Scott Williams - The Pulse

An hour and a half later, with drying fillets of fish spread out on the decks, they were underway again on a broad reach, sailing over the smooth waters of the banks just inside the reefs that break up the swell from the open ocean. This was some of the best sailing of the whole trip, the wide, stable form of the catamaran gliding over a transparent sheet of smooth crystalline water that stretched as far as they could see over the shallow, sandy bottom of Cay Sal Bank.

They were approaching the Damas Cays, the next islets north of the Anguillas on the rim of the atoll, when Scully spotted a sail out on the banks to the southwest. Closer inspection through Larry’s binoculars, which they all passed around for a better look, revealed that it was not just a single sail, but rather a two-masted schooner. It didn’t take long to ascertain that the distant vessel was coming their way, and Larry said it appeared to have adjusted course to intercept them if they continued on their present heading.

“Who do you think they could be?” Artie asked.

“It’s still too far away to tell, but it doesn’t look like your typical cruising yacht to me,” Larry said. “I’d say it’s over 60 feet, and probably built somewhere in the islands.”

“Could be dem Cuban, mon.”

“You’re right, Scully. Or Haitian. Or from the west, maybe Honduras or Belize. It’s been long enough now since the pulse that people who are able are probably starting to get on the move. There’s just no telling, but I don’t like the looks of this. Let’s bear off and get all the speed we can out of these sails while I look at the charts. There are some dangerous shoals just to the south of those cays ahead.”

Scully eased the genoa sheet and adjusted the mainsheet traveler to leeward. They were on a broad reach, which was generally a faster point of sail on a catamaran than a dead downwind run. The morning breeze had been light while they were anchored over the reef, but now, as it was getting toward noon, the trade winds had freshened to 15 knots again. Artie glanced at the distant schooner and then at the wake behind their twin sterns. At its fastest speeds, the Tiki 36 created quite a bit of turbulence astern, and Larry estimated they were hitting 16 or 17 knots. The schooner wouldn’t be able catch them in an even race, no matter how much sail they piled on, but it had an angle advantage on them in relation to the wind, and it appeared it would intersect their course if they continued to the northwest inside the reefs of the bank. Artie could tell that Larry and Scully were both getting nervous about the situation, and he felt knots in his stomach thinking about the attack at Isleta Palominito.

“I don’t like this,” Larry said, as he stared at the schooner through his binoculars. “They’ve adjusted their course again to account for our increased speed, and it looks like they’re trying to cut us off before we can reach the north end of the bank.”

“What can we do?” Artie asked.

“First of all, you can get my shotgun and bring it up on deck. There’s a couple of extra boxes of buckshot and slugs in the locker under the chart table.”

This was the last thing Artie wanted to hear. The thought of having to use the gun again twisted the knots in his stomach even tighter. “How do we know what their intentions are?”

Larry handed him the binoculars. “Take a look. It’s definitely not a family cruiser or vacation charter boat.”

The schooner was now within a mile of the Casey Nicole, and with the binoculars, Artie could see that it was anything but a modern yacht. It looked as if it had been built back in the days when all ships harnessed the wind, and its peeling paint and stained and patched sails proved it was an island fisherman or cargo vessel, probably from Cuba. Despite its condition, it had obviously been built from plans that came from the drawing board of a skilled naval architect, evidenced by its graceful lines, raked masts, and purposeful bowsprit. It was clearly well sailed by its unknown crew, and Artie could see that if they didn’t do something different, they would be cut off soon. He handed the binoculars back to Larry and went below to get the gun as his brother had asked. When he came back on deck with it, Larry was grinning as he studied the chart while Scully steered. His new excitement had nothing to do with the gun being on deck.

“You look too happy for a captain about to be run down by pirates, little brother.”

“I’ve got a plan now, Doc. I’m about to show you why catamarans rule. Then you’ll know why I spent so much time building one.”

“Aren’t we already going about as fast as she will go?”

“I’ve got more tricks than speed up my sleeve,” Larry said. “Hang on. Just another quarter of a mile and we’ll be home free.”

“Dat boat full of Cuban, mon.” Scully had the binoculars now while Artie took the helm and kept them on course. “Must be ten, maybe twelve on de rail. Probably got dem AK too. I hope you got a good plan, Copt’n.”

“Just pray to Jah the wind holds, Scully. We’re almost there.”

Artie couldn’t see what “there” was. There was nothing ahead but more of the same pale green water and white sandy bottom clearly visible beneath it, while to their starboard side there were occasional rocks and crashing breakers where the open Atlantic was separated from the bank by reefs. He looked at the schooner again and was shocked to see how close it appeared. Just as it seemed hopeless to try and outrun it, he found out what Larry had in mind as his brother took the helm with his one good hand.

“Okay, Scully, get ready. Just past those two rocks ahead I’m going to put her hard over to starboard. We’ll jibe and run off to the northeast straight outside. Artie! I need you on the forward deck. Help me look for coral heads. The chart shows an area with about two feet of water over the reef at low tide, but that’s still six hours away. We should be able to slide over as long as we don’t hit something sticking up where it’s not supposed to be.”

Artie scrambled forward and crouched low on the deck as Larry brought the stern through the wind and Scully sheeted the genoa on the other tack. For a moment, the boat slowed dramatically, and seemed to be coming to a stop, but as soon as the wind filled the sails from the other side, it surged forward as only a light multihull could, and was quickly up to at least 10 knots again. Artie stood and hung onto the forestay where he could look around the luff of the sail and study the waters ahead. There were breaking waves outside the reef and dark patches of brown under the clear water all around them. He held his breath as they passed over rocks that looked like they would tear the bottoms out of the hulls, but depth was deceptive in the clear water and they never touched bottom, despite the appearance that it was only inches below the surface.

He heard a series of loud cracks that had to be rifle shots from the schooner, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the course ahead to look back. Pointing with his free hand, he motioned for Larry to adjust course to dodge a rock just close enough to the surface to hit, and when they skimmed past it, he saw that he had been right to do so. It was a near miss, but now the water color had changed to sapphire blue and the reefs were astern. The bows pitched as they sliced into a four-foot swell, and Artie hung on to the forestay with both hands to keep his balance. At this point, he could relax and look back.

The schooner was dead astern and coming right at them, having altered course to follow the catamaran off the banks. Artie wondered if such a big vessel could possibly clear the reefs over the route they took, then he began to understand why his brother had been grinning. If the crew of the schooner were not familiar with the area and did not have proper charts on board, they might have assumed that if their prey was able to sail off the banks at that point, they could too. He rushed back to the cockpit where Scully and Larry were also watching to see what would happen next. Someone on board was still shooting in their direction, but Larry said the range was still too great for ordinary rifles.