Red Sea (3 page)

Everyone nods, resigned to the inexact science of forecasting the weather.

Emma continues. “The winds will be with us for at least the first few days, as will the north-setting current, but then be prepared to motor against the wind. In either case, the seas will be short and steep. They always are, traveling north in the Red Sea. That means the passage will be choppy and wet.”

“Like the inside of a washing machine,” I say. “We should probably stay put.”

Mom moans. “Will we ever get to Italy?”

Emma lobs a look my way. “It's up to each of you, of course, but I think we're making the right decision to go.” She looks down at the chart, her finger again indicating the weather
system below us. “It's a weak low, and if it moves faster than is forecast, or if we're too slow and it catches us, then we're in for a rough ride. But it's nothing you can't handle.” She taps the chart along the African coast. “There are anchorages to hole up in, although threading the surrounding reefs presents a challenge, especially in weather, and you won't find much there in terms of habitation, a few huts on the beach, maybe, not exactly a pub for gin and tonics. Some anchorages are little more than desert islands, and you won't see a soul.” She indicates the border area between Eritrea and Sudan, “Avoid this area, just to be safe. The politics here change like the weather.” Then she taps the chart on the other side of the Red Sea, “Stay away from the Saudi Arabia coast altogether. It's closely guarded and they don't know your intentions. Stick to the fairway along the midline of the sea; that's your best course. The island of Masamirit is your target,” she says, pointing to an island near the end of the penciled line. “Once you reach Masamirit, then it's time to head into the Sudan coast.” She smiles at everyone. “I'm confident that a week or so from now, we'll be in Port Sudan toasting a successful passage.”

A week at sea. Call it a passage, call it torture, sailboats must be the slowest form of travel. I swallow warm Coke and scotch and yes, it may be an abomination, but it creates the desired fuzziness. Fanny jumps up onto the back of the cockpit bench, pausing to investigate my ear. The kitten is pleasantly fuzzy too.

The men are still bent over the chart. I hear one mention
rebels
, which causes the others to mutter animatedly. Duncan looks up and checks my mother's face. I can see
that she's watching the men, listening to them. Mac too looks up, then slides onto the bench beside my mother. The women fall silent.

Mac says, “We made it to Djibouti with no problems, didn't we? We're through the worst of it. Yes, there are trouble areas in these countries, but we're going to travel together, and most times we'll be so close we'll be able to see what each other is having for breakfast.”

The women laugh.

Mac continues, “Small exaggeration, I know. Some boats travel faster, some slower, and you may not always be in visual range, but at the very least, we'll be in radio contact. We'll keep transmissions to a minimum and at low power, but everyone will monitor the emergency station. If a boat needs help, for any reason, you know we're close by.”

A woman asks, “We won't use the radio to check in twice a day? We always do that,” she says, nodding to her companions from another boat.

Mac shakes his head. “It may be over-cautious, but sometimes radio transmissions can be tracked.”

My mother speaks, her voice tighter than normal. “What do you mean, tracked?”

One of the other women breaks in, “The rebels, don't you mean?”

“Or the military,” a man, Jimmy, adds. “It's tough to tell one from the other. If they get your position from a radio transmission, they can hunt you down and rob you.” His chin juts with self-importance. “Call them what you like, they're all just modern-day pirates.”

My mother sucks in a breath, almost a gasp. “Pirates.”

Duncan looks like he'd like to clobber Jimmy for uttering the word “pirates.” He blurts, “Mac's right, we're sailing in a flotilla, we're sailing offshore. We're taking all precautions.”

Mac raises his hand to stop Duncan's strident lecture. “The pirate attacks that we know about are almost without exception chance encounters—a sailboat being in the wrong place at the wrong time. These people aren't organized criminals, just hoodlums. Some are just fishermen seizing an opportunity. They might have a gun...”

“Fishermen have guns?” My mother has gone sheet white.

The volume in the cockpit is increasingly high. Mac raises his voice to be heard but stays calm, in control. He says again, “They
might
have a gun.”

Jimmy snorts. “They
will
have a gun. An
AK–47
Kalashnikov or something like it made in China, but an assault rifle, for sure. An
AK–47
shoots six hundred rounds a minute. It'll cut a man in two.”

Mac places his hand on Mom's shoulder reassuringly. “In some of these societies, men carry guns like we carry car keys. And knives too. They are cautious men living in difficult times. It doesn't mean they're going to harm you.”

Jimmy sputters, “No, they just want to shoot up your boat and rob you blind.”

Mac speaks to quiet the growing hysteria. “Fine, they'll
all
have
AK–47
S,
according to Jimmy. I guess if one person carries a gun, it might be because everyone else does.
Expect that they'll have a gun, okay, but if they use it, they'll fire warning shots to intimidate you, not shoot up your boat.” He gives Jimmy a look. “If you're faced with piracy, cooperate. Radio a mayday. Don't do anything to make the situation worse.”

Jimmy is louder than Mac. “No one in these waters responds to a mayday. You read about that all the time in sailing magazines, how even commercial ships in this area ignore calls for help.” Jimmy's face is red. His wife has her eyes lowered. Jimmy spouts on, “Like I'm going to invite the bastards aboard for tea. I'll blow the sons of bitches off their boat if they threaten me or what's mine.”

Quietly, Mac says, “Or you could just let them have the stuff.”

Jimmy doesn't seem to have heard. He's got himself puffed up, jabbing the air with his finger as he makes his points. I tip the rest of the Coke can into my mouth.

Jimmy's wife, I now notice, is much younger than him. A trophy wife, I wonder. Some prize he is. And imagine what he'll be like when he lives out his days in a recliner in front of the
TV
. Nice life for her. Maybe, when women marry these old farts, they hope the men will die young.

I guess my mother was a trophy too. Duncan stole her from my dad.

Emma folds up the chart, signaling the end of the evening. To my mother, she says, “We'll respond to a mayday, you know that. You won't be alone out there. And if it's any comfort, we're bound to have strong weather. That's sure to keep the pirates in port.”

My mother attempts a small smile. “What would I do without you, Emma?”

“You'll be fine. You're well provisioned?”

Duncan blurts, “Provisioned? We have enough food for a month.”

“Fuel?”

Duncan nods. “As much as we can carry.”

Jimmy, his wife, and the others are gathering their things, saying goodnight. One after the other climbs down onto the seawall then makes their way to their boat. Duncan too gets up, as does my mother. Mac stretches his legs out on the cockpit bench.

Emma says, “What about books and diversions for the child?” She nods at me. “You should keep her busy navigating. She knows far more than she lets on.”

Mom looks at me and the smile fades from her face. “Lib, are you not feeling well?”

“I'm fine.” I'm halfway to my feet, wishing suddenly that I'd eaten something. It's a tight squeeze around the cockpit table, and I hang on to steady myself. “I'm just tired.” Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other. Duncan reaches out his hand for me to take, but I wave it away. “I'm fine. Go on, why don't you?” Just as I reach the spot where Mac is stretched out, I stumble. With an ungentle oomph, I plant myself right on his lap.

I've surprised him, that's clear, and I'm pleased by his reaction. For a long moment, he doesn't move, then Emma says, laughing, “Mac, are you assaulting that child?”

He laughs, and so do Mom and Duncan. The thing to
do would be to get up, but instead, I say, “Just like an evil stepfather.”

Silence drops like an anchor. Mac is on his feet in an instant, shoving me off him. Mom just stands there, her mouth opening and closing. Duncan has flushed so red that his eyes are watering. Emma looks from me to Duncan and back to me. “Lib, be careful.”

I turn on her. “Excuse me? What did I do? Am I not the
child?
Are you saying it's all right, what he does to me when I'm asleep?”

Duncan is angry, I can tell by his tightly controlled words. “Lib, you are mistaken.”

“You're a liar.”

Mom holds her hands up. “We'll discuss this back at the boat.”

I slap her hand away. “Oh yeah, we don't want anyone else finding out about him, do we?”

Duncan shakes his head. “Let it go, Janine.” He steps down onto the seawall.

Mom apologizes to Emma and Mac. Mac won't meet my eyes. Emma gives me a long look. “Lib?”

Duncan stands waiting, watching me, his face concerned.

I turn away from Emma's gaze. “Forget it. I didn't mean anything.”

“Lib, if you need to stay with us, you can.”

“I'm fine. I don't know why I said that.” I catch Mac's eye. “Mac, I'm sorry.”

“I'm the one who should be sorry, Lib.” He squeezes my hand.

Emma gives me a quick hug, says she'll talk to me in the morning.

I feel sick, and I know it's not just from the scotch. I climb down off the boat. I try to push past Mom and Duncan, but Mom grabs my arm. I could easily break free, but I let her speak. “It was the party, Lib. You know that.”

Now I yank my arm from her. “Nice, Mom. Thanks so much for backing me up.”

M
OM STANDS IN THE COCKPIT
of the boat, her hands on her hips, watching me. As I stroll toward the boat, Duncan emerges from the cabin, his reading glasses shoved up on his forehead, a folded chart clenched in his hand. When he sees me, his mouth forms a white chalk line. This morning, I waited in my cabin until they were occupied on the bow. They didn't see me leave. Neither did Emma or Mac; I made sure of that.

“You're late,” Mom says.

I glance along the seawall. Emma and Mac have left, the others have gone and the empty spaces where their boats
used to be remind me of teeth knocked out. The sun is already leaning to the west. I know not to bother looking to sea for the other boats' sails. They'll have been gone for hours. I am late. Very late. I decide on amnesia. “Late for what?”

I hear Mom take a breath. When she speaks, her voice is shrill. “I told you and Duncan told you that we were leaving today. It's all we've been talking about. You knew damn well...”

Duncan puts his hand on Mom's arm. “Get in and stow your pack, Lib. We're casting off.” He spins and goes below.

Mom flings another volley in my direction, “We planned this Red Sea flotilla for weeks and now we'll be alone.”

With a shrug I climb onto the stern of the boat, careful to scuff my sneaker on the painted letters of the name,
Mistaya
, then slip through the open transom into the cockpit. I squeeze past Mom without looking at her and into the companionway.

Below, Duncan is at the chart table bent over his electronic course plotter, transferring a coordinate onto a traditional paper chart. The main cabin never looks better than before a passage. The table and counter are clear, everything is put away behind locker doors, even the books on the shelves are held tight with bungee cord. At sea, nothing can be left loose to fly around. I set my pack on the counter.

Last night they stood at my closed door, talking at me until my silence forced them to give up. Now, Duncan is trying very hard to pretend everything is normal. So he looks at my pack and makes a fake “uh-hem.”

“I'll stow it. I just need a snack.”

I rummage in the fridge for some juice. Mom has the fridge layered with plastic containers of the pre-made meals. Not that anyone will feel like eating, anyway. I shove aside the containers and pull out a carton of juice.

“The lid.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save power. I let the lid slam closed. Duncan's glare prickles the back of my neck. I pull out a glass and pour the juice, then stand drinking it while I stare at Duncan. He's ignoring me now, penciling a line on his chart. His glasses are pulled down to the end of his nose. His gray hair is creased from the cap he wore today. Very attractive. Emma's right, he is fit, I have to give him that. He doesn't have the old guy gut my grandfather has, and Duncan is almost as old. Duncan is wearing jeans, an ancient T-shirt and his standard footwear for inside the boat: house slippers. I don't know how my mother keeps her hands off of him. I finish the juice and leave the glass on the counter. As I close myself into my cabin, I hear Duncan putting the glass away.

WHEN WE'RE SAILING
, even though I'm stuck on the boat with them, I get more time and space to myself. Either Mom or Duncan is always in the cockpit keeping watch, and the other is often in their cabin, resting. They leave me alone. All that first night I stayed in my cabin, but today I made an appearance while Duncan was on watch. He asked me how I was doing, if I needed something to eat. He said that he was watching for the Zubair Islands, that he was glad we
were passing them in the daylight, that sometimes the lighthouses don't work and a sailor can run right onto the rocks. Then he told me about a book he was reading, a biography about a woman pilot in Africa before there were airfields. He said that back then pilots only flew in the daylight so they could see to land. This pilot, though, got caught out after dark, but her servant, who knew nothing about flying but did know the depth of African night, lit fires along the landing strip so she could land. Then he told me about one of the Apollo 13 astronauts who as a young pilot training in night flying from an unlit aircraft carrier, shorted out all his instrumentation and radio. He only found his ship from the phosphorescent trail of its propeller. Duncan started on another story, but I said thanks, that I got it, that lights are important if you're a screw-up pilot or astronaut. Fascinating, I said, that they lived to tell the tale. Yawn, I said, suddenly I'm ready for a nap.