She was right about the wind. My obsession with getting out from under the extortionist had kept me from noticing how dark and blustery it was.
I scanned Tom’s latest.
He’s going to move on your boat, Anna, and my Las Palmas contact — the guy that put his neck on the line for your week’s amnesty. GET OUT OF THERE NOW! Damn it all! You don’t want to listen to me, but IT ISN’T JUST ABOUT YOU! My goddamned ass is in the cooking pot now. GET OUT. E-MAIL FROM SEA.
The email left me shaking. Boy, he was steamed. Did he know a storm was brewing on top of us? By the time Anna had the water tanks full and was trying to shut the overstuffed cockpit lockers, lightning was lacing the sky and palm fronds were cha cha cha’ing in the wind like maraca players on speed. There just always has to be a storm on the loose at times like this! I thought.
The wind howling over the wide breakwater behind us was putting the flexibility of palm trees to the test. Twilight added to the darkness of the building storm. Soon sheets of rain and spray roaring above deck sounded like a prairie hailstorm down below. Shadow was ready to go, but wretchedly deteriorating conditions and one very upset Russian illegal had me paralyzed. I figured the storm had to let up eventually, but while it raged, the Spaniard would think me an unlikely flight risk. The storm gave us the advantage of cover, but its ferocity was increasing and until it started to show any sign of easing, waiting a bit couldn’t hurt. I cajoled Anna with comments like, “You know, it really is letting up. I remember storms like this as a kid on the farm and they never last.”
Four am rolled around. The storm was still full force and I was at the chart table, locked with indecision. Anna had long since burrowed into her cabin and fallen asleep. The harbor police boats were pinned down, the port was closed to small craft, and dawn lurked just a couple of hours away. Immediate action was called for. I hadn’t seen activity on shore since nightfall, and I didn’t imagine anyone was out watching the port in such a storm.
It was now or never and Anna getting caught wasn’t an option. “Come on, we’re going for it.” I shook Anna awake, and she pulled on her boots in silent resignation.
The dock and Shadow’s deck were littered with pieces of palm fronds. I swept bits of them off the helm and started the engine. Anna stood at the bow raising the anchor with the electric windlass, which pulled us away from the breakwater we’d been stern-tied to. Shadow eased into the fairway. The wind howled through the rigging, forcing us to shout to be heard. I turned the wheel to move us off the dock, and… nothing! It had jammed solid and locked. The wind was accelerating us across the fairway toward the opposite dock. “Don’t lift the anchor! Leave it down! STOP! LEAVE IT!” I screamed, hoping it would stop us before we blew clear across the fairway into a row of big motor yachts. I yanked the throttle into reverse trying to fight the wind and buy a few more seconds.
“We have NO STEERING! The son-of-a-bitch sabotaged the steering.” I waved frantically for Anna to leave the bow.
The propeller in full reverse swung Shadow to one side. The wind did the rest, swinging us perpendicular to the bows of the big motor yachts we were about to be skewered on. “Shit, shit, shit! Grab a fender! Get it between us and whatever!”
Anna froze, then pitched sideways toward the powerboats. A grinding shudder came up from below, and Shadow brought itself to a surrealistic leaning stop a couple of feet from the bow of the nearest powerboat. We’d hung up on their big anchor chains angling out into the fairway. “Damn lucky! We didn’t hit anything.”
I jumped down the companionway, wiped out on the wet floor, and scrambled for the electrical panel. I snatched at every glowing breaker I saw other than the Anchor Windlass and vaulted back to the cockpit.
Anna screamed, “It is him! The fat man is here!”
I lunged for the wheel and, with the hydraulics disabled, it turned. The scammer climbed aboard one of the dark powerboats close by. I thought I heard him rasping, “Stop! You are under arrest!”
“Raise the anchor. Go, go, go!” I shouted to Anna at the bow. Shadow lurched and shuddered in full reverse, straining against our own anchor at the bottom of the fairway while the windlass tried to reel it in. Glancing up, I saw police, several of them, on the Texaco fuel dock and on docks on either side of the fairway. Flashlight beams cut through the rain saturated air like light sabers. There might have been a bullhorn barking Spanish, I couldn’t tell in all the noise.
The crunching and grinding stopped. A meter from the chains, two, two and a half, and then Anna was shrieking from the bow. “Anchor off bottom!”
Throttle full forward. Excruciatingly slowly, Shadow picked up water speed. I was frozen at the wheel, unable to breathe until enough water was flowing past the rudder to give me control. The anchor clattered into its cradle and Anna ran for the cockpit, followed by several flashlight beams. We rounded the fuel dock, still picking up speed. Arms and flashlights waved. They may have had guns, but, at least no one seemed to be shooting. Still accelerating, we passed by the harbor police dock, with its speedboats safely tied up for the storm.
The opening to the breakwater lay dead ahead, a raging maw of whitewater and exploding waves. Police cars raced along the northern section toward it. “What are they going to do, shoot us?” I wondered out loud. It wasn’t cop cars I was really worried about but something a lot bigger, with a lot more horsepower, out to chase us down before we made international waters. A flash of lightning and peal of thunder knocked the wind from my lungs and had Anna diving for the cockpit floor.
I took her lead and crouched behind the wheel. “What am I thinking? Fiberglass won’t stop a bullet! Then again, it might slow it down.” Shadow barreled forward through the breakwater opening. Likely a stupid idea, I thought when the first wave outside the breakwater nearly threw us clear of the boat. Looking back, I saw police silhouetted on the breakwaters and the orange firefly glow of a cigarette. Storm’ll get em, we don’t have to, is what I figured the cop puffing on his tiny orange beacon was thinking. Ahead of us, the storm had whipped the sea into steep random waves. Colliding rogues sent up pillars of water that could flip us in a heartbeat. It wasn’t over by a long-shot.
We held on and fought through the waves for more than two hours at nearly full throttle. Eventually the sky lightened, revealing jagged low black clouds and a foaming slate gray sea. It had been way too rough to go on deck or open sails until then, and I had no idea what the status of our steering system was. From the cockpit we let the big Genoa fly at the bow. It was the only sail we could launch without actually climbing onto the deck. It filled with wind explosively, dragging Shadow faster through the waves and provided some welcome stability. We were running under both engine and sail, trying for speed and some kind of resonance with the waves. I figured it was the best chance I had to crawl below the cockpit floor and free the steering system from the sabotaged autopilot. Until I did we couldn’t bring the electrics and navigation on line and I for one, desperately wanted to know where we were.
Half an hour later I was flat on my back in a mechanical crawlspace below the cockpit. Sliding in puddles of hydraulic oil, I heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter thumping overhead.
Anna stomped a drum roll on the cockpit floor above me, “Helicopter! You better get up here.”
I thrashed my way out though oil drenched hoses, wires, and dangling parts, leaving shreds of skin behind on sharp corners and protruding screws. I looked up, “Military. Looks like a Bell two-twelve with NATO colors. I don’t know; just a guess.”