Scott Williams - The Pulse

They packed their clothes in their bags down below, and Larry cleaned out the ice boxes and lockers, bagging up all of the remaining food on board. He figured it was more than enough for the two of them to make the passage to the mainland if they took it all.

“There should be enough stuff for a couple of weeks already on board Alegria ; I hope Scully thought to pick up what he could when the lights went out.”

“So he’ll be there when we get to your boat?”

“Oh yeah. He’s living aboard while he’s working for me, at least some of the time. Scully doesn’t hurt himself working too hard. He wouldn’t do it at all if he didn’t like me and want to see that boat completed.”

“So what will he do when we launch it and leave for New Orleans?” Artie asked.

“Go with us, of course,” Larry said as if that should have been obvious to Artie.

“Is there enough room for all three of us?”

“Of course, and we need Scully. He’s a good sailor and navigator, and even better, a great fisherman. Everything about the trip will be easier with him along.”

“How do you know he’ll want to go?”

“Because he doesn’t have anything else to do. You already know he’s a Rastafarian. His favorite thing in the world is simply observing what’s going on, watching other people, and prophesying doom to the modern world and our way of life. He’s been expecting something like this very event for years. There’s probably nothing he’d rather do about now than sail to Babylon itself and see what has happened.”

“You mean he’ll be happy about all this? I don’t know if I’m going to get along with this guy or not.”

“Not happy—just indifferent. It’s like what I told you about living on ‘island time.’ Scully doesn’t need any of our modern technology. His life would be about the same with or without it. But you’ll like him okay, and we do need him and his skills at a time like this.”

When they were done packing, Artie handed down the bags of food and gear to Larry in the dinghy, and Larry made a couple of trips to shuttle it all over to Celebration. Once everything was transferred, Artie helped him haul the dinghy aboard the schooner and lash it upside down in its fitted chocks between the masts; then Pete came to pick them up in his inflatable.

They had dinner and rum drinks in the cockpit. Inevitably, the conversation centered around the profound changes that had taken place within not much longer than the past day. But Artie and Larry were both tired from their inconsistent sleep on the passage from Martinique, and asked to be excused early so they could catch up before the short sail to Culebra the coming morning.

Celebration was only the second sailboat Artie had ever been aboard, and he soon found out why Larry preferred smaller vessels for his own use when they prepared to leave the harbor the next morning. With the complex electrical control systems throughout the vessel rendered useless by the pulse, there was no way to start the inboard diesel engine. It was not set up for manual cranking the way some smaller marine engines are. They would have to sail out of the crowded anchorage, maneuvering among dozens of other vessels while taking care not to run across their anchor rodes with the seven-foot-deep keel. Just getting underway was a task Artie was unprepared for. With Pete taking the helm and Larry having to manually hoist and trim the huge sails that would normally be controlled by electric winches, he had the grunt job of hauling in the heavy, all-chain anchor rode. That, too, would have normally been done with a push of a button to start an electric windlass, but today Artie had to manually crank the windlass with the emergency backup handle, hoisting over a hundred feet of three-eighths-inch chain inch by inch, heavy labor that had him soaked with sweat in the tropical humidity.

Larry expertly trimmed the main with a manual winch as Pete steered off the wind just at the moment the anchor broke free. Artie continued to crank at the windlass as he pulled in the remaining few feet of chain and then struggled to control the big plow-shaped anchor as it spun in the air and swung back and forth, threatening to slam against Celebration’s pristine bow. He somehow wrestled it aboard without smashing his fingers and pinned it in its chocks as Larry had instructed him before they started. He felt the boat suddenly heel to starboard as the mainsail filled, and then Pete brought her about on another tack to pick a clear line between all the boats in their path. Most everyone in the anchorage was awake and on deck to wave and call out to them as they sailed past. Word of their plans had spread fast, and the other boat owners wished them luck and offered last-minute tidbits of advice. Artie stood on the pulpit watching the bow cut through the clear aquamarine water, wondering if he would soon be in the miserable throes of seasickness once they reached the open water. But at least today’s trip was a short passage and would be over in a few hours. He hoped what Larry had said about the motion of catamarans was true. He had been so sick on the previous voyage, and he tried not to imagine being that sick for two weeks on their way to New Orleans. But above all, as he watched the buildings and green hills of St. Thomas slide by, he was grateful to at last be in motion and going in the right direction—the only direction that mattered to him—west to Culebra and one step closer to New Orleans and Casey.

Larry joined Artie at the bow, where he could see better into the shades of green and blue water to pick out the deepest channel and give hand signals to Pete at the helm to tell him which way to steer. He had been in and out of this harbor countless times, but was taking no chances, considering the circumstances and the vessel’s deep draft. He relaxed a bit once they passed Water Island, a smaller outlying cay that guarded the main entrance. Once it was abeam to port, Culebra was visible on the horizon ahead, hazy blue with distance, and obviously hilly, though not as large or steep as St. Thomas. Larry said it was made up of mainly brush and rock, more desert than anything else, but it was renowned for its pink sand beaches and clear waters. It was also much less accessible than St. Thomas, lacking an airport for commercial jets and reachable only by ferry or small plane in normal times. But there was a good harbor, safe from all but the strongest hurricanes, and big enough to accommodate many cruising boats.

“So it’s technically part of Puerto Rico?” Artie asked his brother.

“Yes, and so is Vieques,” he said, pointing to another outlying island farther south. “See that big mountain way past them in the distance? That’s El Yunque, the highest peak on the main island of Puerto Rico. There’s a rain forest preserve up there that’s pretty awesome. I like Puerto Rico. It’s about my favorite place in the Caribbean. The people are great—especially the women,” he grinned. “There’s more happening on the main island, but Culebra’s quieter and better suited for building a boat.”

“You’ve been at this project for a while, haven’t you?”

“A little over three years now; I keep getting pulled away on these delivery jobs, so working on my own boat is kind of hit or miss. I put in a month here, two weeks there, that sort of thing. But hey, it’s all good—I’m on island time the whole time—and the best thing about it is I pay for the boat as I build it. I’ll own her free and clear, unlike our friends here on this monstrosity.”

“What does a boat like this cost?” Artie asked.

“This one? I don’t know, roughly around six, seven hundred grand, I reckon. Maybe more, the way they’ve got her set up. Way outta my league, I’ll tell you that, but chump change for a doctor like you.”