Pretty slick. Except for saying everything twice, I was beginning to think John had his shit together.
“That last leg is over fifteen hundred miles of winter Atlantic. Lotsa nasty weather, amigos. Winter Atlantic weather.” John grinned. “Altogether, we’re talking about more than a four-thousand-mile cruise, here. Four thousand miles, plus.”
“Madre mio!” Ireland, reacting to the distance, smiled and then, looking serious, said, “But why Charleston? We’ve always had good luck in Florida.”
“Florida’s getting hot. Too hot in Florida. Last place they’d expect to see pot coming in is Charleston, Ramon. Nobody goes to Charleston. Who goes to Charleston?”
“Nobody goes to Charleston,” Ireland said, smiling.
“Right,” John said.
I walked home feeling antsy. Four thousand miles in a thirty-six-foot sailboat? Pirates? Coast Guard? The plan seemed okay, but what did I know? What were the odds? I fought back the nagging of my conscience, which claimed I was just not cut out for this stuff. It was just not me. I considered quitting that night, before I got in any deeper, but I’d said I’d go. Plus the alternative was grim: no money, no job, no hopes for either. Besides, I reminded myself, I had felt the same sickening butterflies in Vietnam, just before the assaults. Once you get into action, the doubts vanish. Just suck it up and do the mission. Thirty thousand dollars could last us three years. Three years to get a book published.
Just do the mission.
CHAPTER 13
November 30, 1980—Jacksonville is having a cold snap. It’s forty degrees inside the Namaste. I’m lying in my bunk in the main cabin. I put my hand out and touch the bulkhead. The hull is just thick fiberglass, cold as steel, clammy. Ireland is asleep in the bottom bunk, John is on deck talking to the partner, Ray, the guy who owns the boat. I can only catch snatches, but I get the gist. Ray is unhappy with how long it’s taking, how much it’s costing. John is talking, louder, repeating himself. I’m getting depressed.
“Sure,” John says. “You sit out there in California while the dingers are busting their nuts putting the fucking boat together. Comes on a truck. Comes in fucking pieces. Yacht-fucking-kit. What do you know about going to sea, Ray?”
Ray says something, but he speaks in a low voice. I met him when he arrived and he acknowledged me as one of the help. He was friendly, but distant. He was a businessman trying to get his ducks in a row. I sympathized.
“Yeah, you sailed. You sailed once,” John said. “Somebody else did the work, you were management, along for the ride.”
“Along for the ride?” Ray’s voice was angry.
“Okay. Okay. Sorry. I exaggerate sometimes—”
“Sometimes?”
Ray talked for a long time, and I drifted off. Did John know what he was doing? Or was Ray just being a nagging boss? I wished we could just get going.
Ray was gone the next morning. John told Bob and me that he had smoothed everything out. Ray was just an asshole worried about his money. “I told him he was going to make a fucking fortune and we were going to make it for him. Asshole.” We smiled. It’s great fun to hear the boss called names. Ray wasn’t the boss, but he was part of… management.
John took us to a nearby Big Boy restaurant for breakfast. While we ate, he told us we were almost ready. It had taken a month to get this far, but the time was near. I was happy to hear it and nervous as hell.
“We move the Namaste today,” John said.
“Move her? Why?” Ireland said.
“Guy at the marina knows what we’re up to.”
“He knows?” I said. “He said so?”
“Didn’t say it. I can tell. We move down the river. I figure we can finish up in two, three days.”
We sailed about twenty miles down the Saint Johns River to another marina. The Namaste sailed beautifully. I couldn’t get over how the light breezes could push this twelve-ton boat along at walking speed.
We got a slip at the marina. The autopilot, the vane gear, had just arrived from England. It’s called an Aries wind vane and John put me in charge of installing it. I had to drill oblique holes in the rounded stern and attach the mounting hardware. Took a day. When I’d finished, we had this weird-looking contraption hanging off the back of the boat. We christened it Rosalinda, in keeping with the Spanish theme that Ireland had established.
Rosalinda had a plywood vane, about the size of a blade on a ceiling fan, that reached above the deck about four feet. The vertical vane flopped around trying to keep aligned with the wind. When the vane twisted Rosalinda’s mechanism, it turned a long rudder that stuck in the water behind the stern. The wind vane’s rudder was attached to the tiller with ropes. The idea was that once a course was set, the wind vane would remain stable, pointing into the wind. If the Namaste changed course ever so slightly, the wind vane’s arm would twist and Rosalinda’s rudder would move and pull ropes that tugged the tiller and put her back on course. It was a clever rig.
That night we went to a movie, The Elephant Man, about a poor bastard who had a hideously deformed face and body. Afterward, everything disheveled, dirty, deformed, or smelly was preceded with the adjective elephant. A messy bunk was an elephant bunk; a tangled knot was an elephant knot; a stale beer was an elephant beer; and, of course, there was elephant underwear.
We drove to a shopping center in John’s elephant truck and raided a Publix. We were kids on a shopping spree. I think our high spirits resulted from the relief that something was finally happening. We used to do the same thing in Vietnam—get happy to be doing something, even if the something was going to get some of us killed. We ran up and down the aisles, each of us with two grocery carts, dumping in whole cases of food. We got canned meat, canned beans, canned vegetables. We got fifty pounds of rice. We got ten cases of beer. We got a case of Winstons. We got forty one-gallon plastic bottles of drinking water in case we ran out. We did all this yelling: “Hey, Juan. Needing theese corned beef?”
“Wanting; having,” John would yell.
“You like asparagus?”
“Wanting; having.”
People could not help noticing us. Probably they thought we were just crazy. It was fun buying all that stuff.
We took hours loading the boat. We packed the beer in the ice chest and buried it under four bags of ice. John said we’d re-ice it just before we left. This was a priority with John. He knew the ice would melt in a couple of days, but he was determined to have cold beer for as long as he could. Ireland and I seldom drank. We were smoking pot.
We pulled up the cushions on the starboard bunk to pack some of the canned food in the lockers there. John pulled out a padded rifle case and took the opportunity to show Ireland the gun he’d bought for the boat. He slid it out of the case—a Winchester .44 magnum lever-action rifle. “Nice,” Ireland said. “I guess.” Ireland wasn’t familiar with guns. He turned to me. “Nice, Bob?”
“Stop a charging rhino in its tracks,” I said.
Ireland shrugged, smiled. “Nice.”
John stashed the rifle under the other bunk and we stacked boxes of canned food in the locker space, converting the locker into an elephant locker. I noticed two cans of paint and a can of paint thinner and asked if we should throw them away—just take up room. John said we might need the paint in the Virgins.
We got to bed late.
We were ready.
John phoned the boss, but didn’t get a go-ahead. Something was fouled up with Ike, our Colombia connection. The next day, December first, the scam master still had us on hold, but John announced that we were leaving on the second anyway. “They’ll have it figured out by the time we get there.”