Luke Rhinehart - Long Voyage Back

“This stupid war stuff is screwing up everything,” Frank announced loudly. “I can’t get a flight to Washington; they’re booked solid. You think you could meet me today in Crisfield? I can get a flight to Salisbury, Maryland, and then rent a car.” Crisfield was a small fishing town about twenty-five miles across the bay from Point Lookout.

“Sure,” he replied. “That’s as easy as Point Lookout. What about the Foresters?”

“We’ll sail Vagabond across the bay and pick them up as soon as you get me. What time you figure you’ll make it to Crisfield?”

“If the wind holds or improves, we’ll be there by six tonight. But if it drops or we’re headed—”

“Well, do your best,” Frank said into the pause. “I know you must be beat. Vagabond’s a lot of boat for just two men, especially when one of them’s a goof-off.”

“Your son’s a good sailor,” Neil commented quickly.

“Yeah?” Frank replied, surprised by the news.

“In that blow off St. Augustine,” Neil went on, “Jim went up the mast when the mainsail jammed. He also took the helm for almost four hours and let me sleep through half my watch.”

“Neil!” Jim’s voice broke into the conversation from the deck just outside the cabin hatchway. “I’ve got to talk to dad. There’s going to be a war.”

“What are you talking about?” Neil asked, looking up at Jim.

“I just heard the news,” Jim went on. “We rejected the Russian offer. Let me speak to dad.”

“Uh, Frank, Jim wants to talk to you,” Neil said. “We’ll meet you tonight in Crisfield unless we’re becalmed. If we are, I’ll try to get a message through to Carter’s Bluewater Marina. Got it?”

“What? Sure. Good.”

Neil hopped up the cabin steps and hurried to the wheel as Jim took over the mike.

“Holy Jesus, dad,” Jim said. “We’re going to be fighting the Russians. There’s going to be a war!”

For a moment there was silence on the other end, then Frank’s voice replied slowly and huskily.

“Don’t worry about it, Jimmy,” he said. “This is just another war s care. Just like three months ago. Just like two years ago. This is international poker, and the secret is never to call, just keep raising.”

“The radio said we rejected their offer of bilateral troop withdrawals,” Jim went on. “Why!?”

“If we withdraw any troops now,” said Frank, his husky voice again coming in only after a pause, “we’d be seen as giving in. Our President may be a jerk, but he’s a macho jerk, so we can be sure that now that our troops are in Arabia, they’re going to stay, even if no one’s around to kill.”

“Dad, we ought to take the boat back south,” said Jim, gripping the mike in both hands. “When the war starts—”

“Now cut that crap,” Frank interrupted with abrupt annoyance. “This is just another game of international brinkmanship, and neither their assholes nor our assholes are stupid enough to go to war. The Russians don’t really care about Saudi Arabian nomads, and we don’t really care about Asian democracy.”

“But we care about oil!”

“Not enough to blow up the world,” said Frank. “Now give me Neil. No, don’t bother. Just hang up and get your ass up to Crisfield.” The line went dead.

Jim stood alone in the aft cabin. He was angry. He hated the way his father treated him. Since he’d been only an average student and had never held a job, his father had always made him feel he was some kind of good-for-nothing. He enjoyed rock music, playing his guitar, getting high with his friends and partying, and making it with Celia or occasionally some other girl. None of these qualified in Frank’s eyes as anything but a waste of time. On the three or four occasions he’d sailed with Frank on Vagabond there’d been a lot of older people aboard who’d helped Frank handle the boat. Jim had ended up retreating to his cabin to get stoned and listen to music. His father had inevitably come to shout at him to turn it down and to criticize him for not helping more with the sailing. It had been a downer. He didn’t even think he liked sailing much until this trip up from Florida alone with Neil.

He climbed slowly up the ladder from the aft cabin and went back into the wheelhouse. Neil, who’d heard Jim’s end of the conversation and its abrupt termination, stared forward.

“There’s going to be a war,” Jim stated angrily. “And Frank doesn’t care.”

Neil glanced at Jim and then back forward.

“I don’t know,” Neil replied. “I suppose it’s possible our troops and theirs may be killing each other in a month or two. But maybe the world will pretend everyone’s a guerrilla and we won’t have to call it a war.”

“But there’s that retired general who says we ought to hit Russia before they hit us,” said Jim. “And those TV evangelists say the same. If the Russians read that, then they’ll have to strike first. Don’t you see!?”

“No, Jim…”

“They’re going to do it,” Jim insisted, his long hair falling down his forehead so that it obscured his left eye; he tossed it back angrily. “I know they are. I can feel it!”

Neil looked forward, reminded of a young sailor on his last patrol who had panicked while watching B-52’s bomb the coast two miles away. He knew from Frank that when Jim was fifteen he’d had a bad acid trip, hallucinated an imminent nuclear holocaust, and kept insisting that his family leave the country and fly to Australia. He’d had to be sedated for most of three weeks, and since then, according to Frank, Jim tended to become upset whenever there was an accident at a nuclear power plant or a nuclear test explosion or a threat of war. There’d been a lot to be upset about in the last three years.

“The Russians aren’t going to start a nuclear war,” Neil said softly.

“Then we are!” he shot back. “There’s no way the two sides can go on this way. It’s going to happen!”

“Take it easy, Jim,” Neil rejoined sharply, putting his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Shouting isn’t going to stop anything.”

“Damn it! You don’t care either.” Jim stood facing Neil defiantly, but Neil didn’t look at him.

“Look,” Neil persisted softly. “It’s no more appropriate to get into a panic now than it would be if we were heading into a storm at sea. You just do what has to be done when it has to be done.”

“We should find a fallout shelter, stock up food. We—”

“Right now,” Neil interrupted firmly, “our job is to sail Vagabond to your father.”

“Oh, Neil,” Jim responded. “It’s so sad. It’s so—”

“Drop it,” said Neil. He was still staring forward. “Here, take the helm,” he went on. “It’s still your watch.” He walked away into the port cockpit and stood with his back to Jim. The shore was far away and only dimly visible now.

He was feeling distinctly uneasy. Jim’s fears struck a responsive chord; he could feel it vibrating in his own gut. A part of him also wanted to return and run back out the mouth that he felt closing now behind them. His instinct was to get out to sea, away from the mess that men might make on land. He turned back to Jim.

“We’re meeting Frank in Crisfield instead of Point Lookout,” he said quietly. “Our course is changed to zero one zero. You got it?”

“Zero one zero,” Jim answered, glancing once at the compass and beginning to turn the wheel to starboard.

As Neil stared ahead he was surprised to find himself wondering anxiously whether Vagabond’s charts of the West Indies were still aboard. Annoyed at his irrationality, he held himself firmly standing in the port cockpit staring at the great expanse of bay lying before him. His course was zero one zero, ten degrees east of north. Getting to Crisfield without an engine was enough to worry about for one day.