The Raft (6 page)

“But if...” Rachael tried to restrain
herself. Her elite media, liberal bias was tingling. She could
smell the blood of a story in the water. “He just implied that
Senator Hadian was having an affair... if Meerkat
was
pregnant... that makes the Senator the number one-”

“Stop,” Maggie ordered, holding up a single
finger. “It's bullshit, remember?”

“Well, it didn't sound like bullshit.”

“No, you just don't
want
it to sound
like bullshit. That's very different.”

“Oy!” Chemical yelled from the prow of the
craft. “Ya gonna untie me or what?”

“Shit,” Maggie cursed.

“What?”

“I can't let that moron go,” Maggie rapidly
whispered.

“But you told him you'd let him go.”

“That's before he dropped that load of horse
manure.” Maggie ran a hand through her thick hair. “If he started
babbling to other Rafters about Meerkat and Senator Hadian... well,
they'll jump to the same dumb conclusion that you just did.”

“You can't leave him tied up to the front of
your ship,” Rachael stole a glance up to the bow. Chemical was
watching the two of them intently. “What can you do with him?”

“I can't arrest him. I don't have his
franchise, I'm not his Magistrate.” Maggie also stole a glance over
her shoulder at Chemical.

“Then who is?”

“I'm not really sure,” Maggie admitted.
“Chemical's not that reliable at paying his bills...”

“Then, he might not have a Magistrate?”
Rachael asked in disbelief.

“Possibly.”

“And then no one has the authority to arrest
him?”

“Right.”

“Doesn't this strike any of you as a serious
flaw in your legal system?” In exasperation, Rachael raised her
voice above its former hushed whisper. On the prow, Chemical's
curiosity was piqued.

Maggie sighed. “Don't worry, I can take care
of this.”

“How?”

“We'll take him to the Gray Beards.”

Rachael shook her head in disbelief. “Is that
some sort of rock band?”

“No, there...” Maggie thought about it. “I
don't know, I guess you could say they're the Raft's ruling
council.”

“At last,” Rachael feigned relief. “We find
that someone is actually in charge of the madhouse.”

“Not in charge, per se, but... well, it's
hard to explain.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“Anyway, if anyone knows who has Chemical's
franchise, it'll be Gandalf.”

“Geldof?” Rachael raised an eyebrow.

“No,
Gandalf
. Like in hobbits... and
rings.”

“Seriously?” Rachael smirked. “Does everyone
on the Raft have a 70's biker CB handle?”

“We leave our tax names onshore,” Maggie
answered, perhaps missing the sarcasm. “Last I checked, his junk
was moored off Agate Point. If we have a good tail wind... but we'd
better get moving, the whole Raft will be sailing north very soon.”
Maggie stepped to the helm and checked the gauges of the control
panel.

“What's north?”

“The San Juans, Friday Harbor. The Freaky
Kon-Tikis. They're this weekend,” Maggie said, distracted.

“The what?”

“The Freaky-” Maggie paused, looking up from
the helm. “You haven't heard of the Freaky Kon-Tikis? ”she asked in
disbelief. “Come on, even dryfoots have heard of that.”

Rachael paused in thought. She remembered
reading an article many years ago, something about the Raft having
an annual festival. A boat race. “Well, yeah,” she allowed.

“Well, it's a tradition,” Maggie continued.
“It's our holiday, our only holiday. Sort of like the Seafair
hydros, a milk carton derby, opening day of boating season, and
Burning Man all wrapped up into one. Everyone on the Raft sails
north for the Kon-Tiki races. It's our holiday. A tradition.”

The look on Maggie's face told Rachael that
Maggie was unhappy with her explication. She shook her head and
continued. “We'll have to take Agate Pass,” Maggie changed the
subject, tapping a gauge. “That little merry chase drained the
electrics. There's no time to recharge.” Maggie moved from behind
the helm and began to work at the rigging. “I hope you don't still
get seasick,” she added.

Rachael coughed. She hadn't quite stopped
feeling seasick since she'd come aboard. “No, no, not as bad,” she
lied. “Why?”

“Oh,” Maggie smiled. “The Agate Pass can
be... thrilling.”

“Wonderful,” Rachael said sarcastically. She
sighed, leaned up against the grab rail and turned her face to the
warming sun. “Maggie,” she began.

“Yes?”

“If anything that Chemical just said is
true...”

“But it's not.”

“But if it is...”

“I don't want to think about it,” Maggie said
as she pulled on a halyard.

“If Horus didn't kill Meerkat...”

“Rachael,” Maggie paused in her effort to
raise her mainsail. “I need you to stay focused here. We can't jump
off that cliff and hope there's water below.”

“Yes,” Rachael agreed, at least logically.
“Right.”

“Good,” Maggie said and returned to her
halyard.

“Oy!” Chemical piped up from the pulpit. “Is
someone gonna let me go?”

#

The Agate Pass did not disappoint.

Rachael tossed her breakfast early and spent
much of rest of the thrilling ride though the Pass dry heaving at
the grab rail.

The water was swift and the tailwind strong.
The
Soft Cell
made excellent time, circling Bainbridge
Island clockwise.

But Rachael missed most of it. When she
finally felt strong enough to rise from the gunwale, she collapsed
face first onto one of the cockpit's benches and groaned. For five
minutes at a time she'd rise from the cold clamminess of the bench
cushion and ruminate on the sight of Maggie standing radiant and
proud at the helm of the
Soft Cell
. The ship was heeling
over substantially with the force of a substantial tailwind,
bucking as the wind danced, but Maggie stood at the helm firm.
Chemical hooted in pleasure, still hogtied to the pulpit, bathed in
the spray of the churning water. Maggie had the sails trim and the
helm steady, the whole craft cut like a bullet through the
fast-moving water.

The bile would always quickly rise in the
back of Rachael's throat and she quickly had to return to the cold
comfort of the bench cushion or end up back at the gunwale. But
even through the muddy haze of motion sickness, she was
impressed.

The whole morning, from the first word of the
murder back at the office to the sight of the Agate Pass Bridge
passing overhead, had been a whirl of emotions and new experiences
for Rachael. She'd prepared herself before leaving dryland for the
emotional hurdle of reconnecting with Maggie. Even before she'd
picked up the phone, she'd willed herself to expect the worst. But
now, face to face with Maggie, she found herself at a loss to
handle the changes that five years had brought to her old
lover.

This Maggie, the Maggie aboard the
Soft
Cell,
was so different than the Maggie that Rachael had known
back in her day. The Maggie currently piloting a sailing yacht
through the dangerous waters of a narrow, rocky pass... well, the
old Maggie would have never dreamed of doing anything of the
like.

Five years ago, when she'd dropped the bomb
on Rachael, Maggie had been so different. When she'd told Rachael
she was selling the house they shared, the house Maggie's parents
had left her, and buying a sailing yacht to join the Raft, Maggie
had seemed so small. No, not small, not less, but... shorter.
Rachael could explain it no other way. Though logic told Rachael no
one could gain inches in their forties, Maggie genuinely appeared
to Rachael more statuesque. For what it was worth, living barefoot
aboard the Raft appeared to agree with Maggie. Rachael
smiled...

Briefly... then the dry heaves quickly had
her bending over the grab rail once again.

Despite weeks of Rachael's protests,
emotional fits, and last ditch attempts at groveling, Maggie had
followed through with her threat. The house was sold, for pennies
on the dollar, leaving Rachael homeless. And then Maggie had run
away. To the Raft. Neither of them had seriously entertained the
notion of Rachael accompanying her. It was self-evident that
Rachael had no desire to live aboard a boat, even set foot on one,
and no real festering discontent with society at large. But Maggie
had had enough. She'd known that leaving dryland had meant leaving
Rachael, and she'd gone regardless. The pain still burned deep
inside Rachael. Though she'd buried it deep inside, and almost
forgotten exactly where she'd dug the hole to hide it, it still
burned inside her.

Had it really been so bad?

Perhaps if Rachael had been more
understanding... maybe if she'd been a little more sympathetic when
the café had closed, Maggie wouldn't have run away. But no, after
five years and so many tears, Rachael could no longer summon up
enough self-pity to blame herself. It had been Maggie's decision
and Maggie's decision only. Rachael no longer blamed herself, even
though, for so many years, she had so desperately wanted to.

The café hadn't been much, hardly even a
living wage for Maggie, but it had been her dream. She'd worked so
hard to renovate the location – an old storefront facing onto
Greenlake – and planned out the menu in meticulous detail. Some
half-buried, girly part of Maggie had risen to the forefront,
taking on the duties of pastry chef, barista, and entrepreneur with
gusto. She'd poured her heart into concocting an assortment of
tasty vegan treats to complement the fair-trade, shade-grown
coffee.

The results were an unmitigated success, the
small shop instantly becoming a go-to stop for morning joggers and
walkers circling the lake. Left alone, Maggie could have easily
turned the single, hole-in-the-wall shop into a two- or three-café
chain, dotting the city. But it was not to be. Less than two years
after pulling her first espresso, Maggie was closing the café's
doors.

She'd bribed the wrong health inspector.

There'd never been any issues, nothing wrong
with the cleanliness or upkeep of Maggie's café, or the food she
served. It was just part of doing business, the backhanders paid to
the county officials. Out of inexperience, Maggie had bribed the
wrong inspector. The one she'd bribed had been from ADA, or OSHA,
or something else other than the health department. It was hard to
keep track, the inspectors swarmed like files. The bribed official
had been happy enough to take the money, though Maggie's store had
passed his inspection anyway. Perhaps he made a point to mention in
his report that Maggie's café was especially wheelchair accessible.
Regardless, the genuine health inspector had failed to see the
humor of the situation. Maggie hadn't a second thousand dollars on
hand to bribe another inspector, and pleas of poverty fell on deaf
ears. Maybe out of spite more than principle, the inspector had
shut Maggie's café down.

A new thousand dollars was soon acquired,
from Rachael, the bribe paid in full, but the café was never really
able to reclaim its former glory. After the skull-and-crossbones
yellow tape and the list of health department violations had graced
the front doors of the establishment, it was hard to win back
clientele. Maggie had tried. But it was soon obvious that there'd
be no keeping her head above water.

Inevitably, she'd gotten behind in the rent
and the bills from suppliers began to mount up. When the coffee ran
dry and the debt collectors started to call, Maggie knew the dream
was over. She shut the doors and walked away.

After that, she refused to leave the couch
for a month.

She was a lump – a destroyed lump that
Rachael passed heading to and from work. She ate junk food and
watched TV. Nothing Rachael could do or say could rouse Maggie from
her funk. Reminders that things weren't so bad, that there was
always another café to be opened, fell against a shield of
indifference. Rachael grew annoyed and snippy. Soon, the two of
them were no longer speaking at all, sleeping next to each other in
silence, going through the motion of their lives, but no longer
together.

It must have been during one of Maggie's
marathon bouts of television that she came to learn about the
Raft.

Everyone knew about the Raft, of course, as
it was often in the news. But until the failure of her café, Maggie
had always had the deepest disdain for the movement. A bunch of
right wing wackos, she'd said. She mirrored the popular opinion of
the Raft. But some documentary, or snippet in the news, or daytime
talk show had caused Maggie's opinions to make a radical shift.
Suddenly, after a month of inactivity, there was new life in
Maggie's bones. She dressed and went to the bookshop. Rachael came
home to a kitchen table covered by books written by a wide
selection of dead white men. Names like Hayek, Rothbard, and Von
Mises.

Maggie's political shift was shocking,
abrupt, and total.

From no communication, Maggie veered
uncontrollably past normal, civil discourse to annoying loudmouth
bore. Rachael had always savored conversations over dinner with
Maggie. Her wit was remarkable, her social insights keen, and her
intellectual curiosity almost boundless. But her dinner
conversation quickly devolved into little other than
deconstructionist rants about the last fifty years of American
history and the government's intervention in it. Maggie's language
changed, she began to assume political foundations in Rachael that
she didn't possess. She was quick to dismiss and always
irritable.

Rachael began to long for the days of the old
Maggie. The listless lump on the couch.

So when Maggie, out of the blue, announced
her intention of her selling the house and joining the Raft,
Rachael had given it little credence. She'd dismissed it as just
another out-of-left-field notion that would pass as abruptly as it
had appeared.