68 Knots (8 page)

Dawn had spent an evening reading a sailing book she found in the captain's quarters, and she taught the sailor-overboard drill to the others. Each time, the crew tried to do it the same way. The helmsman turned the
Dreadnought
until it was sideways to the wind, sailing away from the “victim,” and the crew adjusted the sails. Then the helmsman turned farther, crossing the stern of the boat through the wind so the sails swung to the other side with a thud. As the crew let the sails arch farther out and fill with rescuing breezes, the helmsman held a course that brought the boat directly downwind of the dummy. With a sharp turn upwind and the sails tightened for momentum and then allowed to swing free, the
Dreadnought
eased slowly alongside the floating dummy. Some of the crew climbed down into the dinghy and pulled the dummy aboard, and with help, the “victim” was hauled to the deck for medical treatment.

After a few days of training, the crew could retrieve the dummy within a few minutes. No crashing sails, no tangled lines, no panic. Just efficiency. McKinley might even have called it discipline. Arthur was pleased. At this rate, he thought as the dripping dummy was dragged onto the deck for the sixth time, we'll become sailors yet. We just needed McKinley out of the way. I knew we could do it. I knew
I
could do it.

They also practiced the “swamped-dinghy” drill, at Arthur's insistence. Jesse, Dawn, and Joy volunteered to join Arthur in the first trial. Arthur talked Logan into participating as well; he wanted to help Logan get comfortable with the sea. After they climbed into the dinghy, they rowed a short distance away from the ship and put their feet on one side of the small boat. They put their hands on the other gunwale, with their butts in the air, and they began to rock. The heavy wooden dinghy responded grudgingly at first, dripping and complaining with waterlogged groans, but gradually they coaxed it into long swings from one side to the other. Then, with a loud whoop, they put all their weight on their feet and pulled the other side over their heads.

The icy water attacked quickly, numbing their fingers and toes, turning vision white.

“W-we have to practice this,” Arthur said, his low voice booming over the waves. “These temperatures would kill us if we didn't do this well.”

The five sailors, treading water and shivering with blue lips and goosebumped skin, counted off: “One! Two! Three! Four! Five!” If someone were unconscious or trapped underwater, the count would reveal the impending tragedy. Everyone was okay, so they rolled the dinghy back upright
and flopped inside. It was still submerged and filled with water, like a giant wooden bathtub, its gunwales just barely touching the surface of the water from below.

“Okay, listen to me and do what I say,” Arthur commanded, trying not to let his teeth chatter. “We all squat down in the boat, as far down in the water as we can. Then, when I say so, we all stand up quickly. The water level in the boat will drop, and that will give us a head start. Then we need to bail out faster than water comes in.”

The others were skeptical, but they trusted Arthur. They lowered themselves in the boat until the water touched their chattering chins.

“Now!” Arthur shouted. They stood up at once, the water level dropped, the dinghy shifted unsteadily to one side—and all five teenagers lurched against each other and tipped sideways into the ocean, laughing and splashing in a tangle of arms and legs and soaked clothes. The water seemed less cold now.

They tried again. They slipped back into the dinghy, took their positions, and lowered themselves almost completely into the frigid water. Arthur gave his signal, and they all stood up—carefully, in the middle of the boat. The water level dropped, and seawater began to pour in over the sides. But the five of them bailed furiously, pitching water out with tin cans and bottomless plastic jugs, and within a minute or two, the sides of the boat were high enough to block the incoming flow. They scooped out the rest of the water and rowed the dinghy, damp but upright, back to the ship.

“It works!” Dawn announced to the crew as she wrapped a towel around her dripping brown ponytail. “It's cold, but that just helps us remember the beautiful power of the sea. Isn't it wonderful? It all makes me feel so alive, so much a part
of the great web of life on earth.” She smiled at Arthur, who shrugged and smiled back.

Arthur continued to put the crew through drills for the next several days as they explored the coast of Maine. They became proficient at raising, setting, and altering the sails. They developed precision in their tacks and jibes, moving the bow or the stern across the wind to fill the sails from the other side. They learned how to coax speed from the wind, how to hoist and drop the anchor with ease, and how to set a course and hold it.

With each passing day, the value of Jesse's strength became increasingly apparent. He could lift overstuffed foot-lockers. He could raise the largest sail by himself. And he could row the dinghy with astonishing speed, invariably causing Logan to crack a joke about him pulling the
Dreadnought
so they'd make better time.

Jesse was used to the teasing. He had been born strong, a tough and wiry baby who grew into a formidable and potent young man. He liked to wear tight T-shirts, because he enjoyed the expressions on people's faces as they watched his muscles shift and pulse beneath the fabric.

He also liked to play the harmonica. He had an odd style, holding it vertically and sliding it up and down to get the notes. But he had mastered the technique through constant practice, done out of a sense of peace and comfort more than the discipline of a musician-in-training. The harmonica was a gift from his father; it had arrived in the mail on the day Jesse turned eight. Jesse had been enduring a slow march of gray days in the shelter in the Bronx while the paperwork was being completed for his acceptance into a foster home. The harmonica came in a small white box with a note that read: “To Jesse. Happy Birthday. Dad.” Jesse kept the note in his
pocket for months after that, until it disintegrated into small damp wads of paper. He tucked the harmonica under his pillow, and he played lonesome tunes on it whenever he could. It was a sign that his father loved him, and it was the only such sign he had ever received. His father was living in Florida, married to—or at least living with—a woman he had met in Atlantic City. Susan was her name. Or Sharon. Something like that. Jesse's mother had died so long ago, he couldn't remember what she looked like, and his father had lived with a long line of women ever since. When he was seven, Jesse had been dropped off at the shelter after his father came back from a business trip to New Jersey. No explanation. Just “here's your new home, kid.” The harmonica was the only message Al Kowaleweski ever sent. Still, he
had
mailed it. And it
had
arrived on Jesse's birthday. On the very day. Jesse didn't know why his father had left, but he took the instrument as a secret and powerful message that everything would work out all right. When the sun was setting and the air was still, he liked to sit on the bow of the
Dreadnought
and play soft sad songs about lost loves and vague yearnings.

The
Dreadnought
was sailing comfortably across the mouth of Sheepscot Bay, venturing west along the Maine coast, with Logan at the helm. The date was June 18, and the summer was still young. Gliding gracefully around the bay were several other boats, mostly sailboats with sleek bows and stout sides, their white or red or rainbow sails vivid against the blue water and green shore.

Logan spent his time at the wheel inventing silly ways to get attention. He declared, at one point, that scrawny little Bill Fiona should be called “BillFi” from then on, as though his name was BillFEE O-nah. Bill grinned and seemed to accept
the nickname with pleasure. “It beats being called ‘Squinty,'” he said. “Definitely beats ‘Squinty.'” Logan also delighted in pushing the
Dreadnought
's bow toward the wind, causing the sails to flutter with a chaotic commotion. Then he would turn the wheel and let the sails pop full of air, just as though nothing had happened. It was just his way of passing the time and getting a rise out of the sunbathers on the deck.

Marietta was on bow watch later that afternoon. She spent more time smoothing her hair and fussing with her bikini straps than looking out at the water. The sun was beginning to set when Joy asked her to gather the crew together on the deck.

“We're getting low on food,” Joy said, once everyone had gathered on the aft deck. The air was growing still and humid. Most of the sailors had traded their sweatshirts for tank tops and tees. “We have enough food to get us through another week or so,
Dios mediante
—God willing—but we're going to have to go ashore for more supplies soon. I've made up a list of things we need.”

“How about a little loaves-and-fishes action, Joy?” Crystal asked with an awkward grin.

“Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God,” Joy quoted solemnly.

“We still have the money we found in McKinley's cabin,” Arthur said, his low voice carrying an air of authority. “About twelve hundred dollars. That ought to buy us a lot of food.”

“But do you think we should go ashore?” Logan asked, flicking his ruddy hair out of his face. “What if somebody wonders what we're doing? What if somebody asks us about McKinley? What if somebody—”

“We need more food, Loser,” Crystal said, her hands on her hips. “So quit whining. Sooner or later, we're going to have to go ashore.”

“We're also low on water,” Arthur said, “and our waste tank is probably getting full. We're going to have to find a marina.”

Logan sighed with a wheeze. “I don't know,” he said. “It seems kinda risky.”

“I'll find out,” Joy said. She fished a coin from her denim shorts, Saint Christopher on one side and Saint Francis on the other. With a smart flick of the wrist, she set it spinning on the polished deck. It twirled, flashing in the light, and when it stopped, Saint Christopher beamed his blessed countenance toward the heavens.

“
Muchas gracias
,” she whispered toward the sky. She turned to the others. “We should go in and buy what we need. Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.”

Crystal shook her head with a sneer. “That's a bunch of astrological voodoo, if you ask me,” she said. “But I agree with Her Holiness anyway. We have to go into town.”

“Agreed,” said Arthur, standing tall and speaking with a tone that he hoped would suggest that the debate was closed. “We'll find a marina tomorrow and do some shopping. In the meantime, everyone should think about things they need and let Joy know. Toothpaste, sunscreen—whatever. Let's get what we need, but we can't afford to buy anything that isn't essential. We have to make our money last all summer. Understood?”

The next day was Tuesday, and the crew spent the morning sailing up Broad Sound and the open mouth of Harraseeket River. Arthur had studied the charts in the captain's quarters and determined that the
Dreadnought
could sail
in close to a small town called Freeport. It didn't look very big on the chart, but Arthur hoped it would have a store or two.

He wasn't disappointed. Freeport was a congested mass of outlet shops, upscale clothing stores, ice cream parlors, and touristy knickknack boutiques—all clustered around L. L. Bean's main complex of retail stores, a massive, sprawling network of buildings that seemed to fill the center of town. The
Dreadnought
crew rowed in on the dinghy, and Arthur gathered them together on a side street near the river.

“We don't have a whole lot of time,” he said. “We shouldn't leave the ship alone for too long. So we'll divide Joy's list, split up the money, and we'll each get the things on our part of the list. Let's travel in pairs or small groups and meet back here in an hour.”

“Let's make it two hours,” Marietta said, smoothing her hair. “This looks like my kind of town.”

The others nodded.

“Okay,” Arthur said, “two hours. But no longer.”

Joy tore off part of the list and handed it to BillFi and Jesse. Arthur gave them $300, and they walked off toward L. L. Bean. The others also broke off in pairs, took their $300 and their lists, and wandered into the town. Left behind were Logan, Arthur, Marietta, and Dawn.

“Where should
we
go, Arthur?” Marietta asked. “How about that woolen shop across the street? I love the sweater they have in the window. Let's take a look inside. I'm sure we'll find something on our list.” Arthur started to say something, but Marietta cut him off and continued. “You won't mind if we go off together, will you?” she asked Dawn and Logan. “That way, you two can go see whatever you want to see.”

Arthur smiled. “We can all go together, if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Dawn said, a soft smile flashing across her freckled face. “We wouldn't want to intrude. I'm sure we'll be just fine.”

“Great!” Marietta said. She took Arthur's arm and walked off toward the woolen shop.

The woolen shop, not surprisingly, put forth a nautical theme, its walls painted grayish white and its trim a glossy slate blue. Wooden roughly painted seagulls sat stoically between multicolored glass lobster floats, coils of coarse rope, and replicas of ships' steering wheels. Any hope of a maritime atmosphere was shattered, however, by the heavy perfume of carpet deodorizer and the piped-in sounds of a gentle Golden Oldies station.