A Coup in Paradise; Episode 6

 

For the next couple of months, I will summarize my current novel, A Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story.

Three days later, shortly after breakfast, Coop drove Trace to the marina. Coop helped Trace unsnap the canvas cockpit cover.

Trace tossed his gear into the cockpit of The Tinytanic and stepped onboard.

Coop stayed on the dock. “You better check the bill.”

Trace lifted a seat’s lid and looked inside. “No bilge water, dry as a bone.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Coop asked.

“How long do I have before you start charging me to charter your boat?” Trace replied.

“That boat was going to sit in my yard until somebody bought it,” Coop said. “Few want a boat that small. It was just going to sit there. Take as long as you like, no charge.”

“Coop,” Trace said in a serious tone, “rent my room. I have a few things in there. Toss them in a box and put it in your shed.”

“What on earth?” Coop said.

“I just have a feeling,” Trace said. “It kept me awake all night.”

“I thought you might be planning something; you brought nearly all your gear with you. I thought that was strange.”

“So rent the room, okay?” Trace said.

“Once you’re bouncing around out there in the real sea, you might change your mind. Drop a line or give me a call on a ham radio. I have one in my spare room.”

“Rent the room,” Trace said firmly. “It’s called burning my bridges.”

Coop reached out and fairly grasped Trace’s hand. “Somebody called last night and asked if the room was available. I’ll call them back.”

“Thanks,” Trace said.

“Drop a line and give a call now and then,” Coop said.

“Can you tie me off?” Trace said.

Coop untied the bow and stern lines. He placed his foot against the bow and shoved The Tinytanic away. When it cleared the dock, Trace tugged on the starter rope. The engine sputtered. A puff of blue/gray smoke belched from the engine, and it settled into a whiny hum. Trace steered toward the harbor and open sea beyond. Trace and Coop exchanged waves and smiles.

Trace cut the engine, hoisted the sail, and set a course for Dravuni Island. He calculated an eight- to nine-hour trip. The weather forecasters reported mild weather. Trace mounted two small wind generators into a cylinder sleeve on the stern. It trickled a charge to three batteries.

Trace sat in the cockpit with his arm resting on the tiller. Obsessively, he continually glanced at the compass. He worried about being off course. A coral reef surrounded the Kadavu Island group. He did not want to come to rest on a reef or have the hull ripped open. After a couple of hours, he gained more confidence and maintained a steady course without obsessing.

He had not looked aft in quite some time. He turned toward Suva. It seemed as if his heart suddenly skipped a beat. And suddenly it beat fast as if to catch up. It appeared Fiji and Suva had been swallowed by the sea.

His heart caught up; he smiled and murmured, “This is what it’s all about and more. It’s just me, the boat, and the sea.”

His words turned to thoughts. ‘Every man should have a journey before the burden of reality weighs in on him. It’s about coming to know himself. How to lead and be led. When to be serious and when to play. The seas teach a man to set a course and calculate. To work with the wind and currents. To know when to sail into the winds and against the currents and not expect the same results as sailing with it. To avoid dangerous waters. To be vigilant. To inspect your vessel for leaks and repair them. To listen because the sound of the sea tells a man much.’

A tern swooped in from the south and came to rest on the pulpit. ‘He instinctively knows all about the sea and its ways. Who put that in him? If by experience the species would have died out millenniums ago. It was gifted to him by a wise and careful planner. What has been gifted to me? Reason? Is it that alone? Purpose—that’s what keeps a species going. Each thing has a purpose. With everyone but man, it is instinctive. Man must look for his purpose, and in finding it, I think he finds the Creator.’

‘The Bering gave a man little to think about. The sea needed constant vigil. Rogue waves, sudden squalls, icy decks, and interminable rolling seas gave no room for solitude and introspection. Men who live in The Bering and leave are worse off than when they arrived on their first encounter. I hope my old mates get away from there before they grow emotionally numb.’

Trace recalled a day when The Bearing raged. The crew tossed in the mess for hours without a word; too emotionally drained to display so much as a twitch. Eyes blink as if they resented opening again. When it was finally over, it was as if nothing had happened.

Trace thought, ’It was as if death was so certain, all of us accepted it. We all looked at living corpses. I wondered if death had already occurred and that was the first stage of the afterlife. I never want to feel that way again.’

Trace forced himself to think of pleasant things. ‘Dwelling on bad things from the past is like trying to fit into clothing worn as a child.’ However, he found that after a moment or so, he no longer had to force it. He smiled. ‘I am here on wonderful waters sailing toward tropical islands that many would consider paradise. And this is a comfortable vessel, loved and well-taken care of. The winds are good and favorable. But I must be aware; the sea is always the master and cares little if you are a saint or villain. To hungry seas, they taste the same.’

Trace checked his watch. He looked at the compass. “Steady,” he murmured. He scanned the seas over the bow. ‘Soon I will see the reefs. I will sail cautiously through the opening. It’s nearly a half-mile wide. If I can’t sail through that, I shouldn’t be sailing.’

Near the time expected, the sounds of breakers reached Trace’s ears. He lifted his head to see the waters form a jagged, thin white line of waves breaking between him and the horizon. About fifteen degrees off the starboard port bow, the breakers disappeared. Trace sprung to his feet and altered his course toward the opening.

He sailed past them easily, and any trepidation he possessed was only momentary at best.

On the starboard side, a small clump of green stood alone. “Vanuakula,” he muttered.

As he neared Vanuakula, Dravuni Island, his destination, blossomed also. There was a small port there. And there he planned to spend at least a night.