68 Knots (20 page)

Marietta was at the helm the next day, and Arthur instructed her to keep the ship far away from the seal-covered shoals. “Rocks like that could smash a hole in our hull,” he explained. The wind was strong and stiffening, turning slowly counterclockwise. The
Dreadnought
heeled sharply and cut through the waves with impressive power, tossing salt spray high into the air.

After lunch, most of the crew lounged on deck, enjoying the breeze and reading paperbacks they had bought in Freeport. Jesse busied himself with the task of tattooing his right calf, weaving increasingly intricate patterns like spider-webs and hedgerows across his skin, while BillFi added swirls
and elaborate knots to Jesse's back. Crystal ripped off an endless string of sit-ups on a vinyl mat on the bow, and Dawn sat with her legs crossed, facing the sun and chanting some mystical mantra over and over again.

But Logan seemed restless. He poked around one hold after another, digging through mildewed life jackets and fraying ropes, fishing out an empty nylon sail bag or a fading windbreaker. Whenever he found something that seemed to satisfy him, he disappeared below and deposited it somewhere. Then he re-emerged and continued his hunt.

“What
are
you doing?” Marietta asked.

“Just, like, looking for some stuff,” Logan said, arching his eyebrows. “Shhhhhh! It's for a totally top-secret project I'm working on.”

Marietta scowled. “Well, tell me what you're doing, or I'll get Arthur to order you to tell me.”

Logan paused, looked over at her, and then resumed his poking about.

“Did you hear me?” Marietta screeched. “I said, I
order
you to tell me! Arthur will do what I ask him to. You have to do what I say.”

Logan paused again. Then, with uncharacteristic swiftness, he marched over to Marietta and stood in front of her, his pale face just inches from hers. “Arthur might think he's the captain here, but he's not—and I don't think either one of you should push it,” he said in a barely controlled tone. “In the meantime, just steer the fucking ship.”

Around four o'clock, Logan entered the captain's quarters and closed the door behind him. The room was cozy and quiet and thick with the power of the imagination.

Logan chuckled to himself. His mother hated to hear him talk like that. “Thick with the power of imagination?” she would say. “Thick with something, anyway.” Then she would snort and give him some task to do, to keep his mind in the real world “where it belonged.”

But his father understood. His father was an actor, a playwright, a dreamer, and a fool. He would leave his briefcase on top of the car when he pulled out of the driveway, scattering papers and turkey sandwiches all over the street as he drove away. He would put his pen in the cup in the bathroom, and then wonder later in the day why he had a toothbrush in his shirt pocket. He would call people on the phone and then forget who he had dialed, engaging the other person in charming conversation until he at last remembered whom he had called and why.

People called him “Loopy.” His real name was Lawrence, but he had long ago acquired that nickname, and it stuck with him wherever he went. Loopy McPhee. People made good-natured fun of him, and he seemed to enjoy the embarrassing attention. But Logan never made fun of him. He loved his father deeply, and he was proud of Loopy's creativity and passion. Loopy could bang out some words on his old manual typewriter, and a year later audiences would cry at the little boy, or the old woman, or the brave mother who walked across the stage. Or they would laugh at the characters that Loopy invented in his mind and brought to life before their eyes. He created clowns of all kinds. Clowns in business suits. Clowns in prison stripes. Clowns in military uniforms, French-maid costumes, or nothing but their underwear. If Loopy wanted people to laugh, they laughed. If he wanted them to cry, they cried.

Loopy had hated the idea of sending his only child off on a “Leadership Cruise.” Sounded too harsh. Too tough. Too boring. He would have been happier letting Logan spend the summer hitching rides on freight trains or camping on his own in the woods. But Logan's mother had insisted. “It'll do him some good,” she said. “Bring him back down to earth, where he belongs.” Loopy was a creative wizard and an absent-minded magician, but he was not the most assertive of men. When his wife insisted, he agreed.

Logan shuffled through the pile of fabric and canvas that sprawled across the Captain's bed in front of him. He smiled. He was doing this for Loopy, and he could feel his father's soul and inspiration and genius fill his mind and his fingers. He was ready to make a little magic of his own.

He worked in the captain's quarters all afternoon. He emerged for dinner, but he refused to tell anyone what he was doing. Once the meal was over, he went back into the captain's quarters and locked the door.

He stayed in there all night. He came out from time to time, fetching a tall glass of rum or visiting the bathroom, but then he disappeared again behind the wooden door. Arthur, curious and a little put-out, slept in Logan's bunk that night.

Breakfast was nearly over when Logan came out the next morning. His red hair was straggly, his clothes were rumpled, and he carried a dark green tarp under one arm. He placed his bundle on his bunk and took his place at the head of the table.

He smiled. “I'm totally starving,” he said. “What's cooking?”

“We were going to ask you that same question,” Arthur said, stretching his lanky frame and stifling a yawn. “Are you going to tell us what this is all about?”

Logan took a bite of the scrambled-egg-and-ham dish BillFi had made. He nodded. “Right after breakfast,” he said. “I'd like the crew to assemble on deck.”

It didn't take them long. Fired with curiosity, the crew gathered on deck just as soon as the dishes had been gathered and left to soak in the galley. The only straggler was Marietta, who always took her time getting ready to start the day.

When everyone was present, Logan carried his green package to the base of the mainmast. “Sorry for all the secrecy,” he wheezed, “but I didn't know if this would turn out well or not. If it didn't, I, like, wasn't going to say anything to anybody.”

“If
what
didn't?” Dawn asked.

“Well,” Logan answered, “I figured that since we were pirates—the Pirates of the
Dreadnought
, you know, the Plunder Dogs, and stuff—we totally ought to have a flag. A pirate's flag. ‘Avast, ye maties,' and all that stuff. Something that would make it clear to other boats that we, like, shouldn't be messed with. You know, Dread nought, ‘Fear Nothing.' I wanted a flag that would let the world know we weren't afraid of anything it could dish out.”

“So you made us a flag?” Arthur asked.

Logan nodded. “A big one,” he said. “It'll be our symbol, if you like it. Something we can use to show we're a team.”

“Let's see it!” Joy said.

Logan carefully unwrapped the bundle. As the green tarp fell away, the crew could see a black background with flashes of color. Logan held the flag by the corners and lifted it high; Dawn grabbed two corners and helped. It was square and big, and across the blackness curved four ragged slashes—gold, green, blue, red.

The crew was silent.

At last, Joy spoke. “
Me gusta
! I like it!” she said with awe. “Those marks look like dog teeth.”

“Or shark gills,” Dawn added.

“Or bear claws,” Jesse said.

“Or gashes made by bear claws,” Crystal said.

Logan grinned. “Right!” he said. “All of you!” He grinned most at Crystal.

“Dread
nought
,” Arthur said with a dramatic flourish. “Logan, you did it! With this flag, we fear nothing. Let the Maritimes beware! The Pirates of the
Dreadnought
dare to show their colors! Watch out for the Plunder Dogs!”

Everyone cheered—except for Marietta. “It looks like a rainbow at night,” she muttered as she crept back down below.

No one paid any attention to her. They were busy congratulating Logan for his contribution to the ship and the team.

“But how will we get it up the mast?” Joy asked.

“No fucking problem,” Crystal said with disdain. She took the flag from Logan and tied it around her neck like a cape. Then she kicked off her shoes, jumped up, and grabbed the rigging. With spiderlike swiftness, she scuttled up through the lines and sails to the top of the mast, forty feet in the air. She attached the flag to the highest lines and shinnied back down. Logan vowed to remember forever that image: his flag fluttering in Crystal's hand.

The flag was magnificent up there. It flapped slowly in the wind, its bright and rich colors commanding attention. It seemed to give the whole ship a center, a focal point under which day-to-day life could be conducted with a constant reminder of the power and responsibility of the ship and its crew.

That night, the pirates talked around the dining table long past sundown. The flag gave them a sense of excitement and identity that they hadn't realized they lacked, and as the oil lamp flickered and sputtered overhead, they shared fantasies and dreams and confidences that they had, until now, been holding back.

Joy talked about Leo, her boyfriend back in Austin. She showed the others her ring, a thin gold band that glittered with diamond dust. It was a sign, she said, of deep affection, God's glory, and everlasting love.

“Everlasting love? Give me a fucking break!” Crystal laughed. “No such thing. All there is is shared agendas. Guys aren't husbands. They're allies—and alliances end when people change their minds.”

“Maybe for you, but not for me and Leo,” Joy retorted, her chestnut face frowning gently. “We're in love, and we're going to stay in love forever. He's not exactly the latest Hollywood hunk, but he's sweet, and he's loyal, and he's kind, and he's strong, and he's—”

“And he's enough to make me barf,” Crystal said. “Get real. The best you can hope for from a guy is a great body and a slow mind. Like Jesse, here. Knockout bod. Not the swiftest brain on the planet.”

Jesse looked up at her. He shrugged. “Loyalty is what counts,” he said. “You'll know that once you find it.”

“Hey, babe, I've experienced everything. You name it. Been there. Done it. Moved on,” Crystal said. “Not like Joy here. She's more like, ‘scared of it, won't do it, wouldn't be prudent.'”

Dawn turned toward Crystal, her green eyes blazing with anger. “You don't know—”

But Joy interrupted. “You don't know love, Crystal,” she said with astonishing gentleness. She patted Crystal's arm. “You'll feel better about yourself when you do.”

And to everyone's amazement, it was Crystal who stomped out of the room in tears. She spent the rest of the night high in the rigging, alone with her thoughts and the stars.

The evening ritual was beginning to shift. For the first weeks of the trip, the crew would anchor the ship safely before sundown and gather in the mess hall for dinner. Then they would drift apart in small groups, find quiet places on the deck or in the cockpit or somewhere, and talk. Eventually, they all would return to the mess hall for a final lamplight conversation around the table, beneath Joy's Bible Saying of the Day.

One evening they ended up talking about the worst jobs they had ever had. Logan started that theme when he commented that he'd rather be a pirate than a professional clown.

“You were a fucking
clown
?” Crystal asked.

“For one summer,” Logan said. “It was hell. All I did was, like, entertain at kids' birthday parties. A bunch of screaming, rowdy eight-year-olds who think Wiffle bats were invented so you could hit clowns in the nuts with them. And my job is to keep these monsters busy by showing them how to, like, make dachshunds out of balloons. ‘Look, kid—a doggie!' Kids are ripping apart the furniture, punching out the windows, setting fire to my wig—and all the parents are hiding in the rec room downstairs, saying, ‘Just call us if you need us.' No wonder I ended up being a pirate.”

“Why didn't you just quit?” Joy asked.

“I couldn't,” Logan answered. “My mother had gotten me the job, and she had totally made it clear that if I wanted to buy a motorcycle, I'd have to earn the money doing
that
job.”