Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

Eddie was waiting with the gas beside a big twenty-foot sailing canoe, and he asked, “Will that work?”

“Only one way of finding out. Give me a hand.” We pushed the canoe out into knee-deep water and attached the outboard to one side of the stern. The canoe started to go under. Eddie grabbed the motor, screwed the clamps to one of the outrigger booms, close to the hull as possible. It balanced, but the outrigger went deep into the water. I looked around for a rope to lash the outboard to the boom, couldn't find one.

Ruita came splashing into the water holding a quart rum bottle full of coconut oil. I mixed this in the outboard tank with two gallons of gas and motioned for Eddie and Cumber to get into the canoe. I stepped in as Ruita and Titi held the sides and got us balanced properly. I motioned for them to push us out as the old guy who owned the motor demanded to go along. I shook my head, and Titi held him from jumping in and sinking us all. Of course the motor didn't start the first time I yanked the rope or on the second or third times. The Shanghai was already in the channel. I wasn't sure if I had the right mixture, or even if coconut oil would work.

She coughed and smoked on the fourth attempt: I was scared I had flooded the carburetor. But on the next spin of the starter the motor came alive with a roar and the canoe jumped through the water like a speedboat. Eddie shouted, “Watch out for coral heads—hit anything at this speed and we'll be killed!”

The outboard steered easily: I twisted and turned through the canoes of the sick divers, almost laughing at the frightened look on Cumber's face as he crouched in the bow—which was now completely out of water. Our timing was swell—the Shanghai was just leaving the channel; there wouldn't have been room for our canoe and the schooner.

I gave her full gas, figured we were doing thirty miles or better as we sped through the channel. Hitting the open sea was like running into a soggy wall. The canoe shuddered as the bow sank, and I was sure we were going to take on water. But Tuamotu islanders know how to build boats; as I slowed the engine, the bow came up and soon we were skimming over the crest of the waves. Within seconds we were circling the Shanghai, the Chief shouting for Buck to stop. Not a soul even came to the rail to answer him.

I glanced at Eddie—we had to board the schooner! They were towing the long boat and as I circled again and came up behind that, Eddie shook his head. I pointed to the rope ladder hanging down the side of the schooner but Eddie shook his head again, shouted, “The lines hanging from the bowsprit!”

That called for tricky timing: one mistake and the Shanghai would cut us in two. But we had speed, could turn like a fish. Eddie stood up as I ran the canoe under the bowsprit; he grabbed a line with both hands, was jerked out of the canoe, one of his feet clouting me on the head. Eddie dangled in the air for a moment, then got his legs around the rope, pulled himself up onto the bowsprit.

My noggin was ringing as I started the canoe in a figure eight, motioned for Cumber to take over the outboard. He carefully crawled back to the center of the boat, reached for the steering handle of the motor as I shouted in French, “You stay in the canoe—stand by!”

Like all atoll men he was an expert sailor and as I cautiously stood up, balancing myself, he took me under the bowsprit. I managed to grab a line and was flung out into the air. I was sure my arms were coming out of their sockets and I'd land in the drink. I began pulling myself up, like an overstuffed stunt man, somehow got my arms and legs around the thick bowsprit I hung there for a moment, trying to clear my head. The Shanghai was dipping with the swell: a big wave licked my behind, had the effect of a cold shower. I got right-side up, crawled along the bowsprit to the deck. Eddie had been waiting for me and now he started limping slowly toward the stern, with Teng and Kid Marson coming towards us. Buck appeared, a belaying pin in his right hand.

My head was still ringing and one clear thought came through: now that we were here, we didn't have a plan, hadn't even brought a carbine along! Kid Marson looked as if he could take the both of us without working up a sweat. Along with the dizziness in my head, I had a clammy feeling in my gut.

I started for the Kid, but Eddie pushed me to one side and walked directly at the big blonde, saying, “Come here, you amateur slob!”

Teng was coming at me. I had a quick picture of Eddie ducking under Marson's right, of Eddie's left hook hitting the larded stomach and sounding like a slap of a wet fish... Kid Marson doubled up.

Teng was about a hundred pounds less than me and I didn't expect much trouble from him. I started what I fondly hoped would be a sweeping kayo punch and Mr. Teng pushed my hand away, seemed to jump up on my chest and dig his speakers into my stomach. The next thing I knew I was sailing through the air. Teng's Judo would have worked perfectly except for one thing—I tried to grab at anything with my right hand and got hold of his shirt collar. As my two hundred thirty pounds flew through the air, Mr. Teng followed like a tail on a kite.

I hit the deck so hard the air crashed out of me. I lay on my back like a crumpled rug. The force of my landing made me let go of Teng, who kept sailing through the air. He landed flush against the cabin wall, slid to the deck— out cold.

I finally got things in focus. Eddie was dancing around Buck, not giving him a steady target for his belaying club. The rest of the crew, mostly Tahitians, were atop the cabin except for a man at the wheel, and they all seemed content to be spectators. Near the canoes stacked on the stern I saw several islanders on mats, their sick faces very red and puffed.

I staggered to my feet, spotted Marson up near the bow, still on the deck and groaning. I ran at Buck. He turned and took a vicious swing at my head with his club, but I was already diving for his legs, remembering what little I knew of sandlot football. We both landed heavily on the deck, Buck under me, and if he was a giant of a man he was also at least sixty years old; all the pep had been bounced out of him.

I got the belaying pin and stood up, my head pounding again. Eddie said, real disgust in his voice, “Jeez, Ray, what you do that for? I been longing to cool this big bastard.”

“Can you make the helmsman put about?” I asked, as we heard this shout and ran to the rail. About one hundred yards off the stern Cumber was standing up in the canoe, violently pointing into the water. The outboard was gone. The clamps had worked loose from the boom and the whole thing slipped off. I motioned for him to paddle back to the lagoon while Eddie went up to the wheel. Eddie had no trouble; the Shanghai turned in an amazing small circle, headed back toward the channel.

Teng had come to, but hadn't got to his feet; Buck was sitting up; and Marson was vomiting over the rail. I stood in front of Buck, told him, “You're going to pick up your divers in the lagoon, we'll supply you with fresh food, and then you're heading direct for Papeete.”

He muttered something and I bent over to hear him and of course that. Was what he was waiting for. I saw his legs move and his feet caught me behind the knees. As I fell backwards I managed to smack him on the knee with the belaying pin and he screamed, dropped his legs as I came down on my can and landed so hard that I shook the fog out of my head.

Eddie ran over and pulled me to my feet. “Stay away from this bastard—he's mine. After what they did to us back in PellaPella... damn, what a beak for busting!”

“He's going to take his divers to Papeete.”

“Hell dump them on the first atoll he can land at!” Eddie went over and jerked Mr. Teng to his feet, almost dragged him into Buck's cabin. A moment later I heard Teng shouting he couldn't do something, then abrupt silence, and they both reappeared on deck. Teng's right eye was already closing and Eddie had a small strong box tucked under his right arm.