Richard nodded but said nothing. He strained to see the San Quintin light, thinking back once more to the moment Robin and he had shared, looking eastward towards it from Maxima’s bridge at sunset. And there it was — the yellow-white finger of its beam given definition by the downpour. The circle of brightness it cast gave some hint of the wilderness of wild water beating in out of the Pacific against it. Richard was put in mind of the pictures he had seen of the south coast of England during the storms of 2014. Of apparently fragile lighthouses standing bravely against spring tides with storm surges on top of them and hurricane-force winds behind them. Slim fingers of brick and concrete pointed up from the hearts of great walls of spray. He swung round again, frowning, just in time to see the red beacon on top of Picacho del Diabolo vanish once again, drowned out by the deluge.
‘I’d have a chat with whoever’s up and about at Cielito Lindo before you come to any decisions,’ he advised grimly. ‘Things down there look even worse than things up here.’
‘Good thinking. Buena tarde, Cielito Lindo. Me escuchas? This is Bell helicopter Maxima One. Can anyone hear me?’
‘Buenas tardes, Maxima One,’ came a faint reply. ‘This is Cielito Lindo airstrip. What can we do for you?’
‘Could you update me as to your current weather, Cielito Lindo?’
‘Bad and getting worse. We’ve had nearly two inches of rainfall in the last hour. No sign of a let-up anytime soon. Wind speeds gusting to storm force — with some hurricane-force on the way. The guys at the San Quintin light ten kliks west of us say this is the worst weather they’ve ever experienced, and they’re looking at a storm surge of twenty-five feet which may well wash in here sometime soon. The guys up at the San Quintin airbase twenty kliks north are getting ready for a flood coming down from the mountains of the national park just inland of them. They say they may have to evacuate. We have reports of serious flooding in arroyos that are usually dry this time of year. Our two nearest bridges on highway one are in danger of being swept away, according to the federales. Certainly the bridge over Arroyo Colonet north of here seems to have gone. Where are you bound for, Maxima One?’
‘Long Beach.’
‘If I were you, I’d swing in here and see can you get a visual on highway one — the bridges might be at risk but there’s still traffic moving and lights along some lengths. You should be able to follow it easily enough up past San Quintin and Ensenada to Tijuana and San Diego. That way, if you have any trouble, at least you can put down on land.’ The radio operator gave a bark of laughter. ‘I almost said dry land. Not much chance of that tonight, Maxima One.’
‘Thanks for the advice, Cielito Lindo. We’ll give it a go.’
‘Good luck, Maxima One.’
‘And you, Cielito Lindo. Stay safe now.’
FIFTEEN
By the time Liberty and the crew of Katapult8 snuck out of Long Beach with the last of the incoming tide running against them, leaving Maxima lying snugly in dock waiting for the top of the water, as well as Richard and Robin, Pilar had been heading west out of Puerto Banderas for the best part of four hours. Her destination was the Pacific fishing grounds off the west of the Baja California. She had aboard the usual crew, together with the ship’s boy, Miguel-Angel Guerrero. She had passed south of the reef at Isla Santa Isabel, and Miguel-Angel had listened to the distant roaring. They had passed south of the smallest of the Tres Marias, Isla Maria Cleofas, and the boy, once again, had listened to her unique song, feeling that he was becoming a master of the seas like his capitan.
Carlos Santiago and Miguel-Angel had gone aboard together at four thirty local time and the others had joined them half an hour later, just before they eased out of harbour with a star-spangled sky ahead of them magnified by the hot and heavy humidity of the air — and the brightness of Dahlia Blanca high above the breakwater with its towering hotels, Los Muertos beach and the Malecón astern. The crew, below, had come aboard suspiciously heavy laden and, although Miguel-Angel had asked no questions, he assumed they were planning on a much longer voyage than usual. He stood beside his capitan on the bridge in the darkness of pre-dawn while the rest of the crew sleepily prepared for a long day’s fishing — maybe two or even three, thought the boy, with a prickle of excitement at the novelty, the adventure. However long they were coming out for, it would be their last trip if they came home empty once again.
Under the brightness of the dawn gathering behind them after the coast — and even the mountaintops of the Sierra Madre — had fallen below the horizon, the old man was unusually grim-faced, Miguel-Angel observed, though he made no remark. And taciturn. There was none of the wisdom, the inconsequential chat or the banter that usually enlivened their hours together. His lips and eyes were narrow; his nostrils flared in thought — something that he did unconsciously when his forehead was at its most creased. Miguel-Angel had known Capitan Carlos his whole life and understood his moods as well as he understood the moods of the sea and the sky. At first, the boy wondered whether Capitan Carlos was worried about the weather, for after four hours heading due west at full speed he had suddenly swung the helm round forty-five degrees to starboard and Pilar had turned on to a new course dead north, still with the throttles as wide as they would go.
It was clear that Pilar would be heading up towards a considerable tempest if she stayed on this course. The preparations in California for the threatened ARkStorm were a lead item in the news down here. But then, on closer inspection, Miguel-Angel had realized that the old man was not afraid of the sea. The capitan was wrestling with his conscience. And that explained why no one aboard seemed keen to tell Miguel-Angel anything. He was as much their good-luck mascot as he was a crewmember, and they would never willingly make him complicit in anything illegal. And they were clearly planning something desperately illegal, the boy thought grimly.
Miguel-Angel knew enough about fishing — and, indeed, about life — to understand that legality was hard. Illegality was too easy. Especially for desperate men staring ruin, destitution and starvation in the face. The commercial fishing licenses that lay folded into the log books on the chart table were specific about what types of fish Pilar, her master and his crew could take from the ocean. About the requirements — such as VMS transmitters — that the vessel should be carrying to give their location at all times when at sea. About the areas that were open to them — and those that were closed. About what methods of fishing they were allowed to use — and which were absolutely forbidden. As soon as Miguel-Angel saw the new course he realized that Carlos was heading north into the danger of inclement weather on purpose. Fishery protection vessels would not be likely to stay out if conditions got worse, as the Americans seemed certain they would do. And, under the quiet capitan’s steady hand, Pilar was heading not only into the possibility of foul weather but also into a closed area that stretched up the Pacific coast of the Baja California, where the great whales went to breed, where no one but whale-watchers and tourists were permitted. And where fish — especially skipjack, blue-fin and albacore — were consequently plentiful.