Francis Meyrick

Carefully replacing the receiver, the man with the broken nose sank back in his chair.
He placed his fingers together in a thoughtful, meditative gesture, and his brow showed a deep concentration. For five minutes he remained in this pose, before suddenly he leaped to his feet, and started pacing the room. He stopped, lit a cigarette, and picked up the telephone, drumming his fingers impatiently until the line connected.
“It’s me, Carl. Listen. We’ve got one. Some dozy clown has just drifted into Wewak, Papua New Guinea, in a luxury yacht, with GPS and fax on board. Two guys and two pretty girls. On a four month tour around the Pacific, with no fixed schedule. Perfect. I’ve got a man there now, and another on the way. We stand by for an update, but get your bags packed and be ready to roll on five minutes notice. We’ve got a safe house arranged already. It’s perfect. Six weeks to go. Nobody is going to miss them by then. Got it? ”
The reply, although muffled, was an unmistakable dry laugh.
Carl rubbed his nose, and put the phone down. After a moment’s thought, he dialed again. This time, when he got through, his manner was brisk.
“It’s me, Carl. Listen, you little rabbit. You can tell your client that Stage One looks like it’s going into operation over the next day or two. It’s a luxury yacht with GPS and Satellite phone/fax. Perfect. ”
The subsequent query obviously annoyed him. His reply was cold and hard.
“Listen, you weasel. There is no need for you to know where.
All that matters is that we confirm to you when we are on board and ready for Stage Two. Got it? Tell your client to expect word within forty eight hours. ”
He hung up without waiting for an acknowledgment.
Pleased with himself, he reached into a drawer, and drew out a gleaming black Glock 21 semi automatic. He examined it carefully, and then aimed it slowly at a picture on a calendar. The picture showed a clipper riding the waves, doubtless running a trade wind to foreign ports. He concentrated, his hand unwavering, and then, slowly, he squeezed the trigger. There was a dry click and he smiled, lost in his own harsh world, his mind far away…

* * *

The nervous little man slammed the phone down angrily. His hands shaking, he produced a white silk handkerchief, and mopped his glistening forehead. The effort to control himself failed, and his hands refused to cease shaking. He held them out in front of him, fingers outstretched, willing them to stop trembling. It was no use, and instead he got up and walked to a liquor cabinet. There he poured himself a treble whiskey, adding a microscopic quantity of water. He downed it in two gulps, and stood there in a trance, studying the empty glass with unseeing eyes. Coming back to life, he refilled his glass, spilling amber fluid in the process. He noticed it, and cursed quietly, despairingly. He was suddenly aware just how much his hands were actually shaking. Try as he might, he could not stop them. Fluid slopped over the edge of the cut crystal glass, and ran down the back of his hand. He emptied the glass with another two monstrous gulps, and then unsteadily replaced the tumbler on the liquor shelf. However he managed it, as he withdrew his hand, he did so clumsily. The glass rocked, rolled, and fell, past his clutching fingers, and shattered on the floor in a million slivers of light, with a dry, terminal crunch.
Seated in his desk chair once again, he dialed a number slowly and with difficulty. He waited for the recorded announcement to introduce a fictitious company, and then spoke his message slowly and as clearly as he could.
“Tambourine Man called… he says to inform you that Stage One is about to take place… he expects to confirm within forty eight hours… location was not revealed… ”
He paused, remembered to add date and time, and signed off. He replaced the receiver with a feeling of dread. He got up, and slowly walked over to a large ornate mirror with a gold and silver edging. He stared in at his own reflection, straightened his tie, and combed his hair. Then, softly, he spoke to himself. They were encouraging words, comforting, directing his mind to his healthy bank balance, and the promise of more, much more, to come. They were words of praise, of reassurance, of satisfaction at how much he had come up in the world.
But try as he might, nothing could shake off the dread in his heart. Emotions of fear and guilt, greed and pride, conscience and ruthlessness warred with one another. If somebody had suggested to him that he was really just a small time crook and swindler playing way above his league, then his pride would have reared up. His jealous ego, crushed down for too long during a poverty stricken childhood, would have galloped off in fury…
Life had been… tough. School had been hell. He had hated his teachers, and hated his father. During his early twenties, he had hated his foreman at the brewery…
Now, part of him ached to prove to the world how well he had done. But another part, crushed down, nearly -but not quite- buried, yearned to convince himself…

The work he had been doing, the contacts he had made, the money he had earned… but above all, what he now knew was going to happen… sometimes it felt… not so good. He thought of his recurrent nightmare. It was always the same. He would be galloping along insanely, in the middle of the night, on a demented black mare. Across hedges and fences they would go, through streams and ditches, along roads and footpaths. And always, always, he would start out thinking he was in control. And then… the doubts would set in…
He would start wondering if he could control the beast. He would try and rein in, just a little, slow down, just a fraction, or steer around some crazy obstacle. The crazed black mare would take no notice, and the horrid realization would come flooding over him that he was in fact out of control. That what had started as an excursion of his choosing and under his captaincy, had degenerated into an insane frenzy. Then he would see the cliff coming up. The dark edge that stretched out over the abyss… He would open his mouth to scream…

He swallowed hard, swayed unsteadily to his feet, and almost ran over to the liquor cabinet, fumbling desperately for his only comfort.

* * *

The well dressed gentleman alighted from the Yellow Cab, tipped the driver, forced a smile at the drawn out ‘Have a good day now, y’hear?’, and stepped lightly but speedily along the busy New York street. The throng of bodies around him severely irritated him, as always. He wished fervently that he could jump straight back on his private Citation Jet, and speed back to his comfortable villa on Lake Geneva. An insane urge to turn around and go home in disgust filled his mind for a fleeting instant. It was not to be.
This was an important day…
A rather obese lady got in his way, and he contemplated how satisfying it would be to simply ram the bitch out of his way. He held back, charm and smiles on the outside, simmering furiously internally. He despised common folk, and knew himself to be far superior in terms of intelligence, wealth, power, and breeding. He knew he could buy and sell all of them, and outwit and out maneuver the best that New York could throw at him. In fact, he was here to prove it. It was contract negotiation time, the renewal of a huge bulk oil carrying contract that one of his companies had held for twelve years. It came up for renewal every twenty four months, and his personal presence was mandatory. It would not do to send an underling. Much as he hated and loathed New York and America, this was one appointment he dare not miss.
Not that it was usually hard work. The doddering board of directors of the oil company usually struggled to stay awake after lunch. Their bleary eyes would betray their urgency to complete formalities. They would raise a few petty complaints, carp on about insignificant details, indulge in a little flatulence, and generally go through the motions of giving the renewal contract the benefit of their years of experience. Then everybody would relax, there would be some jokes, the expensive Parker pens would be produced, and signatures would appear on the wad of documents. He would smile, pour on the charm, eventually beat his retreat, and quietly scoff at the bunch of fat toads…

He arrived at the appropriate building, composed his features into a beaming smile, cranked up the charm machine, and strode cheerfully inside.

Five hours later, it was a very different expression that dominated his face when at last he slumped in his hotel room. Cold fury mingled with relief. Bewilderment alternated with suspicion.
The meeting had not gone well. Yes, they had signed, but only after a severe grilling. He had sensed the mood the moment he had walked in. Grim-faced, determined, wary.
They had asked a great many questions about safety training on board his company’s tankers, fire detection equipment, and crew experience. Then, what had really astonished him, they had proceeded to minutely grill him about his non-shipping business interests, with special emphasis on his claims history. With detailed knowledge, they had questioned him about the most intimate offshore share transactions, both before and after the dates of two major industrial fires and one massive robbery. The coup de grace that had really knocked him right back on his heels had been their knowledge of the large ‘key person’ insurance policies he had taken out on some of his employees, not all of whom were still in the world of the living…
He had charmed and cajoled and wheedled and smiled his way through, but the experience had deeply shaken him. The implied message, subtle and not so subtle, was unmistakable:

Just one claim with one of your bulk tankers, even though it’s the first, and you will never carry oil again.
Ours, or anybody else’s…

Cold sweat stood on his forehead, and the hand that reached for the telephone was not as rock steady as usual. He had to call it off. Quickly. Stage One was about to go into fruition. The risks were too great. They were on to him.

But… how? How, in heaven’s name. To have collected all that information, in such depth, was more than the work of careful monitoring of one’s suppliers. Much more. Only a professional, an investigator, with access to insurance files internationally, could possibly have put together that portfolio. An investigator, and a hard working, resourceful, shrewd one at that. Some of the connections had been unearthed from places as far apart as the Cayman Islands and Liechtenstein… It had taken somebody some super sleuthing…
An investigator…
The hand clutching the receiver steadied suddenly, and there was a dull click as the device was dropped back onto its cradle.
An investigator…
Of course…
He smacked his forehead in frustrated realization. That was it! Berckhardt! Franz Berckhardt! That ugly little rat… that snotty little insurance detective, who had been borderline rude at the inquiry into the construction disaster. Who had been sarcastic at the amount of coverage taken out on the bulk tankers. Who had then been silenced into a simmering, furious silhouette by his superior. Who had glared furiously from under knotted eyebrows, his grotesque bottle-bottom spectacles giving him a laughable, inane look…
Who else had that kind of access, those kind of suspicions, and showed that kind of smoldering anger? So this was the little man’s revenge? So…
Berckhardt had put the file together, doing a vast amount of work in the process, and posted it, anonymously perhaps, to New York!
And where else? So…

His brain clicked off the options quickly, comfortable now that the problem at least was identified, and therefore a target could be discerned at which to aim the arrows…
Or better still, some bloody big bazookas…
Maybe… he could take out a law suit against the insurance company…
Maybe…
No. Franz Berckhardt would have assessed that possibility. He would not have risked his job and his career by leaving tracks that were too obvious. Besides, little Franz would have known that the publicity of a trial was exactly NOT what his opponent desired…

Clever. Very clever. And now what? He was beaten… He dare not risk it any further. Beaten. By a second rate little detective with a grudge. It was too infuriating. His best scam to date, perfectly planned, nipped in the bud. Now what? Give up, quit while he was ahead. It wasn’t worth the risk. Quit. Give up.
He had lost…

The words rang through his head, infuriatingly…

F.M.
(c)

Sitting outside the Windjammer Hotel, Christina felt herself absolutely enchanted. A dozen steps away from the open patio doors, in seemingly dangerous proximity, waves tumbled rhythmically onto the sand, breaking in generous white foaming bursts that bubbled, swirled and retreated in comforting dependability. Palm trees lined the sea shore as far as the eye could see. The water was a dazzling light green, astonishingly clear and transparent.
Further down, a dozen naked children, looking remarkably healthy, romped noisily in the waves, their laughter and delighted shrieking carrying clearly to the curious onlookers. The sun beat down from almost straight overhead, lighting everything up. Small crabs crept about, shy and quick to hide. This they did by burrowing down the nearest hole in the sand. Then, after a suitable period of time had elapsed, they would cautiously reappear, slithering out furtively, like schoolboys sneaking out bent on mischief, and resume their hopeful foraging.

Gabriel, the representative from the shipping agency, had by now earned the admiration of the whole party. Still comfortably chewing his betel nuts, which accounted for his blood red teeth and lips, he had organized their every need. Personally chauffeuring them around in his company’s minivan, he had helped them in such diverse tasks as finding a hotel, going to the bank, going shopping, and laying on the delivery of supplies to the yacht. With a quiet, good-humored and marvelously polite and patient manner, he had discreetly warned them of pickpockets, and then stood guard behind them as they went through the stores. On one occasion he had caused a momentary slight commotion with a few softly spoken firm words that Chris could not understand, and a youth in his early twenties had apparently been ordered away from a position too close behind Ricky Distefano’s bulging hip pocket. Grumbling slightly, Ricky had then transferred his wallet to his side pocket. Christina, more alert than the others had noticed also the strict security at the hotel. Where the door opened automatically you approached it, courtesy of an ever present attendant who peered outside vigilantly, his solid wooden club conveniently nearby. The uniformed guards who patrolled the grounds, all smiling and pleasant, carried wicked looking clubs too. Security, Christina decided, was discreetly heavy, with every effort made to avoid an impression of menace or thuggery.

The country itself was beautiful beyond belief. Gabriel had taken them on a three hour tour, and explained the sights. A viewpoint on top of a hill, overlooking the bay, had revealed rows and rows of heavily wooded rolling slopes, with thick impenetrable undergrowth. The distant mountains, rumored to have heavy rain fall, and sudden weather changes, seemed to hint at the concealment of many secrets. To Christina, Papua New Guinea was one of the most breath taking, amazing and exciting places she had ever visited.
Ricky was not terribly impressed. He had complained about his room. It had been clean and very tidy, but unimaginatively decorated and rather basic. The T-bone steak he had ordered had not been to his liking, being rather small and very tough. The shopping expedition had frightened him a little. At every door, a guard had watched those leaving very carefully, and there had been many notices warning against shoplifting. Other signs had strictly forbidden the carriage of bags inside the shops. These had to be left at the door with an attendant. When Ricky, rather awkwardly, had tried to surrender his bag on entering the pharmacy, he had been waved through. Christina had laughed at his obvious discomfort, and this had annoyed him.
Judy too had felt a little frightened, walking down the ramshackle main street, over the broken pavement, stained red everywhere with the spit of chewed betelnut juice. She had noticed so many young men lounging around, apparently doing nothing. Their hungry gazes had eyed her with more than curiosity she felt, and she had held on tightly to Brad. She had suddenly felt very vulnerable in her very short pants and flimsy T- shirt. On one occasion, when Gabriel had moved forward through the crowd a little too quickly, her voice had become almost a scream.
“Gabriel…! Wait! ”
Instantly, he had been at her side, smiling broadly, reassuringly. She had in that moment been very glad he was there…
Brad, in his more detached manner, had wondered what the unemployment rate was like. He imagined it had to be ninety per cent. Main street Wewak just seemed full of people doing nothing. A park they had driven past had equally been full of people doing nothing. He had seen a man in his twenties sitting in a tree. A few hours later, when they had passed the same spot on the way back, he had still been sitting there, in the exact same posture. Unmoved…
The economy was obviously not very good. He had been surprised at the poor state of the roads, and the dangerous condition of the sidewalks. The selection of goods in the shops had been pretty basic, with some surprisingly high prices. He had guessed that most goods, being imported, were probably taxed heavily. The people, he felt, were mostly okay. Like Christina, he smiled easily, and soon discovered that most smiles were readily returned. In the crowded streets he got plenty of practice, and even had a cheerful conversation with a very large charming woman, who appeared to be wishing him a very nice holiday. Her fluent ‘pigeon English’ was too fast for Brad, but he nodded enthusiastically, and merely hoped he was doing so at the right places in her story. Upon his return, he was jokingly scolded by Judy, who wished to know if she had competition for his affection.

It was not long before they met up with a tough little Australian on a walk-about, who introduced himself as Glen. A salesman of machinery and trucks by trade, his hard bitten humor amused Ricky, who insisted that Glen accompany them. Glen consented, and soon had Ricky falling around with laughter. Most of his jokes seemed to be at the expense of the Papua New Guineans, who, if Glen was to be believed, owed everything to Australia and the Australian tax payer, were basically lazy, corrupt and incompetent, and needed constant economic aid to avoid anarchy. The presence of Gabriel seemed not to deter Glen in the slightest, and he fired off one racist joke after another regardless. Soon Ricky and Glen decided a trip in the minivan was called for, and, with Gabriel driving, a guided tour duly took place. Christina, unimpressed by the man, was happy to stop at a local open air market. Wandering with Judy past the displays, laid out mostly on plastic sheets and newspapers on the ground, she was delighted at the many smiles they received. Many of the fruits and vegetables were unknown to her, and a large green fruit in particular drew her attention. “Cucumber? “, she asked a dark brown lady with typical black rope-like hair and small facial tattoos. A quick consultation took place amongst five of the women vendors, followed by a ripple of pearly laughter.
“No, no… ”
It was another woman, older, evidently the matriarch, who came laughing to the rescue.
“Not cucumber. Papaya! ”
Seeing the confused face of Christina, the matriarch quickly added:
“Nice! Sweet! You try! ”
With that, a quick swish of a machete split one of the fruits open. A sizable piece was cut off, peeled, and handed to Christina. Gingerly tasting the offering, Christina discovered a succulent fruit, which seemed a little like a cross between a melon and a peach.Delightedly she bought three, and some pineapples. She shook hands with the ladies, and returned in triumph to the rest of the gang, bearing her trophies. Glen stepped forward to tick her off severely. Firstly for shaking hands, and secondly for accepting and eating the proffered piece of fruit. With dire warnings of the dangers of amoebic dysentery, he proceeded to explain that the Papua New Guineans were dirty people, with no concept of hygiene. A hand shake, he said, was sufficient to catch the bugs. Christina, deflated initially, retaliated by demonstratively waving goodbye to the five ladies. Then, on the way out of the market, she went out of her way to shake hands with two charming little boys whilst their proud mother looked on, beaming with delight.

Back on board the bus, they passed what looked like chicken coops on stilts above an expanse of flat, calm water.
“You see? ”
Glen’s face seemed oddly distorted in disgust as he leaned around to Christina.
“See that water? Well, for your information, they piss in it, they cook with it, and they wash with it! And you still want to share their food? ”
His loathing was evident. Christina looked sadly at the poverty, and then waved back at two mischievous urchins that were making funny grimaces at the sickly white faces traveling on board the bus. Some adults waved as well, their betelnut stained teeth clearly visible.
Glen settled back in his seat in righteous indignation, but Christina thought only of the friendliness and radiant charm she had encountered.

Half an hour later, walking along some beautiful beaches, with clear green translucent water lapping on the sand, and tiny crabs scuttling for cover everywhere, it was once again Glen’s turn to rail at the naked children romping in the surf, and some adults sitting nearby, watching. In Glen’s view, unemployment was so high because the work ethic was poor to non-existent. As far as Christina could see, the children were adequately fed, healthy, and deliriously happy. She doubted if many Western children could have such a terrific playground with the warm sun, soft sand and clean waves. In Papua New Guinea at least, the sea was still not polluted, unlike the beaches in the U.K., where plastic litter, used condoms, empty cans and the occasional feces were frequently in evidence. The more she listened to Glen, the more Christina felt that it was he who was missing the point. And that here, in Papua New Guinea, life was evolving the Papua New Guinea way, not necessarily for better or worse, just differently…
Christina by now felt almost exasperated by the man. His cynicism and cruel humor was not to her liking at all. Looking around increasingly desperately for an escape, her attention was drawn to a low, distant beat that seemed to be growing in intensity. She stopped walking, and listened intently.
“Is that a helicopter? ”
Nobody answered. The sound grew louder quickly, and the others too heard it. Moments later, a shape on the horizon confirmed her impression.
“Here comes lover boy! ”
Ricky’s jibe made Christina blush. He noticed it, and felt well pleased with himself. The others laughed. It was Gabriel, with his instant diplomacy, who smoothly covered Christina’s embarrasment.
“Oh, yes, that’s probably one of the tuna spotting helicopters. The tuna boats come in here every three to six weeks or so to transship the fish onto refrigerated cargo ships. Then they lay in supplies. The pilots usually come over to do their own shopping. ”
Then, with a sidelong glance at Christina, quickly taking in her poorly feigned indifference, he continued:
“The airfield is only ten minutes away. We can go there if you wish? ”
But Ricky was having none of it.
“I want a drink. This heat is killing me! ”
Glen had quickly chimed in, supported by Brad. Only Judy was keen on an expedition to the airfield. Once again, Gabriel smoothly did the organizing, piling everybody back into the minivan, and a few minutes later Ricky, Glen and Brad were deposited at the Yacht Club to seek refreshment, whilst Chris and Judy stayed on board for the next leg to the airfield. On the way they chatted casually, and Chris tried hard to conceal her hope that the pilot would be the same cheerful character who had flirted with her over the radio. Judy, with that deep feminine insight, was not fooled, but loyally refrained from any witticisms.

They drew up at a modern, purpose built terminal, and Gabriel whisked them quickly out onto the apron. The machine was parked at the windsock, and a white shirted figure, presumably the pilot, was fiddling around underneath. If Chris had wanted to change her mind, she would not have had the opportunity, as Gabriel’s voice boomed out:
“Hey! Shamrock! ”
The figure stirred, and Gabriel chuckled.
“I know him! He has been here many times. He’s from Ireland. His name’s Bob… ”
He raised his voice to where it carried clearly across to the now grinning pilot.
“HIS NAME IS BOB, HE’S IRISH, AND HE’S CRAZY…!! ”
The reply was quick and good humored.
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, you daft betelnut-chewing cave man! ”
The two men shook hands like old friends, and then Gabriel introduced his two charges. Christina felt insanely shy, and relieved that everybody else was doing the talking. Judy quickly established the fact that this was indeed the same pilot who had buzzed the ‘Lady Annabelle’, and that he was off for the next four days. With the aplomb of a seasoned match-maker, she stunned Christina with a direct and to-the-point suggestion:
“Bob, Christina is dying for a ride with you. Why don’t you two blast off or whatever it is you do in this thing, and Gabriel and I will go and have a cup of coffee? ”
Bob grinned, nodding, and Christina started to protest. Judy however placed a hand across her friend’s mouth, and pushed her unceremoniously in the direction of the cockpit.
“Good! Mush! Have a nice flight! ”
And with that, towing Gabriel along by the shirt sleeve, she trotted off purposefully to the terminal.

By the time they landed forty minutes later, Christina and Bob were the best of friends. Christina was also totally hooked on rotary flight. She was impressed at how considerate Bob had been, how carefully and patiently he had explained everything, and how conservatively he had flown. It was obvious that he had taken great pains to put her at ease, avoiding any hair raising ‘stunts’. It was only natural that they should agree to meet again for dinner, and she quite missed the conspiratorial wink that passed between Judy and Gabriel when this piece of news was broadcast. Chortling along happily, reliving every second of her first helicopter flight, Christina led the way into the Yacht Club with Bob following along behind. Even the exaggerated wolf whistles from Ricky and Glen did nothing to dampen her high spirits, and she introduced Bob whilst somehow managing at the same time to lightly cuff Ricky across the head with a folded menu.

Laughing happily, the rest of the night passed in an excited blur for Christina. Helicopters, hovering, and landing on remote jungle beaches filled her thoughts. Not to mention Bob, whose quiet good humor and civility had won her confidence. They were all so happy and elated, that nobody, not even the cautious Christina, noticed the sallow faced man in the corner, who chain smoked steadily, and studied them surreptitiously. Even when he left to make a long phone call, returning to walk closely past their table, straining to pick up their conversation, nobody noticed. Beer and Coca cola flowed freely, cigarette smoke curled lazily upwards, and the noisy chatter of the late night revelers mixed incongruously with the night time noises from the nearby jungle. Birds screeched from the tree tops, as if in protest, and bull frogs called grumpily for a mate. Crickets and bats added their contributions, and the distant lights of the moored fishing boats cast an unreal aura, evidence of unseen but intense human activity. The ‘Lady Annabelle’ bobbed quietly up and down a few hundred meters from where they were sitting, and formed the subject of much curious local gossip.
They were young, they were happy, and there was not a care for the morning. The sallow faced man, satisfied, got up and left, the dim lights from the naked bulbs bouncing helplessly off the smiling, congenial mask he wore so well to conceal his inner thoughts…

F.M.
(c)

Alone on the deck, at five o’clock in the morning, Christina sniffed the salt air, and her senses shivered with delight at being alive. It was still dark, but dawn was not far away. The sea was almost calm. A slight breeze caused little more than a ripple, but it was enough to fill the sails. They were now rapidly approaching Wewak, and she was beginning to seriously search for the distant shapes of Tarawai Island or Walis Island. She studied the charts, and played with the GPS system. Carefully, the electronic digits were transferred to her chart.
Three degrees and eight minutes south…
Her pencil and ruler worked quickly.
One hundred and forty three east…
Her brow showed her heavy concentration.
…and twenty five minutes.
Her pencil marked quickly, and the thin cross showed faintly in the artificial light. The current was moving her east faster than expected. It was not a problem, but she wondered if she would in fact spot Kairiru Island first. The elevation was higher, much higher. 2493 feet…
She decided it was likely, and peered into the distance again. Not a light showed. Looking at the eastern sky, she could see the first rays of dawn, like fingers plucking gently and timorously at the silent strings of heaven. She shivered again in pure delight. The others were still fast asleep, and would not put in an appearance for at least another three hours. They had no idea what they were missing. She had tried to tell them many times, but none could match her enthusiasm for the quiet of the early dawn. She had given up then, content to enjoy her own silent spiritual yearnings. To feel… a part of this. This mysterious universe. This silent world of infinite unknowns. She gazed at the stars, and wondered if there was a God. A God who had indeed created the world. Who cared, deeply, about each and every one of his creatures. Who waited. Patiently. Biding his time…
To Christina, there was a God. She was not an intellectual, and she could never put these feelings into adequate words. She just felt it. He was there, He knew everything, and she knew very little. But it was all right. There was mystery, awe, but no fear. The soft lapping sound of waves being parted by the bow, the odd creak of timber, and the occasional ‘smack’ of a bigger wave were all she could hear.
No cars, no factories, no smoke, no confusion.
Peace only. And her thoughts.
Perhaps… it was God’s patience Chris admired the most. Not His Creation. Or his creatures, wonderful though they were. His patience. The way He was biding his time. Despite the way people…
She had tried to talk about it once, with some friends. They had mocked her most cruelly, and she had been hurt. Something inside her had closed up then, and she would never talk about it to anybody else.

Light crept onstage patiently, unhurriedly, across the Bismarck Sea. Faint colors lit up the eastern horizon.
Faint, wispy, pale pastel colors.
Christina narrowed her eyes and stared southwards, looking for a light, or a shadow. Her heart gave a jump, and she concentrated on one spot. Unmistakeably, a long, low, dark bulge raised itself up above the sea. Tarawai? Walis? No. It had to be Kairiru Island. She watched closely for a few minutes. Not a single light penetrated the darkness. She studied the map. Yet the island was inhabited. Surai was the town. Just north of Cape Ulekup. Surely…
A slight worry crossed her mind. Quickly she re-checked the GPS, but it checked out. She relaxed again, looking up in amusement as a flying fish, disturbed by their passing, whizzed by spectacularly a few inches above the water. It seemed to skip a few times, like a flat round stone thrown by a young schoolboy, torpedoed through a low ripple, and finally buried itself with a loud ‘smack!’ in the next low swell.

Twenty minutes later, the increasing daylight having permitted her a positive sighting, Christina relaxed enough to go below deck to make some coffee. She returned with a steaming mug, and pondered the lack of lights from Surai. Looking at the map again, she wondered if perhaps it was not so much a town as more of a small native village with limited lighting. Absently she sipped at the brown liquid, burnt her lip, swore in a very non lady like manner, and put the mug down. Taking up a pair of binoculars, she studied the slopes of Kairiru Island, and was not surprised to discover them heavily wooded. Somewhere she had heard that Papua New Guinea was a major exporter of timber. An independent state, with a population of four million, an emerging tourism industry, malaria, and close ties with Australia. That summed up her total knowledge of the place. Oh, and the yacht club. Wewak boasted a yacht club. Hopefully, that was their destination. With a bit of luck, they would be sipping drinks there that evening.
Half an hour went by, and then some stumbling noises from below deck indicated some signs of life, but it did not last. The “Lady Annabelle ” was rounding Muschu Island, and making good speed for Wewak Harbor, twelve miles away, before the untidy tousled head of Ricky Distefiano appeared.
“Are we there yet? ”
Resisting an impulse to say: “Yes, we’re moored at the dock “, Chris nodded assent.
“Yes, just about. Twelve miles to go. See those mountain ranges? I’ve been looking at them through the binoculars. They’re solidly wooded. There’s some kind of mist in that valley over there, it looks like a waterfall tumbling over the mountain… ”
Ricky winced at Christina’s bubbling enthusiasm, revving up dangerously, and he knew he would soon be hauled up all the way on deck to gaze and admire. Thinking only in terms of sausages and bacon, he dived away quickly, with a mumbling “Yeah… neat, Chris, real neat… ”

Christina, with her meticulous advance planning, had procured the frequency of a Coastal Agency at Wewak. Although not strictly required to use them, being a private vessel, she nevertheless planned to do so. The costs involved were, in her experience, well worth the inside information on where to moor safely, where to stay, and where not to venture. Her radio call was answered promptly and cheerfully by an unmistakeably Aussie voice. A quick exchange of information resulted in arrangements for immigration and customs formalities to take place. Advice on hotels and supplies also followed with a willingness.

It was just after ten o’clock in the morning when a powered launch pulled alongside, and eight smiling men came aboard. Christina, initially taken aback by the sheer quantity of officialdom, was at once struck by their charm and friendliness. They inspected passports and stamped pages with none of the usual bureaucratic aloofness, but chatted away merrily, full of curiosity and good humor. Their English was very good, which surprised Chris, who for some reason had expected great difficulties with communication. Their accent was strong but hard to identify. Chris wondered if there were Australian influences there. Ricky too was a little awestruck. Especially when he found himself shaking hands with a large, very dark man, who introduced himself as Gabriel, from the shipping agency. Gabriel appeared to be the classic Papa New Guinean, with dark curly hair, a broad nose, very dark tobacco brown skin, and a long jaw. However, it was the teeth which mesmerized Ricky. They appeared to be a bright blood red, as if the man had just indulged in a lugubrious meal of raw meat with the warm blood still trickling out. Try as Ricky might, he could not take his gaze off the man’s teeth. He hardly heard what Gabriel was saying, and just nodded stupidly. Only when the sharp voice of Christina cut in, did he manage to avert his gaze.
“I’m the captain of this ship “, she was saying, politely but firmly. “Please discuss those arrangements with me. Can I offer you drinks below? ”
Ricky, delighted to be free, scampered quickly away, his peaked captain’s hat sliding over to a hazardous angle. Gabriel, if he was surprised to discover a woman captain, and a captain’s-hat- wearing non-captain, never betrayed it, and merely turned his beaming fresh-blooded smile on her. Not a trace of irony showed in his face, not even when Ricky, over eager to head down the gangway, slipped, cursed, and lost his balance, his dignity, and his peaked captain’s hat in one foul stroke…

* * *

Two hundred miles away, a different drama was being played out. To Bob Meyrick it seemed life was not treating him too well. He groaned, and frantically dashed out onto the lower deck again. The shrieks, although in Chinese, most clearly communicated urgency, and Bob moved as fast as he could. Even as he ran, he was aware of a feeling of dread
engulfing him, and his guilt caused his adrenaline to rush. He reached the control panel, and grabbed for the red shut off valve. It wouldn’t budge. Behind him, the Chinese voice wailed piteously, and Bob redoubled his efforts. It took many precious seconds before he realized
he was trying to turn the wrong valve. The one he was swinging all his weight on… went to an empty outlet. He panicked, and grabbed the other valve, reflecting miserably on his fate…

It had seemed such a good idea. The two toilet cubicles, located side by side, had the drawback that the flushing system (consisting of a plastic hose and a tap) could only be operated from number one cubicle. Bob had used number two, and seeing that number one was also occupied, he had been forced to wait until the unknown occupant vacated same. The minutes had crawled by, and Bob had grown impatient. Looking out on deck, he had noticed another hose. It was, admittedly, of a much larger diameter. However, Bob had reasoned, if he only opened the relevant tap a little way, then a small flow of water through a large hose should equal a large flow through a small hose…

So Bob had carefully dragged the hose in off the deck, placed it in readiness on the floor of number two cubicle, and then gone back out onto the deck to operate the valve. Unfortunately he had not fully realized the fact that he was dealing with a fire hydrant, designed to pump sea water in copious quantities onto raging fires. Operating the valve a small way was in fact equivalent to ’emergency’ activation. There had been a colossal Whoosh! followed by a squeal, and Bob had wasted precious seconds by running inside. There to discover that the fire hose had gone berserk, and snaked through the six inch gap at the bottom of the partition. It must have done so in a vicious and ongoing series of whiplashes, because it had been quite obvious from the fountain of water, the gurgling noises, the banging, and the shrill hysteria, that the unlucky occupant was unable to control the unexpected invader from his oriental hunched position.

The eventual exit from number one cubicle was a cautious affair. Once the deluge had stopped, the door opened a fraction, and the second engineer’s frightened little face peered out, no doubt deciding that a careful reconnaissance was called for in case of sudden and
ferocious attack by forces unknown. Bob, genuinely sorry, started to stammer many apologies.
But it was of little use. The bedraggled, seawater soaked gentleman from China was not pleased, and vented his feelings all the way back to his cabin, leaving Bob standing there watching a trail of receding puddles. And Pooh-tsui, the captain’s dog, who, tail wagging with delight, sniffed with the greatest interest at the puddles, and was obviously trying to figure out what the big fuss was all about.
Bob groaned, wishing he could hide for a day…
Pooh-tsui, sympathetically, trotted up and placed two wet paws on Bob’s knee, looking up with a look of “Boy, you sure did it there, didn’t you…? ”

Instead of hiding, he made his way up to the helideck, situated towards the bow of the ship, on top of the bridge. It was a good vantage point, which afforded a good view all around. There were often times when Bob would go up there, lean his back up against a helicopter float, fold his arms, and ponder deeply. He would wonder about many things, not least of which was why he was there. What motivated a man to spend months on end on a foreign fishing ship, doing a lot of hair raising helicopter flying, in the certain knowledge that maintenance facilities were limited, first aid and medical capabilities were poor, and -worst of all- that search and rescue feasibility bordered on the non-existent. Was it just money? Greed? He was well paid, no doubt about that. But… there was more to it. A lot more.
It had something to do…

…with the clear, open horizons.
He had lived and worked in Dublin, London, and Los Angeles. Where the view into the distance was always obstructed by tall buildings, towers, skyscrapers, cranes, aerials, and other man-made obstacles. Where it was simply impossible to ‘dream in’ the view, to breath out properly. He had felt hemmed in, cramped, threatened, stifled. But on the ocean, you could stand on the helideck, or climb up to the crow’s mast, and strain your eyes for miles and miles in every direction of the compass. You felt open, free, in control, at peace. Somehow your place in the universe, small, insignificant, a little human in a huge cosmos, was now correct. There had been times, when, in desperation, he had climbed up onto the roof of his London house, or his Los Angeles apartment, simply to try and see at least some of the horizon. He would spy perhaps one tenth of the horizon’s total circumference – if he was lucky – through the buildings and the clutter. Not to mention the rain and drizzle in London, and the heavy smog in Los Angeles. Even then, with that one glimpse, he would feel better, refreshed as an incurable alcoholic taking his first swig of bourbon after leaving a drying out clinic.
It had something to do…

…with the stunning cloudplay.
Especially at daybreak, when he would stand sleepily at the helicopter, preparing for yet another dawn patrol in search of breakfasting fish. When the interplay of darkness and light, color and reflection, would combine to really make him feel privileged to be alive. When he felt that each new day was indeed a gift. When he would feel profoundly grateful for the privilege of Life. Or at sunset, when he was tired, but thoughtful. When he could rest, and think, and immerse himself in the Universe. He would watch the first stars come out, and the last rays of the sun slowly burn themselves out. Sometimes there would be violent storms, lashing rain, and lightning would flash around the heavens, illuminating clouds from the inside with energy incalculable. He would shiver in awe, knowing his place in the Creation. He would feel humble without excessive sentiment, awed without being frightened. Then he would shudder at the memories of the streets of London and New York, with wall-to-wall people, the headlong rush of the lemmings, the no-time-to-smile passage of thousands of folk, the constant invasion of body space, the jostling, the bumping, the treading on your toes, and the graffiti soaked sardine cans they called the ‘underground’. But worst of all were the eyes of the zombies. Their gazes saw through you, with a peculiar fixed, unregistering dullness. It was as if you didn’t exist, were invisible, and not at all a creature of flesh and blood, with feelings and fears, with hurt and memories. No, you didn’t exist, and if you tried to assert your existence, by speaking, or touching somebody on the arm… ( “Excuse me, can you tell me please the way to Grosvenor Square? “)… you ran the risk of instant suspicion…( “What does he want?… what’s he after?… does he want my wallet?… will he attack me?… will he rape me? “). Some of the lemmings would refuse to speak. They would cling desperately to the zombie look, their protection from strangers. They would pretend not to hear, brushing past, ignoring. Other lemmings would feel imposed upon, resentful, angry. They would give you minimal directions, quickly, and rush onwards, ever on…
It had something to do…

…with a low stress level.
Despite the risks, the deck landings when the ship heaved up and down, sending showers of spray crashing over the decks… the take-offs when you had to time it correctly, just as the ship rolled the right way… the unexpected headwinds when you were an hour and a half flying time away, trying to get home… despite the risks of mechanical failure, when the winds were blowing, and the waves reared up with foaming whitecaps… despite everything the life of a tuna helicopter pilot could throw at you, the stress level was low. Your mind could rest. You could reflect. He could read. He even wrote a bit, and had tried his hand at a little novel that lacked much luster, but which had given him much creative satisfaction. Somehow his mind was the most relaxed it had ever been. Some days he would fly five or six hours. Then he would be tired in a satisfied sort of way, and flop into bed early, without a shred of guilt. Other days he would fly only one or two hours, depending on the captain’s wishes. Then he had plenty of time to read, write, relax and ponder.

Why… was he a tuna helicopter pilot?
He would have found it hard to put it in words.
Did he have any regrets?
He smiled to himself… quietly, but not unkindly.
He knew he had, yes…

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 1:57 pm

Ch.8 A MODEST GIFT

The audience clapped enthusiastically as he handed over the check for ten thousand dollars. Humbly, he bowed his head, implying by expression and body movement that his gift was given magnanimously, with no thought or expectation of gratitude or thanks.
It was the slight little self deprecating shrug of the shoulders, the feeble wave of the hands, the minute downturn of the corners of his mouth, that delighted his audience so. When his immaculately groomed figure stepped up to the podium, bowing courteously to the presenter before accepting the microphone, he was assured a rapturous reception before speaking a word. It was easy work to convince everybody, with his short prepared speech, how moved he had been at the great work of the society, and their sincere involvement in the lives of autistic children.

He had followed the growth of the society, and he was delighted to assist in his small way.

He hoped, in the future, to remain involved, and perhaps be allowed to contribute at some stage once more to the charity’s noble cause.

Of course, not having had the good fortune to being married with his own children, (one for the ladies, that one), it was a pleasure beyond words to feel a modest paternal warmth towards those delightful children.

“…And I thank you all for being here tonight, and thank you for listening to me… ”

He stepped down, and returned to his seat, carefully managing his facial features and body language to achieve the desired impression. That his inner thoughts turned and wheeled in total contrast to the exterior, nobody could possibly know. He was confident of that.
What a bunch of… schmucks…
He spotted a tall, bubbly blond clapping over enthusiastically and jumping up and down. He eyed her calculatingly, sneered mentally at the goofy looking bespectacled character who seemed to be her escort, and targeted her instantly for possible seduction and conquest.
The smile never left his face, and the white, perfect teeth almost sparkled in the limelight.

* * *

Only one man in the audience had clapped with zero warmth.
The small figure in the somewhat crumpled dinner jacket had struggled in fact to clap at all. He wiped his spectacles wearily, and wished his other half would change the subject. The ride home in his five year old Opel promised to be hard for him. He tried to concentrate on his driving, while the cheerful blond beside him prattled on happily and misty eyed about the generous donation they had just witnessed. It promised to help really turn around the struggling fortunes of the society, and her admiration and awe of the man who had made this possible seemed to know no bounds. He, for his part,loved his gorgeous young twelve month wife with an intensity that came with the hurt of a truly well-meaning, but ugly little man who had been roughly treated by many a girl he had nervously asked out. Michelle had been an exception, had never seemed to care about his looks, and had simply delighted in discovering his gentle nature. But now… He wished with a passion she would shut up. His seething dislike for the man who had just spoken bordered on the intensity of pure hatred. He could have screamed out loud, at the top of his lungs. He could happily have denounced the whole proceedings as nothing but a sham. He could easily have thrown the entire audience into turmoil. But… the time was not ripe. He lacked the proof…

All the time, he had known. All the time. He had fought with his senior directors. Risked his career. Hammered and hammered on the statistical unlikelihood of one client having such extreme good fortune when it came to placing risks on the international insurance market. His bosses would have nothing of it. “Good judgment “, was all they would say.
To Franz Bauer, this was more than one man’s good judgment.
Much more. The granting of cover for the latest risk only filled him with horror and foreboding.
One hundred and seventy five million dollars worth of additional cover…

Mrs Michelle Bauer, the fund raising assistant secretary of the society, wholly unaware of her spouse’s turmoil, had clapped and waved, and Franz had seethed and boiled internally. There and then, he made himself a solemn promise. He would spend his own money. If the company denied him further funding for his investigations, then he would write the tab himself. This man simply had to be taken under the closest possible scrutiny. By fair means or foul, this man had to be stopped. He was simply dangerous.

F.M.
(c)

Ch 7. ENTER THE LITTLE GUYS

The rotor blades slapped hard as the helicopter banked, and he studied the Breezer with a critical eye. They were down there all right. He could see their shapes flitting about just underneath the surface. A hundred tons’ worth at least. He pressed the transmit button to alert the mother ship, passed on range and bearing, received an acknowledging grunt, and went back to studying the breezer.
A whale arrived. Usually a good sign. It meant there was a good chance of anchovy about. These little fish formed almost the staple diet of tuna and whales. When threatened, they had this touching habit of bunching together in a big brown gravy colored ball, clearly visible from the air. ‘Safety in numbers’ had been variously explained by different zoologists. It was widely thought that the anchovy logic went along the lines of thinking that with so many thousands of them bunched together, the individual’s chance of becoming somebody’s snack was exceedingly remote. A helicopter pilot could see the anchovy ball form quickly when a threat materialized. This would draw his attention, and he would look for larger shapes underneath.
Bob eyed the whale carefully. It was barely moving. A big lad, a Humpback, some twenty meters long; he could see it clearly, ten feet below the surface. Its dark color stood out clearly against the bright blue-green sun saturated water. Suddenly, it vented through the breathing blow-hole on top, and started to slide smoothly forward. Circling 600 feet overhead, Bob saw two more whales quietly approaching. Were the whales playing a joint strategy, and communicating the moves to each other? There had to be anchovy about. Then the first eruption took place, and white water foamed suddenly as maybe a hundred tuna surfaced simultaneously, having rocketed vertically up through the shoal of anchovy, gorging themselves on the way. Then they would dive back down for more, instantly transforming the smooth surface of the sea into a boiling white cauldron. The life and death struggle attracted the first whale, who approached at whale warp speed, rolled lazily on his side, and then punched right through the tuna to get to the anchovy. Bob watched in fascination as the huge maul opened slowly, filled, and closed, all in one smooth rolling movement. Then the whale rolled back right side up, and circled around for a repeat. They often did that, Bob had noticed. The strange way they rolled onto their sides before striking, giving a helicopter pilot the view of a huge scissors closing over the anchovy. The tuna never seemed to take much notice of a whale, and it always ended up as a straightforward mutual fishing contest with the loser going hungry.

He radioed the mother ship again, confirming anchovy, but was informed that the ship had just made a set. They were busy trying to let the nets down around a school that had popped up conveniently beside the vessel, and this information at a stroke rendered Bob’s
discovery, thirty-one miles away, far less relevant. The ship would be tied up for two hours at least, and with a two and half hour transit time, that added up to a time interval too long for further interest. Bob grinned, not in the slightest bit upset, acknowledged the order to return to ship, and gazed down amusedly at the tuna romping about below. He knew this school was safe for another day, and might not even be sighted by anybody for many weeks more. He could loiter for five minutes, enjoy the view, and then skedaddle back home.
Another whale joined the fray – had his friends called him? – and celebrated by punching straight into a small brown ball of anchovy. The little guys disappeared in a whoosh of foam, and then a gang of tuna moved in as well. Bob grinned sympathetically to himself, reflecting on how tough it was to be a small fish in a big sea.
…a small fish in a big, wild,hungry sea…

It was the way he had felt sometimes, in the past, trying to run a business, trying to get ahead, and feeling the predators closing in. The predators… they didn’t dive out of the water, or
blow off through small blow holes, or swallow anchovy by the shovel full, but… they were hungry nonetheless, and infinitely more insatiable than any denizen of these beautiful blue-green seas. The human predators Bob had known did not eat merely to survive.
They had plenty, but devoured voraciously everything they could grasp, not as a means to live, but for the pleasure of denying others that same right.
He sighed, and reluctantly turned away. No matter how many times he watched the spectacle of the seas, he never tired of it. It made him feel part of it, a bird, orbiting, watching, waiting. He added some power by raising the collective lever slightly, accelerated to 65 knots, and settled down for the thirty-one mile return journey. With the doors off, the wind buffeted the perspex bubble, and a cool draft helped keep him comfortable despite the equatorial heat.
It was funny the way, with the doors off, rattling along in the little three seater Bell, he enjoyed more of a sensation of speed than he had done in much faster, enclosed, aircraft he had flown. He liked this flying… except perhaps the seat. Even with a small cushion, there was little comfort, and now, after a five hour flying day, all there was left to do was suffer his increasingly numb posterior, and chop-chop his way back to tea…

It was a nice change when he spotted the white sail. It broke the routine. The occasional pleasure yacht was always interesting to investigate. A low pass usually brought everybody up on deck, and more often than not some delightful suntanned females in swimsuits would wave enthusiastically. It would make him feel good. The daring bird man, at your service, and he would wave cheerfully back. Occasionally, if it was close to port, he would get a call on the marine radio inviting him on board. That was always good for a pleasant evening, good food and wine, and stimulating company. Unlike one or two other pilots though, he never made a pass at one of the beauties. If somebody started to express an interest in him, his natural shyness would take over. He had a reserve born of two unhappy relationships, and whether the motivation was insecurity and self protection, or just plain upbringing, he always drew back and politely excused himself if the party got too rowdy…
He drew closer to the white sail, in a dive now, accelerating to the never exceed speed on a float equipped Bell 47. The airspeed indicator hovered just under 90 nautical miles per hour, and he closed the distance rapidly, losing height quickly. He could see the yacht quite well now, and she looked a beauty. Her sleek hull blazed white in the sun, the sails were tall and elegant, and it was easy to see that she was built for speed. He could see four or five people on deck. He realised he was coming out of the sun, and with a stiff breeze blowing, it was likely that they had neither seen nor heard him yet. He drew very close now, aiming to pass down her port side, at a height of fifty feet and one hundred feet distance. Seated on the left, he would get the best view. Then he could pull up into a climb, bank steeply, and pass down her starboard side coming back the other way. He would travel slower that time, and wave. Perhaps they would call him on channel 16. He punched the numbers one and six into his Ross radio, and pressed the ‘Enter’ key, as always quietly resenting the loud, high pitched painful whistle that some deaf designer had deemed necessary to advise the pilot the electronics were functioning.
He watched the figures on the deck, still unaware of his rapid approach. Now he could see heads beginning to turn, registering something unusual, searching. They seemed to be all men. He sighed to himself. Pity…
With a beating roar he swept alongside, grinning with boyish misschief. He could see clearly now, and his initial impression of an outstandingly fine ship was reinforced. Everything was gleaming, and the sun played off the many polished brass fittings. Some builder had taken a professional pride in his creation, and the craftsmanship stood out a mile. Even at a rapid ninety miles-per-hour, a cursory glance was enough to stir the admiration. He transferred his scrutiny to the three people on deck, and it turned out to be two men and a girl, all sitting with their legs dangling gaily over the side. The girl was holding hands with a bare chested young man.
He noticed their heads swinging around, and the alarmed expressions.
Wait… who’s that behind the helm…?
His eyes had spotted a girl, almost hidden in the aft wheel well. She was wearing a white T- shirt and shorts, and stared up at the helicopter. He could see her white upturned face turn to follow the helicopter.
No bikini… but she looks nice…
Well past the ship now, he pulled up into a steep turning climb, allowing the blades to slap the air hard, making that distinctive and somewhat anti-social helicopter ‘here I come’ noise. Returning along the starboard side of the ship, in the opposite direction, he was traveling much slower now. This traditionally was where he would stabilize in steady level flight, and then cautiously remove his left hand from the collective lever. Then he would wave cheerfully, and smile his typical mischievous grin. The response invariably consisted of much enthusiastic return greetings. He had not yet encountered a rejection, although he knew if he sensed disapproval or annoyance, he would beat a hasty retreat. Once again he found himself admiring the ship, noticing the name emblazoned on the stern. He noticed that the three figures on deck were now all waving. The girl was laughing, and jumping up and down.
Helloooo there… you happy lot…
He transferred his interest to the pretty thing behind the helm. She was nice. Very nice. A blackhead, with a good figure. Even on his moderately swift pass, he could see her ample breasts, and her figure hugging white shorts. She waved cheerfully, and his heart missed a beat.
Come on, love, blow us a kiss…
Wolf whistling loudly to himself, he swept up into the sky, simultaneously grabbing the microphone of the Marine VHF.
Two guys and two girls… on a boat like that… talk about a party… nice boat … “Lady Annabelle “… good name…
To his delight, a woman’s voice answered him immediately, and when he asked her if she was the lovely thing doing the driving, the laugh that tripped back easily made him grin like a devil.
What a cookie…
She told him she was, and they proceeded to chat until he was almost out of range. He learned that they were on a pleasure trip, that she was the captain, and the three figures he had seen on the front were her boss and his two friends, a couple from Montana. His heart had skipped
another beat at that – it had sounded as if she was unencumbered. She also told him they were heading for Wewak harbor, in Papua New Guinea. He had replied enthusiastically that his ship would be heading there the moment they had caught another hundred tons. Perhaps…
they might even meet up there. The warmth in her voice had been unmistakable…
“That would be nice… perhaps I could con you into a ride in that noisy contraption of yours… ”
He had laughed, reminding her that his noisy contraption was a lot faster than her floating palace. To which the repartee had come instantly, to the effect that she would like to see him cooking sausages in his overgrown bubble. He had replied that she had won there,
and could he come and sample her sausages if they met in Wewak? To which there had been more laughter, and a firm agreement that if his boat made it, then his supper was assured on board the “Lady Annabelle “.

He had signed off reluctantly, as he had been disappearing over the horizon, and the static crackle had been slowly growing in strength. Replacing the microphone, he yawned suddenly, punched in an electronic request for an updated position of the mother ship, and watched the new position appear on the Ross screen within seconds, accompanied by the usual musical electronic jangle. The GPS quickly responded by updating range and bearing, and he swung onto the new heading, mentally cross checking his fuel state. Then his thoughts turned to the happy picture of a hot steaming cup of coffee, and a chocolate biscuit.
All thoughts of the “Lady Annabelle ” paled in comparison, and were unceremoniously colored over by the new and more stimulating imagery…

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 27, 2008, 2:49 pm

Ch 6. THE LABYRINTH OF LOVE

Chris O’Dwyer, it could be said, had two great loves in life. She loved animals. Especially sick or hurt animals. And she loved sailing. The further away the better, and the faster the better. It was an instinct she had inherited from her grandfather.
He had been in the Merchant Navy for many years. Then he had retired, grown screamingly restless in six short weeks, and built his own boat. It was on this vessel that Chris had cut her teeth. It was here that she had first tasted the exhilaration of running before the wind, with salt spray stinging her face, and the wooden boards drumming beneath her. He had taken her everywhere, taught her all the skills, all the tricks, all the subterfuges, that an old mariner can collect in a rich lifetime. Chris could figure the weather like no other, could read the waves and the currents, had the perfect eye for the right sail to carry, and found a niche in competitive racing. Her Master’s License was an easy step; her examiner was amazed at her detailed knowledge. She collected trophies by the barrowful, and sailed faster and faster. Life seemed very perfect. Few sensed what bubbled beneath the surface…

There was a gaping hole in Christina’s life.
A deep sense of loss, failure even, which manifested itself in a puzzled introspective loneliness. There was nobody really special in her life. She wanted there to be. But love eluded her. She had fancied herself in love, at age nineteen, with a burly engineer, who was a lot older than her. Skilfully, he had wooed her, never rushing things, always quietly taking things one step further. On the appropriate night, he had plied her with wine, and watched with silent delight as she drank too much, ending up half seas over. She had thought herself merely ‘tipsy’ and quite in control of herself. Half her brain had told her that he was trying to get her drunk. The other half had acquiesced. She was after all, she reminded herself, in love with him. He was the greatest man in the world. Her man…
He had made love to her then, rather roughly, with lust exceeding love by a handsome measure indeed. She had gone along, trying to please him, trying – although she knew it not – to make him love her. He had hurt her, not intentionally, but simply by paying no attention to her feeble cries, even when they turned into the unmistakable cries of pain. She had ended up dry, and told him so, but he had carried on regardless, thrusting with all his energy. He had made her bleed, and it had really hurt. It had also been hard to breath at times, with his massive weight crushing her down. She had managed one or two gasping
“I can’t BREATH… ” messages, but he had taken not the faintest notice.
She had felt somehow inadequate, and been surprised at how lovemaking was less enjoyable than she thought it would have been.
When he had come, she had been amazed, in a timid sort of way. And when he lay beside her, recovering, still panting heavily and perspiring freely, she had for the first time, through an alcoholic haze, considered he might have made her pregnant. She had tried to ponder the implications, but not made much headway.
The picture of a tiny lamb, lying in a field, with Blackbacks crowding around, kept coming into her mind.

In the morning, he had made love to her again, without much foreplay. Again she had tried to enjoy it, but her insides had hurt from the drumming the night before, and again it had ended up hurting. Their relationship had lasted only six short weeks after that, and they had made love a few more times. Then, bored, he had drifted off, not bothering to return her frantic messages on his answering machine. One ugly scene later, where she had implored him face-to-face not to leave her, and he had smacked her violently across the face, and the affair was definitely over. As he boasted afterward to his envious mates at the bar:
“You gotta find ’em, fuck ’em, and forget ’em… ”

* * *

Now, many years later, gently manipulating the helm of the “Lady Annabelle “, staring out over the green and blue waters of the Solomon Islands, the memories brought back quiet pain. Her weather eye studied the horizon, checked the sails, glanced over the Global Positioning System readings, took notice of compass heading and speed, and fine tuned the helm. Her mind, 99% of it, stayed far away, half a globe away, and in a time gone by…

There had been other boyfriends.
Some had come, attracted to her athletic looks. She was not a beautiful woman in the sense of being a pretty doll, with exquisitely fine figure hugging dresses, perfect coiffure, and hours of painstaking make up. She was a natural looker, who was at home in tight jeans, a black and white striped T-shirt, sneakers and zero make up. Her raven black hair would billow in the wind, and her strong features, hand raised above the eyes, peering into the distance, would turn the heads of hot blooded males. They would furtively study her outline, her soft upturned breasts, her slender hips, her flat stomach, and then they would variously decide that they loved her, or that they wanted to fuck her. The lovesick ones would write her flowery letters, send roses, take her to concerts, and gaze adoringly at her with hopeful little puppy dog eyes. She would grow uncomfortable, and her iron will and determination would start resisting. They would try and turn her into a pretty lady, something to take home, show mother, impress the friends with. To Christina, people who tried, however subtly, to change her, were anathema. She needed to be accepted for who and what she was. A Tomcat, a wild thing, a crazy sailor, a wellington-boot-wearing shit-shovelling stable maid. She could never fit in into these nice houses, where she would be expected to sit, talk pleasant nothings, become all excited about Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, and pour the tea into dainty, fake Chinese porcelain cups…

One by one, the lovesick, gentle ones would drift away, finding fault with her. She was ‘too strong’, ‘too wild’, and ‘too independent’. Sometimes the mothers and fathers of the lovesick, timid ones would gently steer their offspring away, preferring instead the type of young lady that would be happy to serve tea and cucumber sandwiches. Especially in the yacht owning world, Chris would discover, snobbery and social graces mattered a great deal. Chris, whatever her failings, was no snob. She was uncomfortable in formal surroundings, and occasionally lashed out defensively, becoming snappy and quarrelsome. A fish out of seawater, she would attack when feeling threatened. She would speak her mind, when silence would have been more discreet.
Then there were those young men whose lust shone bright in their eyes. Whose dicks far surpassed their hearts in weight, size, and warmth. If there was anything Chris hated more, it was to be grabbed, or groped, or fondled like a helpless puppy. She regarded her body as
her own rightful domain, and woe betide any man who tried to cross the line without permission. Her stinging rebukes, not to mention the occasional right hook to the jaw, earned her the nickname in certain quarters of ‘Poison Penny’. One by one, the lustful, randy, Adonis-type macho men, full of themselves and their careers, would drift away, also finding fault with her. She was a cold bitch, a suffragette, a damned woman’s libber. Even, it was whispered maliciously at the men only booze-ups, a lousy lesbian.

Chris adjusted the helm very slightly, sniffed at the freshening breeze, and admired the flying fish that whizzed in and out of the water. The “Lady Annabelle ” sped along, her clean lines neatly chopping the waves in two, pitching and rolling easily. She was a fine ship, the
best, and had cost her owner, young Rick Distefano, close on half a million dollars.

There was a sudden stumble, and she saw him come on deck, late as always, sleepy, yawning, and clutching a cheeseburger.
Cheeseburgers for breakfast…
She studied him, feeling sorry for him. The poor little Rich Man’s son, trying very hard to live up to his father’s expectations of him. The father, the rich, debonair, successful, hard driving tycoon, with the manners and airs of a film star. The son, overweight, pink, with puppy fat spoiling his face, and a spare tire growing rapidly. It gave him a comical look, a roly-poly knock-me-down children’s toy look. Chris smiled. It was his clothes that really amused her. The expensive blue blazer his father had chosen for him. Now flapping wildly open, with a large tomato sauce stain on the left lapel. Within an hour, as the temperature came up, it would lie crumpled in a corner, Chris knew. The captain’s peaked cap, again an idea of his father’s. Now hanging at a precarious angle, creased and stained. The ridiculous white jodhpurs… The only legacy of another of his father’s ace ideas to turn his gentle son into a man: send him to a very expensive Polo Horse Training Academy… Poor Ricky Distefano, who could just about manage a pony
trekking expedition, on a fat old veteran hay bag, who plodded along steadily, and knew the way home with or without guidance from his rider. Who didn’t shy at cars, bright flashes, dogs or horseflies. And who was probably deaf as a post anyway.
The high spirited ponies at the Polo School had proven far too much for Ricky. He had been absolutely terrified of them, and they had treated him with utter contempt. They would stop – suddenly – at any morsel that took their fancy, often hurling Ricky straight over their
heads. They would jump sideways, or dive under stout branches. Ricky would be a mass of bruises at the end of the day, yet still he would bravely climb on the next day, determined to do his father proud. He ran a good risk of getting killed, but fortunately for him, his agony came to an end when the school’s owners, politely but firmly, over the objections of his father, sent him home. They were kind enough to arrange a diplomatic interview with Ricky, stressing how impressed they had been with his efforts. They promised to tell his father, a promise they honored. When they saw him off, he received a present of a dozen fine bottles of Austrian wine, and a box of chocolates from the ladies. They waved him farewell at the airport with a mixture of sadness and relief, and returned to the school with anecdotes to amuse countless new students for years to come. Ricky for his part arrived home dead drunk and a little fatter. If he thought however that his ‘A’ for effort would pacify his father, he was proved wholly wrong. His father had thrown a ‘wobbly’, shrieking about the family name, and accusing his son of dishonouring same. Ricky had been devastated.

A fishing boat was going to pass on the starboard side, a mile away, and whilst she kept a watchful eye on the purse seiner, she continued her cerebral meanderings. Chris both winced and smiled as she remembered the sequel.
The subject of the Polo riding school fiasco had not been closed. Even after a new idea had cropped up, namely for Ricky to use some of his trust funds to buy a yacht, and go on a sailing expedition around the world, the matter had not been let drop. Ricky had duly bought the finest yacht for the stiffest price the dealership had dared to ask, and had then advertised for a skipper to take him and two friends around the Mediterranean Sea.
The first captain had been a disaster. A stiff old salt, with a humorless grin, who had run the yacht like a battleship. Ricky Distefano had finally interestingly and uncharacteristically lost his temper, and fired the man summarily in Piraeus. Without notifying his father, he had
advertised urgently for a replacement, knowing full well his father would have been choleric again. Through some convoluted twistings of fate, Chris had applied for the job by fax, received an affirmative reply the following day, and plane tickets the day after. They had sailed most enjoyably around the Mediterranean, and then landed at the parents’ holiday home at Malta. Mooring in the bay where once St Paul had been shipwrecked, they had trouped up to the luxurious villa for a triumphant homecoming.

The purse seiner passed safely to starboard, and Chris watched the rusty hull glide past, noticing the bristle of aerials thrusting up from all over. Some crewman waved cheerfully, and she returned the greeting gaily.
Yes… the homecoming.
The memory was discomforting. The meeting with his father, about whom Chris had heard so much from Ricky. The father, who had of course long since heard from the disgruntled former captain. A man who Mr Distefano had secretly hoped would knock some steel into his offspring. She remembered the crumpled face of Ricky, who had taken the onslaught full in the face within the first five minutes. Mrs Distefano, a timid little woman, dainty and pretty, who had beckoned urgently for Chris and Ricky’s two friends to vacate the living room, and leave father and son to it. The two friends, scurrying out of the room, eager to get away. And Chris, who had left reluctantly, feeling desperately sorry for Ricky, his crumpled face haunting her.
And then…
She flinched at the sharpness of the memory.
Then… she had suddenly found herself back in the living room. She had flown at the man, eyes blazing, mouth motoring like a dynamo, teeth and lips slashing verbal fury. A fury that had him totally flabbergasted…
“You stupid, ignorant, heartless,MONSTER…
You self opinionated, insensitive, brainless, blind, STUFFED SHIRT! “
In the stunned silence, she had opened all the taps. She had accused him of complete disregard for the feelings of his son. Of trying to mold Ricky into an unquestioning clone of himself, instead of letting Ricky become his own man. She had screamed, stamping her foot, that Ricky had tried and tried and tried to please his father, to the sum total best of his abilities. That that simple fact merited some fatherly affection, not never ending belittling sarcasm. That she knew he had been looking forward for days to coming home, because he thought he had done good, achieved an adventure, and pleased his father. And here he was, home barely five minutes, being verbally whipped and shredded like a little puppy that just wetted on the carpet. And she was DAMNED if she was going to stand there and listen to it, and DAMNED if she cared a fiddler’s curse WHAT he thought about it…
Mr Distefano, never before in his life addressed by a woman like that, had been stunned. It was as if he had been thumped in the solar plexus. He had eventually roared that she was fired, and that she would never sail on the “Lady Annabelle ” again. She for her part had
retorted, still at high decibel level, that she had never worked for him, never would work for him, and that if he was the last man on earth, she would rather starve than work for him. As far as she was concerned, she worked for Ricky Distefano, who was more of a human being than his father would EVER be. And that if Ricky wanted to fire her, she would be pleased to go. She had plenty of better things to do with her life, than watch a medieval ogre with the emotional warmth of Genghis Khan beat the living spirit out of his only son. And now that she had got all that off her chest, she wasn’t being fired, she was JOLLY WELL GOING, of her own free will, out the door, and thank you all, Ladies and Gentlemen…
And she had picked up her bag, and marched straight out the mahogany and oak front doors…

She punched the ‘zoom out’ on the GPS Chartviewer, and admired the picture. Here she was, sailing along, East of the Philippines, North of the Solomon Islands, which were north of Australia, on a course that would take them to the coast of Papua New Guinea. Ricky had decided he wanted to see Wewak, a small harbor on the coast there. They would be there the following night, with a favorable wind…

She had been still angry when she had checked in at a small hotel near the airport. The girl at the reception desk, sensing her anger, and struggling with broken English, had become confused and frightened, misunderstanding the direction of all that angry energy.
It had taken Chris a major effort to compose herself, and sweep the scars of dark anger from her face. She had smiled then, a thin, strained smile, accepted the keys, and gone to her room. There she had flung herself on the bed, and cried bitterly. Half an hour later, she had gotten up, washed her face, and telephoned the airline. With her seat booked she had felt better, and taken out a book she was reading. She had barely started, when a timid knock had come at the door.
She had opened it, and to her amazement seen Mr Distefano standing there, hat in hand. He had fumbled awkwardly, and asked permission to enter. She had shown him in, astonished, over awed.

Wewak… she looked at the chart of the harbor approaches. It looked a pretty small place. Hopefully they had a few decent shops. She could murder for some marmalade and tinned fruit…

He had apologized, with the clumsy, faltering words of a man not used to acknowledging faults. He had thanked her for looking after his only son so well on the long voyage. His only son, and the heir to a sizeable fortune. There had been something suddenly old about him, something tired, almost broken. She had sensed it, and her heart had softened a little. She, stubborn as an alley cat, knew only too well how hard it could be to apologise. He sensed her mood change, hesitated, and decided to tell her a little more. In his curiously accented English, at times very good, at times grammatically imperfect. About the other son, the one who died, little more than an alcoholic drop out, a flunked student at the Sorbonne. He told her about a father’s fears for his only son, about the hard, cruel, merciless world of business and intrigue, where the sharks preyed on the gullible and the weak. He ended with a strange statement, delivered quietly:
“I see now, why my son likes sailing with you so much. You are strong, where he is still weak. But already I see changes. He is better… ”
Then he had chuckled quietly.
“…for the first time, he stand up to me. Full in my face. He was angry. Very angry. Maybe… that is good. ”
Then he had looked her straight in the face.
“He must learn, but… so must I. You… look after my son… ”
He had squeezed her hand gently, and left.
She had been bemused, but had also understood.

F.M.
(c)