant,
although she now lived in an elegant, if slightly faded, house
in the Garden District of New Orleans, and that Walker's prep
school education had been paid for out of an anonymous trust fund,
which still kept Walker in Cuban cigars and silver boot-tips.
Walker was about as Cajun as his Mayan profile or the mariachi
tunes he liked to whistle.
Walker whistled one now as he put on his Stetson, shrugged into
his dress denim jacket with pearl snaps, and climbed the companionway
steps, cocking a hip at Cyr's elbow, which would have dumped breakfast,
if Cyr hadn't seen it coming.
"Muy bueno," Cyr said at Walker's back, and ducked as a fancy
boot flicked past his ear.
"What happen to da sagebrush?" Walker drawled, as he stretched
and revolved in the cockpit, squinting at the heaving wasteland
around BALI.
"Morning, cowboy," Caldwell half-smiled. "Think you could round-up
this ramuda
while I break out the mizzen?" Walker spread his big hands and
shrugged. "Jus put me in da chute, boss."
"Grab ahold, Cyr," Caldwell shouted, and threw the tiller hard
over just as BALI settled back behind a frothing wavecrest. Graceful
as a gull the yawl spun on her heel, and heeled over in the hard
breeze.
"Hold her straight into the wind," Caldwell commanded Walker,
as he sheeted the jib hard and shook out the mizzen. In a moment
BALI was doing a gentle rocking-horse caper as she drifted to
leeward, the seas racing past. Caldwell took the helm, adjusted
the tiller slightly, and lashed it in place.
"Theyah." He announced. "Let's eat."
"Thas it?" Walker asked. "Y'all don't tether da bronco?"
"Not in this pasture." Caldwell stepped into the companionway,
and ducked below.
Cyr was pouring out a vintage red, and divvying portions onto
the monogrammed china.
"Your excellencies," he gestured at the spread.
The co-conspirators dined with grace. Caldwell reached up and
turned on the marine radio, and they silently listend to the forecast.
NW 35-40 in the morning, easing in the afternoon, and going SW,
15-20, seas subsiding. Clear, with some coastal fog east of Rockland
by morning. Typical summer weather. A sailor's breeze downeast.
Caldwell clicked it off.
Cyr lifted his wine glass and sighted through it. "To a prosperous
prospect," he proposed.
"Only I don't see it," Caldwell spoke carefully. Cyr and Walker
looked at each other, and a glimmer of understanding passed..
they looked away.
Caldwell was watching, and shook his head. "I don't see the buoy,"
he said very slowly. "I don't think it's here." The cabin went
silent, except for the tapping of Walker's boot-tip and the creak
of the hull.
"Whadayamean, it's not here?" Cyr finally asked.
"We're dead on the bearings, and there isn't a mark on the radar."
"But it could have drifted, or we could be just a little off,"
Cyr went on, without a trace of stage accent. Walker just sat
very still, his foot tapping.
"Yup," responded Caldwell. "And pigs could fly, if they had wings.
The Colombian had to drop it right on the marks or we'd never
find it, and the radar should make up for any margin in the LORAN.
If a third of that barrel is full of concrete, there's no way
it drifted far in 36 hours. We can circle round and hunt, but
I bet it's not here."
They were silent for a long spell. The whispering rush of sea
and air filling the cabin.
Walker finally spoke: "We're in very deep dung, amigos."