Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“Will what?”

“Kill us. It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t know what’s more dangerous: to be at the mercy of people or at the mercy of the sea.” She wasn’t looking for an answer.

I wanted to make sure Anna knew what she was considering and went on. “It’s already September — the height of hurricane season. I don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid of my own death, but I worry about you. One thing I know for sure is that I can’t watch you die. I won’t be responsible for killing you.” My own feelings scared me. Anna looked suddenly vulnerable. It was at odds with the how I had grown to completely trust her with my life and our safety crossing the Mediterranean.

“Jess, believe me. I don’t want to die, but don’t you think we can do this? Don’t you believe in us like you have always done? It seems there is nothing impossible for us. Look how far we have gone already! We crossed the entire Mediterranean from east to west. It is a huge distance. Nobody in Russia would believe me if I told them we did this. We must go on. The last island is Cape Verde, from there to the first Caribbean island is only a couple thousand nautical miles — just another Mediterranean.”

I looked at Anna, clinging to the wheel, pleading with me to say okay to a voyage that would, in all likelihood, kill us. “That’s no sea, no Mediterranean out there. It’s an ocean, a huge body of water. Nothing stops the waves and they get huge. There is nothing to stop weather fronts and storms from getting bigger. They sweep across the ocean surface like runaway trains, gathering speed and force until they run you down. It won’t be like gales in Greece. Forty-five knots is nothing. A hurricane can pack winds of eighty, ninety even over a hundred knots. That’s faster than any car on any highway you’ve ever been on.”

“So, that’s the Atlantic, it’s a risk. We just don’t know. What are the chances of meeting a hurricane? Pretty small…”

“Pretty good, actually.”

“Who says it has to kill us?”

“But the boat’s a wreck, Anna.”

“So, fix it! You can fix anything. Just to the next islands. The Canary islands are maybe ten days from here. We might survive the Atlantic but what are my chances in Spain?”

“You won’t be dead. You will have a life! ” I was pretty sure I wanted to take on the ocean and was also confidant Anna would insist, at least I hoped she would, but I was afraid of taking on the responsibility alone.

“What kind of life? What do I know about this country? How do I know what they will do to me? Why do we think they wouldn’t send me back to Russia? I don’t know answers to all these questions, but I know the sea. I can sense its moods, its weather and I know how to sail. I can react to the sea and deal with what it throws at me, I can understand it, it makes sense, it has no malice toward me — it just is . But in the hands of immigration officers I am at the mercy of people. I cannot change or affect my fate. I am trapped, powerless — a victim.” She let go of the wheel and bent toward the shore, hands out as if imploring it to answer her. “Can you tell me that I will be safe there?”

“I can’t say what they would do. You’d be a refugee in Spain — a Russian refugee in the European union, whatever. They’d probably put you in a camp somewhere, a jail. You probably would get sent back. But it would buy you some time…”

“I don’t need this time, it will be jail! I can’t believe you would advise me this. I didn’t do anything illegal, so I shouldn’t be in jail! No way! I won’t be with you in this case. If I become a refugee here, they will separate us! This, you should know! I would rather try my luck in the Atlantic.”

“I can’t make you do this, Anna.”

“You do not. I make this choice for myself. And the choice is pretty easy, actually. I have only three things now, you, me and this boat that keeps us alive and brings us closer to Canada and our future home. If I leave the boat and stay here, I’ll lose everything.”

I took a huge breath. It smelled of salt and brimstone. She was right, she absolutely nailed it in her brutally honest, perhaps Russian, way. I knew I couldn’t leave her, not after everything we’d been through, not with Anna refusing to give up. “If we sit here they’re going to get us.”

“Then, what are we waiting for? The ocean is right there!”

I knew how much Tom opposed what we were about to do, but goddamn it, burning precious fuel waiting for the next disaster wasn’t my style. I eased the throttle forward, taking a last look at the shore. The engine increased in speed beneath our feet, and khaki water churned behind the transom.

Anna took helm through the obstacle course of ships between us and the Strait of Gibraltar. It gave me a chance to dive below deck and fire an email off to Tom.

Going for the Atlantic. We’re not giving up without a fight. Waiting north of that runway, as instructed didn’t make sense. Made us sitting ducks! Will try for Azores, Canary, or Cape Verdi Isles. Have hand-held GPS and mag compass. Still have fuel — some. Will head for open sea. Please advise of the closest safe landing for repairs, charts and provisions for remainder of crossing.

The transceiver found a satellite and the message was sent.

I popped above deck for a look around. Anna in control — no problem. Gavin next:

Hey, Bro., Bit of a screw-up in Gibraltar. We’re sailing into the Atlantic for real now… I know, you’re sick of looking after my place but I’m in a real bind here, so please indulge me… by-the-way, better get the furnace guy in for a service before winter sets in… and keep thermostat at 10C max; I’m bleeding $$$ on this run but come hell or high water we’re gonna make it! That GPS you sent on a whim… no joke, it’s saving our asses right now! I owe you one! Later…

And… yes! Sent!

The rock of Gibraltar faded behind us as the Atlantic opened up ahead. A cold west wind funneled through the Strait following the current caused by evaporation exceeding freshwater inflow into the Mediterranean. Low tide in the Atlantic meant that, at least for the time being, the current against us wasn’t that strong.

It was probably entirely psychological, but as I emerged from below deck the wind felt heavier, wetter, colder. I was convinced it had a dangerous edge to it. “What do you think, sailor? There’s enough wind now, and who knows when we’ll get more fuel.”

I steered while Anna competently raised and opened the sails with practiced ease. The huge Dacron wings were nothing for her now. Considering how it had been when we started out in Marmaris, I was impressed with her transition. I yanked the fuel shutoff, killing the engine The sails caught and bent wind and the relative tranquility was startling after more than a week of the constant diesel drone. “Let’s hope we can get that engine started when we need it.” I said, swinging Shadow onto a tack across the shipping lanes.

Anna flashed me a look. “I know you wouldn’t kill that engine if you thought for a second you couldn’t find a way to start it up again, so don’t give me that guff.” She smiled. It was nice to see that after all the tension. “I know you, there’ll be a lot of moaning and complaining, I’m sure, but you’ll find a way to put some electricity into a battery to crank it over. There just isn’t any other option.”

“You’re probably right and the first chance I get, I’ll work on it.”

I retreated below, leaving Anna at the helm. The message light on the satellite modem was still dark. Nothing from Tom or Gavin. I poured a couple fingers of single malt, wedged myself into my bunk and slept like the dead for the next few hours.