68 Knots (43 page)

“Greenback crabs,” he said, showing the can's contents to the crew. “They're small, but they're totally tasty. We'll need, like, a whole bunch of them.”

Joy's dark face looked skeptical. She gazed into the can, then looked up at Logan. “And once we catch a bunch of these,” she said, “you're going to cook them, crack open their shells, and pry out the little tiny pieces of meat in there?”

Logan grinned and pushed his hair back. “Won't be necessary,” he said. “Watch.” He grabbed another mound of seaweed, paused for a moment, and then flung it aside. He plucked up a greenback crab and deftly popped it into his mouth. He chewed it quickly.

“Gross!” Joy squealed. “That thing was alive!”

Logan nodded. “When you eat them this way,” he said, “you totally have to bite them before they bite you. But they're really not bad—crunchy, salty, pretty good. For dinner tonight, I'll cook them. You won't have to eat them raw. But we'll eat them whole like this. They're really good.”

Crystal shrugged her taut shoulders, flung aside some seaweed, and tossed a crab into her mouth. “They're okay,” she said.

The rest of the crew quickly lost interest in the enterprise and set about building small stone villages near the waterline. Undaunted, Logan and Crystal gathered a few dozen of the tiny crabs and dropped them into the cans.

“How exactly are you going to cook these?” Crystal asked.

“That's the really cool part,” Logan answered. “First I'll boil them, but along with the crabs I'll boil up some Irish moss—that's the brown stuff growing on those rocks over
there. It's, like, a special kind of seaweed I read about in the book. If you boil it and then let the water cool, it gels like a warm Jell-o. So I'm going to make the world's first Logan McPhee Greenback Crab Irish Moss Seafood Aspic. It's going to be fantastic.”

Crystal seemed unimpressed. “It could be,” she said.

Logan built a small fire in the shelter of a few rocks, transferred all the crabs into one large tin can with handfuls of Irish moss and some fresh water, and got the concoction boiling. Then he covered the can with a thick board he found along the high-tide line and left it on a rock to cool.

“Seafood aspic in two hours,” he declared. To round out the meal, he hiked inland a bit and filled a large can with wild red currants. When he returned, he peeked under the board to see how his soon-to-be-world-famous seafood aspic was doing.

It was moving. There was some scum across the top of the water, but he was certain he could see things moving underneath. He put down the currants and looked more closely.

Worms. Or maggots. Or parasites of some sort. There were thousands of them, writhing in the warm thick water, undeterred by the boiling. The spectacular potential of exotic seafood aspic had metamorphosed into a vile, revolting sight. “Damn it!” Logan said. He leapt to his feet and kicked the can far into the ocean. “I hope you all drown!” he shouted after the creatures that had ruined his meal. Crystal hiked along the beach toward him.

“Dinnertime?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Logan answered with a frown. “We're having wild red currants and Spam.” For a fleeting moment, his thoughts took him home to his mother's homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He sighed. The summer was beginning to drag on too long.

It was a few days later, on August 15th, that they crossed paths with the
Chamber Pot
again. The
Dreadnought
was drifting slowly across the mouth of a bay when Logan spotted the odd little boat heading southward.

“Ahoy, Captain Smudge!” Logan called out. Smudge, wearing the same shorts and still dangling a sausage between his lips, responded with a wave and turned the wheel. A few minutes later, the two ships were lashed together and Smudge was on the
Dreadnought
's deck.

“Not much time just now,” he told the teenagers. “Heading for warmer waters, you know. Won't be long before the seas turn cloudy and cold up here, but by then, I hope to be down around Key West, selling conch shells to the tourists and trading lies with the ladies. But I might have a few idle moments to share a story with you, if you've got perhaps some rum or a drop or two of whiskey.”

Logan was already climbing the gangway with a mug in his hands. Smudge took an enormous swallow of the tepid rum, belched loudly, and began.

“Now this is just a short one, you see. Got to be heading south, you know. But I'll tell you about the race between the
Flotsam
and the
Jetsam
. They were sailboats, you see, and the captains were twin brothers. Now the
Jetsam
was an all-white boat, with sleek lines and tight sails. Her captain was named Archibald, and he was a prim-and-proper sort of guy.

“But the
Flotsam
, it was broad in the beam and high in the stern. It was built for adventure and fun but not for speed. And that captain, Alexander, he was a happy-go-lucky sort of guy with a smile on his face and a dream in his heart.

“One day, the two brothers decided to race their boats across the English Channel. So they got up early, made some sandwiches, and set off to see who could reach his destination the fastest.

“The
Jetsam
took off through the water like a rabbit, bearing down on the finish line with the intensity of a hawk. Archibald was a determined sailor, and he wasn't about to lose to his brother.

“But the
Flotsam
left the harbor and sailed along slowly. Alexander had some friends on board, and they watched whales and sang with the gulls and flew kites and swam alongside the boat when hove to.

“Well, Archibald had been waiting at the finish line for three days by the time the
Flotsam
pulled up. He was furious! ‘Where were you?' he demanded.

“‘Oh, here and there,' Alexander said with a smile. ‘Wasn't it a beautiful sail?'

“‘Beautiful? Hardly,” Archibald scowled. ‘It was tough and demanding—at least, for those of us who know how to race. But never mind, never mind. What matters is that I won the race!'

“‘Won the race?' Alexander grinned. ‘Nonsense! I won a long time ago.'

“‘
You
won! Not even close. I've been waiting here for three days,' Archibald sputtered.

“‘Ah,' said Alexander. ‘Quite true. But the race wasn't to this point, my brother. If you recall, the race was to see who could
reach his destination first
. Your destination was this spot. But my destination was a great trip on the water with good friends. I achieved that the moment I left the dock. So you see, Brother, you lost by three days.'

“And with that, Alexander rounded up his friends and set sail for faraway places, smiling every minute of the voyage, secure in the knowledge that as long as he was doing something he loved, he would always be a winner.”

Smudge finished his rum. “And with that, I've got to be shoving off. Long way down to Key West, you know. And while the
Pot
's the best ship on the high seas, she's not necessarily the speediest. Goodbye, mates. See you next summer.”

He climbed down to his little boat and cast off. With a wave, he tightened his mainsail and dug a shallow trough toward the South.

The days continued in an easy vein, pleasant hours clouded by periods of worry or sadness. On the whole, a nice stretch of summer, but something was missing. The raids were becoming routine—no thrill, no variety. The sailing was glorious but mundane—the sailors chose courses, sighted markers, sailed with precision, and reached their destinations with little difficulty. The coastline of Maine, stunning in greens and grays, became monotonous, the same stark beauty again and again, dulled not by any intrinsic loss but muted by the crew's own sense of change. They chatted less frequently. There were fewer jokes. And each crewmate, privately and silently, began to think more often about families, school, and life at home, with its delicious imprecision and glorious irresponsibility.

On August 18th, a warm and slightly hazy day with a light breeze and few cares, Logan was at the helm. He was feeling better than ever since he decided to lay off the rum, but he was thinking more and more about home. He steered a steady course, trying not to let on that he missed his family.

That evening was quiet. Arthur made a light dinner, just sandwiches and soup, and the crew ate silently around the table. Their bodies were on board the ship, but their minds were far away. At home.

The stillness of that evening was shattered by the squawking of the ship-to-shore radio in the captain's quarters: “Schooner
Dreadnought
. Schooner
Dreadnought
. This is Captain Robert Fernandez of the United States Coast Guard Station at Rockland, Maine. Schooner
Dreadnought
, come in, please. This is the Coast Guard.”

“Oh, shit,” Arthur said, tossing his napkin onto the table. “Marietta has finally turned us in.”

Logan steered the ship into a narrow bay tucked deep inside a small island that was little more than a dot on the map and dropped anchor. Then he gathered the crew in the dining room.

“What are we going to do?” BillFi asked, pushing his glasses. “Marietta called the Coast Guard. She told the Coast Guard about us. She told them. What are we going to do now?”

Dawn's freckled face was calm beneath the brim of her battered red baseball hat. “I think we need a negotiator,” she said. “One of us who will be the designated person to talk to this Coast Guard guy. Someone who's good with words. Someone who can debate and make our case clear and with conviction. Someone who—oh, I don't know—someone who got us into this in the first place?”

All eyes turned to Arthur.

Arthur paused for a moment. “Oh, hell, I can't argue with that,” he said. “But listen. I made a big mistake early in the summer. I didn't try to take charge—I tried to take over. I know the difference now, and I have all of you—” he looked at Dawn, “—to thank for that. But if you want me to lead these negotiations, I will. And I'll do my best to get us out of
this. I can't promise anything. We're in a lot of trouble—the ship, the raids, McKinley. If I'm going to talk our way out of this, I'll need a lot of support from all of you. I'll tell you everything that's going on, but I can't be second-guessing everyone. I'll talk with you about everything I do. But you'll have to agree to stand behind whatever deal I can make.”

The response from his crewmates—warm, loyal, grim—made it clear that he would get all the support he needed.

“Okay,” Arthur said. “I guess I have a lot of talking to do.”

“What should we do in the meantime?” Logan asked. “Like, pack our bags?”

Arthur looked him straight in the eye. “That might not be a bad idea,” he said.

Everyone stayed in the dining room while Arthur poured himself a glass of water, dug out a notebook and a pen from underneath his mattress, and entered the captain's quarters, leaving the door open so the others could hear. Once he was ready, he picked up the radio's microphone.

“Captain Fernandez of the United States Coast Guard,” he said in a low steady voice. “Captain Fernandez of the U.S. Coast Guard in Rockland, Maine. This is Arthur Robinson of the schooner
Dreadnought
, responding to your hail. Come in, please.”