And the Sea Will Tell (8 page)

Jennifer, out of kindness or prudence, did not mention the obvious: if Buck had done his job, they would already be ashore. And he didn’t bring it up, even to apologize, but the unacknowledged tension built.

Nice, but infuriating. Palmyra lay before them, close enough to swim to, yet the necessary wind did not rise off the bow. Suppose a southeast wind blew only rarely in this region? What would they do in that case? The current was no help; it always flowed out of the channel to the ocean rather than inward.

But when they awakened on the morning of June 27, a wind was blowing steadily southeast. Excitedly, they tumbled out of bed, hoisted sail, and got under way. From the description of Palmyra in the Pacific sailing guide, they knew they had to line up with the two poles at either end of the channel to hit a straight course down the middle. But as Buck took the wheel and tried to do so, the wind suddenly died and the
Iola
came to a halt, subject now to the mercy of the outflowing current. Minutes later, as the
Iola
drifted backward, there was a sudden bump followed by a harsh scrunching sound from beneath the boat. The fragile
Iola
had gone aground on a coral head.

Reacting quickly, Buck lowered the sails.

Jennifer tried to keep her cool. She kept looking at the island, tantalizingly near. If they did begin to sink, she thought, at least they could lower the dinghy and row to shore. They’d be saved, but they could well end up losing most or all of their supplies.

Buck, at his best when disaster loomed, dived over the side to check beneath the boat. He saw right away that, luckily, it was the solid iron part of the
Iola
’s keel that rested on the coral. There was no readily apparent damage to the hull itself. He went up to fill his lungs again, then swam back down to check the other side of the boat, and ran smack into the cold staring eyes of a sleek, implacable shark at least six feet long. The sound of his heart thudded in his ears. He kicked hard to break the surface and scrambled up the side of the
Iola
.

Jennifer looked bewildered.

“Friendly shark,” he gulped, still trembling.

“Uh-huh. How do you know it’s friendly?”

“He invited me to dinner.”

She didn’t laugh at his joke, in case he’d be encouraged to show off by jumping in again. “Don’t you go back down there.”

The warning proved unnecessary. Just then she spotted two motorized dinghies coming out of the channel, one behind the other. “We’ve got company.”

The strangers in the boats headed directly for the
Iola
, then cut their engines and bobbed in the water about twenty yards away.

“Ahoy,” a darkly tanned older man yelled from the lead boat. “Need some help?” In the other, a skinny middle-aged man and a teenage boy watched without expression.

“
Please
,” Jennifer shouted. Buck hung back, suddenly sullen at the presence of others on the island.

“Take it you’re without power?”

“Motor’s frozen.”

“Want us to pull you off the coral?” Their would-be rescuer saw that Jennifer was the designated liaison.

“Yes. Thank you.”

The powerboats moved into position and the men tossed over lines to Buck, who silently secured them to the
Iola
’s bow. In no time, they were pulled free and the dinghies were towing them through the narrow channel at a steady clip.

Jennifer stood on deck, craning her neck eagerly for a good look at the island close up. As they entered the lagoon, her first vivid impression was of all the lush surrounding greenery. The waters of the lagoon sparkled emerald and blue, rimmed by thin strips of blinding white sand and lumps of greenish coral. Clearly visible in the crystalline shallows, schools of colorful fish darted by, and the noisy chatter of birds rose in the distance. From this vantage, the army of coconut trees now towered over the jewel-like setting like sternly forbidding sentinels, an impenetrable host.

“Remember, my name’s Roy Allen,” Buck growled under his breath. “Don’t slip up.”

Back in Hilo, Buck had persuaded Gina Allen to give him her husband’s identity papers, including his birth certificate. In fact, the real Roy A. Allen had little use for them. A professional rodeo cowboy, he had been kicked in the head by a bull five years earlier and had since been confined to a Tennessee Veterans Administration hospital in a ward reserved for patients with little hope of recovery. Buck had used the ID to get a passport in the name of Roy Allen.

Buck’s warning reminded Jennifer that no matter how serene their new home looked as they neared the shore, their existence here would never be free of worry and suspicion.

“Okay,
Roy
,” she answered resignedly. “But what are you going to do about that big ole ‘Buck’ tattoo on your arm?”

He glared at her and stalked away.

M
IDWAY BETWEEN
S
AN
D
IEGO
and Hawaii, the
Sea Wind
hit seas so rough that Mac and Muff couldn’t see over the tops of the waves. That night, Muff lost a pot of stew off the stove when the boat abruptly heeled, painfully scorching her hand. It took an hour to clean up the mess as the boat kept lurching. “Why is it every time we go to sea,” she wailed, “it’s lousy, lousy, lousy?”

But unflappable Mac thought the trip was going quite well. The favorable winds increased their speed, and there’d been no equipment failures or breakdowns. Even in such heavy weather, he was invigorated by fast, flawless sailing. The days were mostly steel-gray, but Mac’s vision of the adventures that lay ahead brought a silver lining to any overcast. He whistled a lot these days. The tune he was stuck on was an old favorite: “The High and the Mighty,” the title tune for a 1950s movie about macho pilot John Wayne bravely pulling an airliner through a crisis.

Each night, comfortable and snug in his bunk (and with the automatic-pilot steering device keeping the
Sea Wind
on course, which could be verified by periodically checking the compass in the cabin), Mac would turn the light switch off, and by the soft glow of a kerosene lantern, read
An Island to Myself
, the true story of a man who had lived alone on a tropical island. If only his Muff, sleeping fitfully in her own bunk nearby, could share in his excitement….

On May 25, 1974, at the height of Hawaii’s famously idyllic spring, they arrived off the western shore of the massive Big Island. They had sailed more than two thousand miles in only eighteen days, one of the
Sea Wind
’s best legs ever.

Dropping sail, they proceeded under power through the narrow channel of Hilo’s Radar Bay, glimpsing the varicolored bright blossoms whose riotous profusion gave the island one of its nicknames, the Garden Island. The docking area could barely accommodate a mere dozen boats, but Mac spotted a suitable anchorage adjacent to the concrete quay.

They moored next to a sailboat owned by Curtis Shoemaker. A short, sinewy man in his mid-fifties with a bronzed, weather-beaten face that looked as if it had been fashioned with a blunt instrument, Shoemaker had been sailing since his days as a Sea Scout in Hawaii in the 1930s. Now a telephone repairman, he lived in Waimea, a mountainous outback about forty-five miles northwest of Hilo, and was an avid ham radio operator.

Mac and Muff instantly hit it off with Shoemaker and his wife, Momi. They frequently visited back and forth. When the two women went shopping one afternoon, Curt checked out Mac’s two-way radio and liked what he saw, deeming it a first-class setup. He suggested that they establish a radio communications link with each other as long as Mac and Muff were on Palmyra.

“You could get in real trouble on an island like that all by yourself,” Shoemaker cautioned. “It might be a good idea to keep regular contact with the outside world.” He explained that he had a high-powered radio at his mountaintop home and that they could fix a predetermined schedule for communication.

Mac was never one to admit he might someday need emergency aid, but he liked the idea that his and Muff’s relatives and friends could get word to them in their secluded paradise via Curt’s radio.

While in port, Mac undertook some essential last-minute fix-it projects. After Hilo, there would be no other ports of call for a long time. They would have to rely entirely on the supplies and equipment they took to Palmyra.

More than one friend had teased Mac and Muff about the large supply of medicine they stashed on the
Sea Wind
. But in far corners of the world they couldn’t call the family doctor or visit the corner drugstore, so they carried their own floating pharmacy, complete with pages of typed instructions and recommended dosages. A former
Sea Wind
crewman was responsible for the instructions and the plethora of drugs, such as Pyribenzamine, Aralen, sulfadiazine, and the like. A medical doctor, he had signed on for the world cruise in 1961 and left behind his black bag when he and his fellow crewman deserted Mac in Mexico.

Neatly put away in the storage areas were enough tools and spare parts for Mac to open his own boat repair shop. He had everything from pipe fittings and bits to bolt cutters and deck fittings. He had not just one electric drill, but four. There was an electric generator and 1,100-watt portable alternator. And, as the hardware store ads say, much, much more.

Muff was equally well outfitted for her considerable chores as cook and all-around boatwife, challenging roles aboard a small boat at sea for months at a time. She had a full arsenal of pots and pans for cooking and baking, as well as some convenience gadgets which, because of battery drain, are not often found on boats, such as an ice crusher, food processor, blender, electric mixer, and pressure cooker.

There was also a permanent maritime reference collection aboard the
Sea Wind
. Titles like
The American Practical Navigator, Dictionary of Fishes, Medical Emergencies in Pleasure Boating
, and
Pacific
Islands Yearbook
revealed the scope of the couple’s readiness for a self-reliant life at sea.

And there were weapons aboard, as well. Mac had a .30-caliber Marlin rifle, a small derringer, and a powerful handgun, the latter kept below deck in a special hiding place beside his bunk. Even lying there, he could slide back a panel in a cabinet, revealing the narrow shelf upon which lay the handgun, one of the most potent ever built, the Colt .357 magnum, capable of blowing the arm off an intruder. Of course, Mac was a man comfortable with guns, having learned how to handle them during a brief Army stint in the 1950s. Muff, as anyone who knew her would suspect, was leery of firearms, but she had come to accept the need to have them aboard after a terrifying incident on their round-the-world cruise.

It had happened after they cleared the Straits of Gibraltar and were cruising off the coast of Morocco after dark. Mac was especially vigilant at the helm that night because pirates in trawlers had reportedly been ramming sailboats in the area, boarding them, stealing everything of value and killing everyone aboard, then scuttling the boats. Suddenly from the darkness, Mac had heard the sounds of a large ship’s engine. To his horror, the outline of a trawler headed directly toward him. When he quickly shifted the
Sea Wind
’s course, the trawler followed suit. Mac saw that the two craft were headed for collision. He raced below, grabbed his rifle, and flipped the switch for the two powerful spotlights mounted halfway up the front mast. Yelling to sleep-dazed Muff, he scrambled back topside and stood directly under the spreader lights’ white beams as Muff scampered in the shadows to take the helm. Mac snapped up the rifle, aiming at an unmoving shadowy figure on the bridge of the mysterious trawler. Illuminated like a frog about to be gigged, Mac knew his actions could be clearly seen from the trawler. If it did not change course within moments, the
Sea Wind
would surely be rammed, perhaps even sunk. But before that happened, Mac intended to shoot.
He’s going to get us but I’m going to get him, too
, Mac thought as he slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard. Time seemed to freeze as the two vessels silently converged. How close could he let them come before he had to fire? Was the other man drawing a bead upon him? Then, in the next instant, the trawler veered sharply away, only narrowly missing the
Sea Wind
. Someone, in this eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation, had blinked. It hadn’t been Mac.

They survived that threat, Mac came to believe, for two reasons: he had the right instincts when it counted, and they had the proper equipment aboard—in this case, bright spotlights and a handy rifle. The incident reinforced Mac’s confident belief that a person made his own luck, as well as his conviction that ocean sailing was not for the weak or ill-prepared. Despite his close call and others he and Muff had experienced, Mac did not doubt his ability to survive whatever challenge their new adventure would offer. However severe.

J
UNE
24, 1974

T
HEIR RITUAL
of leaving port hadn’t changed over the years. Muff dutifully played the supporting role assigned to her. Mac was captain and she was the crew.

On this clear blue morning, just as the last threads of sunrise disappeared from the sky, they went through the exercise as they had hundreds of times before. He’d already rechecked every item of equipment, using a mental checklist that was ingrained in his memory by now. No airline pilot in the world was more careful in his preflight than Mac was in preparing the
Sea Wind
for sea.

Today, as always, he waited until everything was just as he wanted, peered out through the bobbing craft in Hilo harbor to visualize his course to the big blue, and smiled a self-satisfied grin.

Gruffly, assuming a pose that landlubbers could dismiss as pompously theatrical, Mac spoke over his shoulder. “Muff, let’s do it.” Perhaps he was playing a bit to Shoemaker, who stood on the wharf ready to release the boat’s lines.

Muff was standing just inside the companionway, poised beside the ignition switch. “Okay, honey.”

In the cockpit, Mac turned the key. “Hit it.”

She flipped the switch. Mac pushed the starter button and the engine caught right away. Letting the engine idle so the oil would thin out and properly lubricate all the parts, he weighed anchor. He then waved to Shoemaker, who untied all lines but one, a stern line. As Mac pulled in the lines, he dropped them into perfect loops on the deck.

When he was satisfied with the pitch of the engine, Mac cut the suspense by announcing for all to hear: “Casting off!”

Shoemaker dropped the last stern line and Muff gathered it in. The
Sea Wind
was on her own.

As unruly squads of sea gulls mewed and wheeled overhead, Mac engaged the engine and they began creeping forward. Behind them, the faint sounds of Hilo’s bustling early-morning traffic became ever more faint, a steady hum of civilization they did not expect to hear again for a long time. Low in the sky, the rising sun was blinding. It washed over the huge Chinese banyan trees that lined the bayfront drive and guarded the verdant acres of Liliuokalani Gardens. But these features of the landscape rapidly grew indistinct.

Despite herself, Muff sensed immediately that the reality of being under way would drain away some of her fears and misgivings. They were on familiar territory and Mac was in full command. She had done her part, and she’d continue to do her part. She was determined not to misstep or fall a millisecond behind. Sailing depended so much on proper balance and timing. Mac needed her, but every minute of the day, he was the skipper, and she needed him even more.

Her husband sat at the helm, his back straight as a board, his brown hand resting on the wheel, sharp eyes glancing 180 degrees to take best advantage of any eventuality. He felt the morning sun warm on his leathery neck, the refreshingly cool spray of water from the offshore wind on his face.

As they edged their way through the Radar Bay channel, Muff took over the steering and Mac upped sail with practiced efficiency. First the mizzen, then the main and jibs. They all billowed out instantly in the gusting breeze, snapping the halyards musically against the masts.

Back at the helm, Mac looked up at the sails. It was a move as automatic and unconscious as that of a cautious driver checking the rearview mirror. The wind was fresh and steady, and all the sails were taut and full. He shifted the engine into neutral. He would allow it to idle awhile longer before shutting it down, but they were under sail now, and for Mac, there was no feeling like it in the world.

Charged, now fully alive, the beautiful craft surged forward, heading out the channel into the open sea, straining anxiously to fly upon the rolling surface.

Mac and Muff went about the steady work of joining forces with wind and water. Breezes rose and fell and shifted, but slowly even the tip of mighty Mauna Loa peak, rising more than thirteen thousand feet above sea level, sank into the shimmering sea behind them.

When Muff brought cups of piping hot coffee, they sat together in the cockpit, Mac at the helm, enjoying the radiance of early morning. The day passed without incident. Long before sunset, they were alone upon the watery bowl of visible ocean. No other craft could be seen. They moved across a bright, unruffled sea.