The Namaste lay cocked on its side for four hours while the epoxy set. We played with the dingy and skin-dived.
Late in the afternoon, we let the Namaste back upright. I ran a wire from the transducer to the depth-finder dial we’d installed next to the compass in the cockpit. We flipped on the power and, sure enough, the thing said two feet. Watching the finder tell us the water was getting deeper as we pulled ourselves out to the anchor was fun.
We anchored out far from shore, out of range of the sand flies, and broiled three big steaks. We toasted our success with beer, told jokes, and yelled insults at the sand flies. It felt like we’d really done something.
The next morning we sailed back to Saint Thomas Basin to finish provisioning the boat. And to meet the scam master.
John brought him out to the Namaste in the dingy the day after we got back to the harbor. His name was Dave, and he’d brought his wife, Nancy, with him. They looked just like any other couple on a weekend jaunt. They climbed aboard, to a thoroughly spiffed-up Namaste. Ireland and I had been cleaning up the boat all morning. John introduced us and I found out that Dave was a Vietnam vet, too. He’d been a grunt in 1969, earned a Purple Heart. That made me feel a little better. Most grunts I knew were good at keeping cool under pressure. I’d learned, from John, that Dave had made this his mission by pushing out the usual scam master. Dave had put this whole deal together and had a point to prove to the boss—that he was as good as the other scam master. Dave was clawing his way up the corporate ladder.
We talked for a while in the cockpit. Dave was impressed that I’d been a helicopter pilot; loved helicopter pilots because they’d saved his ass a bunch of times.
Nancy pulled from her purse a brown-paper package the size of a thick novel and handed it to John. John tore it open like it was Christmas morning. Inside were twenty-five rubber-banded bundles of money. Twenty-five thousand dollars. They excused Ireland and me while they talked business. Dave had all the codes and times for the pickup and wanted to brief John. Ireland and I went forward, sat against the cabin bulkhead on the foredeck, and smoked pot. “That money isn’t for the pot, is it?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Ireland said. “We’re picking up probably a hundred and fifty thousand worth. That’s probably just the buyer’s fee.”
A half hour later, John called us back and said Dave was taking us all out to dinner.
The next morning, John announced this would be our last day in Saint Thomas. We could use the time to tie up loose ends, make our last phone calls. We went ashore. I helped John shop for a box of silicon sealant he wanted to caulk the gunwales with. We’d detected some leakage: the lockers under the bunks were sloshing with water.
I got my slides back from the camera shop and mailed them home. I called Patience and told her we were ready for the next leg of the trip. She knew what that meant and her voice sounded fearful. So did mine, I guess. I was jumpy, nervous, abrupt. I just wanted to get it over with. “I’ll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I said.
“I love you,” she said, her voice breaking. “Be careful.”
“I love you, too. Two weeks; maybe three. I’ll be home.”
We met Ireland back at the dingy. It was five in the afternoon, so we went into the Islander and had some beers. I ordered chowder.
While I was waiting for the food, I spotted somebody I knew. Impossible! I tried to slink down in the chair, but he saw me and walked over. It was Cal Fisher, a guy I went to art school with. He and I had been pretty good friends back then. Patience and I met him and his wife when we lived at married student housing. His daughter, Carol, and Jack had played together. He sat down on the bench next to me and I introduced him to John and Ireland. I could hardly talk. John picked up on my panic and told Cal how we were down here delivering a yacht to some rich dude, taking another one back up. Cal nodded. I could tell by the way he looked at John that he knew what we were really doing. The Islander was crawling with pot smugglers. Even I could tell who they were. We had a lame conversation for a few minutes. He was working in real estate. He got up to leave. He said good-bye to John and Ireland. When I stood up, Cal moved close to me and whispered, “Bob, what are you doing here?” He gave me a knowing smile and left.
I thought, what am I doing here? I could’ve gone into real estate, too.
John announced that we were going to have one last party before we left. A fucking tie-one-on party. I said maybe we should be cool, unobtrusive.
Even Ireland thought I was being paranoid. It ended up that I took the dingy back to the boat with the stuff we’d bought and John and Ireland stayed to party. They said they’d come down to the beach, close to the Namaste, when they finished, and yell for me to row out and get them. Fine.
I sat in the cockpit of the Namaste, alone for the first time in weeks. I watched the boat next to us, a legitimate yacht. I wondered what people did to get that much money legally. We had seen a two-hundred-foot yacht moored by the fuel pumps manned by a crew of twenty sailors, all wearing beige uniforms. One of them told us the owner lived on the boat by himself. A Bell Long Ranger helicopter, painted to match the beige and brown trim of the yacht, perched on the fantail of the boat. Now, how does one man get that much money? Just the helicopter cost more than a million dollars. I wasn’t jealous; I was just bewildered. I thought I was a pretty smart guy, but making money just seemed to be beyond my talents. These people, the yachts, the big houses, intimidated me. I thought I was getting a taste of what the blacks on the island felt.
I made some tuna fish salad and ate in the cockpit. I lay in a lawn chair, chewing my sandwich, staring at the stars. They weren’t as bright in the yacht basin as they were when we were out to sea. Too many lights.
At about ten, I heard hoots and yells in the darkness over at the beach; had to be John and Ireland. I climbed into the dingy and rowed over. I heard a lot of laughing. They were thoroughly drunk. When the dingy got close enough, Ireland jumped in. John leapt, too, but he missed and fell in the water. We pulled him in, sopping, over the side.
John sprawled across the dingy, laughing, having a really good time.
Ireland was staring up the beach. “C’mon, Ali, let’s go!” he said.
“What’s the problem?” I said.
“Aw. This Juan.” Ireland sighed. “He started a fight at the bar. Hurt a guy.”
“Fucker damn well deserved it!” John yelled. Then he laughed.
Ireland kept staring up the beach, toward the hotel.
“Police?” I said.
“Maybe,” Ireland said. “I don’t think anybody knows where we went, though. We ran out through the hotel and circled back.”
“Jesus,” I said. “What a fuckup. Our last night, and you get in a fight?”
“Hey, Ali.” John laughed. “Best night to fuck up is the last night.”
I stayed awake long after John and Ireland were asleep. This was getting too nutty. He misses his watch. He starts fights. He’s too stubborn to admit that he’s wrong when he is. Cal Fisher knows what we’re up to—how do I know Cal’s not a cop? Or knows a cop? How the fuck can we keep making so many mistakes and pull this off?