Beth was holding on in her seat, rising and falling with each encounter with a wave.
Leaving it at full throttle was working, as far as keeping control and keeping from getting swamped, but it wasn't doing much for fuel economy. Yet, I had no choice. In the great realm of trade-offs, I had traded off the certainty of sinking now against the certainty of running out of gas shortly. Big deal.
But my experience with fuel gauges-ever since I had my first car-was that they show either more fuel than you have left, or less fuel than you have left. I didn't know how this gauge lied, but I would soon find out.
Beth said, "How's the gas?"
"Fine."
She tried to put a light tone in her voice and said, "Do you want to stop for gas and ask directions?"
"Nope. Real men don't ask directions, and we have enough gas to get to Plum Island."
She smiled.
I said to her, "Go below awhile."
"What if we capsize?"
"We're too heavy now to capsize. We'll sink. But you'll have plenty of warning. Take a break."
"Okay." She went below. I took the chart out of the open glove compartment and divided my attention between it and the sea. Off to the left in the far distance, I caught a glimpse of a flashing strobe light, and I knew that had to be Orient Point Lighthouse. I glanced at the chart. If I turned due north now, I would probably be able to find the Orient Point ferry slips. But there were so many rocks and shoals between the ferry and the lighthouse that it would take a miracle to get past them. The other possibility was to go on another two miles or so and try for the cove at Plum Island. But that meant going into Plum Gut, which was treacherous enough in normal tides and winds. In a storm-or hurricane-it would be… well, challenging, to say the least.
Beth came up the companionway, lurching from side to side and pitching forward, then back. I caught her outstretched hand and hauled her up. She presented me with an unwrapped chocolate bar. I said, "Thanks."
She said, "The water's ankle deep below. Bilge pumps are still working."
"Good. The boat's feeling a little lighter."
"Terrific. Take a break below. I'll drive."
"I'm okay. How's your little scratch?"
"It's okay. How's your little brain?"
"I left it onshore." As I ate my chocolate bar, I explained our options.
She understood our chances clearly and said, "So, we can smash up on the rocks at Orient Point or drown in the Gut?"
"Right." I tapped the fuel gauge and said, "We're well past the point where we can turn back to Greenport."
"I think we missed our opportunity there."
"I guess so…" I asked her, "So? Orient or Plum?"
She looked at the chart awhile and said, "There are too many navigation hazards between here and Orient." She looked out to the left and added, "I don't even see any channel markers leading to Orient. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them haven't broken loose and floated away."
I nodded. "Yeah…"
Beth said, "And forget the Gut. Nothing less than an ocean liner could get through there in this storm." She added, "If we had more fuel, we could ride this out until the eye passes over." She looked up from the chart and said, "We have no options."
Which may have been true. Tom and Judy once told me that the instinct to sail toward land in a storm was often the wrong thing to do. The coast was treacherous, it was where the breaking waves could pulverize or capsize your boat or drive you into the rocks. It was actually safer to ride out the storm in the open sea as long as you had fuel or sail left. But we didn't even have that option because we had a guy with a rifle and radar on our ass. We had no choice but to press on and see what God and nature had in store for us. I said, "We'll hold course and speed."
She nodded. "Okay. That's about all we can do… What-?"
I looked at her and saw she was staring toward the stern. I looked back, but saw nothing.
She said, "I saw him… I think I saw him." Beth jumped up on the chair and managed to keep her balance for a second before she was pitched off and onto the deck. She scrambled to her feet and shouted, "He's right behind us!"
"Damn it!" I knew now that the son of a bitch definitely had radar. I was glad I hadn't tried to get around him. I said to Beth, "It's not that our luck is so bad, it's that he has radar. He's had a fix on us from the start."
She nodded and said, "No place to run, no place to hide."
"No place to hide for sure, but let's try to run."
I opened the throttles all the way, and we picked up more speed.
Neither of us spoke as the Formula cut heavily through the waves. I estimated we were making about twenty knots, which was about one-third of what this boat could do in a calm sea and without a bilge-and cabinful of seawater. I guessed that the Chris-Craft could do at least twenty knots in this weather, which was why he was able to catch up to us. In fact, Beth said, "John, he's gaining on us."
I looked back and saw the vague outline of Tobin's boat as it crested a huge wave about forty feet behind us. In about five minutes or less, he'd be able to place fairly accurate rifle fire on us, while my.38 and Beth's 9mm pistol were really useless except for the occasional lucky shot. Beth asked me, "How many rounds do you have left?"
"Let's see… the cylinder holds five… I shot four… so, how many bullets does the copper have left in-"
"This is not a fucking joke!"
"I'm trying to lighten the moment."
I heard some four-letter words coming from Ms. Penrose's prim mouth, then she asked me, "Can you get any more speed out of this fucking thing?"
"Maybe. Get something heavy down below and smash that windshield."
She dove down below and came up with a fire extinguisher, which she used to smash the glass out of her windshield. Then she threw the extinguisher overboard.
I said, "At this speed, we're not taking on as much water, and the pumps will lighten the weight a little more every minute, and we'll pick up a little more speed." I added, "Plus we're burning all that heavy fuel."
"I don't need a lesson in physics."
She was angry and that was much better than the quiet resignation I'd seen taking hold earlier. It's good to be pissed off when man and nature conspire to do you in.
Beth made a few more trips below and came back each time with something to toss overboard, including, unfortunately, the beer from the refrigerator. She managed to get a portable TV set up the stairs and over the side. She also threw some clothes and shoes overboard, and it occurred to me that if we lost Freddie, he might see the flotsam and jetsam and conclude that we'd gone under.
We were picking up a little more speed, but the Chris-Craft was gaining on us and there was no escaping the fact that he was going to begin laying down rifle fire very soon. I asked Beth, "How many rounds do you have left?"
"Nine."
"You only had three magazines?"
"Only? You're running around with a damned five-shot peashooter and not a single extra bullet on you, and you have the nerve-" She suddenly crouched behind the seat and pulled her pistol. She said, "I saw a muzzle flash."
I glanced back and sure enough, there was Fearless Fucking Freddie in his shooting post. The muzzle flashed again. Shooting at one another from storm-tossed boats is easy; hitting anything is difficult, so I wasn't overly concerned yet, but there would be a moment when both boats were hanging on a crest and Tobin had the advantage of the higher perch and the long barrel.
Beth was wisely holding her fire.
I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse directly to my left and much closer than before. I realized I'd been blown north even as I'd kept an easterly heading. I realized, too, there was only one thing left to do, and I did it. I cut the wheel hard left, and the boat headed toward the Gut.
Beth called out, "What are you doing?"