“I say, you chaps going ashore?” the man asked. He was a round, red-faced man, his big chest and belly heavily matted with dark hair, although the flesh sagged on him as if he had recently lost weight. Both he and the woman, a bleached blonde, were in their forties and were wearing rather spare black bikini bathing suits.
“We are,” Frank replied. “Why?”
“We own the little blue Wharram catamaran over there,” the Englishman said, pointing. “Always willing to lend a hand to a multi-hull sailor, you know?”
“We appreciate it,” said Frank.
“Philip felt you might need some advice before you go ashore,” the woman said, smiling. “He’s very good at giving advice.”
“We’ve been at sea for more than two weeks,” said Frank, feeling an unexpected pride as he spoke. “I guess we can use some advice about what the land world is like these days.”
“It’s a bloody mess is what it is,” Philip replied, holding on to Vagabond’s combing with one of his big hands. “I know it’s a bit presumptuous of me to come over here like this, but the world’s gotten to be awf’ly Small, and where there’s a chance to find a friend, I like to take it.”
“I see,” said Frank, his mood wavering uncertainly between suspicion and acceptance.
“Fact is,” said the Englishman, “if you’re going ashore for food and petrol and water, there’s a bit you might know first, right?”
“Would you like to come aboard?” Frank finally asked.
“Don’t mind if I do. Take the oars, Sheila.”
The large Englishman and his petite and pretty wife climbed nimbly up onto Vagabond and introductions were made all around: they were Philip and Sheila Wellington of the catamaran Doubloon.
A beer was brought up from Vagabond’s “wine cellar” (the bilge) and passed around to everyone sitting around the wheelhouse and sipped reverentially.
“Bloody marvelous,” said Philip. “Haven’t had a good warm beer in more than two weeks.”
“Supplies are tight here too?” Frank asked.
“Tight?” Philip snorted. “If your whole wealth consists of your bare boat, then your food consists of seaweed, shellfish, rainwater, and fish.” He looked at his wife with a warm smile. “We had no gold or silver, and we pawned Sheila’s jewelry ten days ago to buy sailcloth and a week’s worth of food. And beer doesn’t exist here these days.”
“Can food be bought?”
“Some, I suppose—with gold, silver, diamonds, jewelry,” Philip replied. “And, ah, with pot and pussy. Such are at present the currency of your nation’s former possession.” Frank and Neil looked at him uncertainly. “You’ll have to barter first with the precious metal dealers, then with the individual merchants. Very few shopkeepers will barter themselves, except a few who will deal in cannabis and a lady’s favors.”
“Is there much chance we can stay here, make a home here?” Jeanne asked.
Philip looked at her, grimaced, and looked away.
“Not bloody likely,” he replied. “I’m afraid the world here is becoming a bit of a black-and-white thing, you know? Blacks don’t seem to appreciate the fact that whites are blowing up the whole world and… uh… then the survivors running to the blacks for help.”
“But the Russians started it,” said Tony from the port cockpit.
“Ah, well, I’m not certain too many blacks are sure of that.”
“St. Thomas is all black?” Jeanne asked.
“Pretty much so,” Philip replied. “And most of the refugees are white or now Puerto Rican. The rich whites who live here are holed up in various enclaves—those that haven’t already left, that is.”
“What are your plans?” Neil asked abruptly from his seat in the corner of the wheelhouse.
The big Englishman frowned. “The bloody war’s gotten too close,” he said slowly. “I suppose you know San Juan got hit?… We’ve decided to leave. We want to be part of a convoy.”
“A convoy?” Neil asked.
“Pirates. You can’t go twenty miles in any direction without having them all over you. Bloody trouble is you can’t know who to trust. A friend of mine sailed off with another ship four days ago, and yesterday his ship turned up stripped and foundering while the other ship was reported sailing happily onwards a hundred miles from here. The world’s not a nice place these days.”
“But where are you going?” Neil persisted.
“Thought we might try Australia,” the Englishman replied softly, staring at his hands.
“Australia!” Frank exclaimed.
“My boat’s too small, I know,” said Philip, looking up intently. “But I have a friend who’s got a fine old wooden sloop, fifty-five footer, she is, and—”
“But Australia…” Frank said again. “Jesus. That’s quite a sail.”
“It’s quite a world, Frank.”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“England doesn’t much exist anymore, you know,” he went on intently. “And since they bombed Puerto Rico and Venezuela, and the whites were massacred on Dominica, no one feels any too bright about this whole area. Everyone who can afford it is getting out. Food was short before on all the islands. Now it’s almost nonexistent here. Things can only get worse, right?”
“Have you stockpiled much food?” Neil asked.
Philip snorted out a half-laugh in reply. “There are two types here: those who’ve got their gold and silver, and those who don’t. The rich are selling it all to fly out of here now. And the rest of us fish.” He laughed, and though his belly shook, his eyes weren’t twinkling.
“What are you people planning to do?” asked Sheila, suddenly.
Frank didn’t answer and a strained silence ensued.
“Survive,” Macklin finally growled.
“Oh, yes, I know…” said Sheila. “But… well…”
“I’m sorry, Frank,” said Philip. “But I suppose I’ve got to ask also whether in this new world you’re rich or poor.”
“We’re poor,” Jeanne said. “We only have a little food left, and none of the mineral wealth that passes for currency. We could never barter for enough food to go to Australia.”
“Bit sticky for us all,” commented Philip.
“I’m glad you’re poor, Jeannie,” Sheila said. “Anyone who has gold on his boat seems to have a lead anchor in his heart. Phil was saying as we rowed over here, ‘Hope to Christ they’re not hoarders.’”
“It’s a paradox, I guess you’d say,” commented Philip. “The way things are, if you had plenty of gold, you’d be the type that doesn’t share, whereas since you, ah, haven’t any gold, we’d be likely to help each other.”
“How do you figure to help us?” Frank asked.
“Well, for one thing, give you advice on what you can and can’t sell. For another, I’ve been here for almost a month, and I know not only St. Thomas but what’s been happening throughout the Antilles. For example, when the war started, a few boats left for some of the islands south of here, but later starvation and revolution and civil war devastated two or three of the islands, and a lot of them came back. And now, after the explosion over San Juan, a lot of ships have put out to sea again.”
“There seem still to be quite a few,” Jeanne said.
Philip looked briefly out at the harbor. “About a third less than on Thursday,” he said. “And half of them are motor yachts. Almost none of them has the fuel to go anywhere, even if they wanted to. Some came in yesterday from Puerto Rico.”
“Is it possible to rent a house?” Jeanne asked.
“I suppose anything is possible if you have the means to pay for it,” Philip replied. “But you won’t be welcome.”