Chickenhawk: Back in the World

“Okay,” John said, tapping the pencil on Saint Thomas. “Okay. Saint Thomas is the last we touch land until we get back, okay? And this Caribbean leg is dangerous,” he said, dotting a line between Saint Thomas and Colombia. “We got dangerous shit here. We got pirates out here sniffing for our money and the boat on the way down. We got pirates out here sniffing for our cargo and the boat on the way back.” Pirates? Ireland and I look at each other. “Now. Okay. We sail from Saint Thomas, windward across the Caribbean, six hundred and fifty miles directly to the Guaijira Peninsula, and meet up with Ike—that’s the code name for the contact—on the coast, near Carrizal, here. About here,” he said, making a tiny dot next to the coast. “We load up and beat back across, out through the Annegada Passage through the Virgins. Trade winds are always from the north; have to beat back up; not comfortable; need industrial-grade jockstraps for that part. Now we got fifteen hundred miles of dodging el Coasto Guardo.” John smiled. “But that’s why we’re so far out, off the usual routes. Coast Guard stays closer to land. We curve way out and come back in until we get about here,” John said, tapping on a spot about two hundred miles off the coast of South Carolina. “About here, then we turn southwest.”

“Whot happy, Juan? We meesing the Florida?”

John laughed. “No. No meesing the Florida, Ramon. No meesing the Florida. No. From here we sail to Charleston. Near Charleston; they haven’t decided exactly where, yet.”

“Charleston? Why?” Ireland said, dropping his mangled Spanish routine.

“Because that’s where we make the drop-off, Ramon. Destination-land. Where we go. The shore team is already there, living in a beach house, checking out the area. They live there now; they fish; they shop; just folks; checking it out.” John winked and smiled. “Surprise! We not going where you theenk we go, eh, Ramon?”

Ireland nodded, looking worried.

“Don’t worry, Ramon, Spence is there; Mitford; Wheely and Rangey Jane; about fifteen dingers you know. They know what they’re doing. They’re watching everything: the drop-off point and every approach to it. They’ll give us the final clearance before we come in.” Ireland smiled, but he was still worried about something.

The spot where John said we’d turn southwest was a hundred miles north of Charleston. “Why so far up before we turn back?” I asked.

“People spot us coming in will think we’re cruising down from Cape Fear; think we’re a yacht on the way down from New York, maybe. Just on a cruise from New York. No clue we’re coming up from Colombia, Ali. Not a clue.”

Pretty slick. Except for saying everything twice, I was beginning to think John had his shit together.

“That last leg is over fifteen hundred miles of winter Atlantic. Lotsa nasty weather, amigos. Winter Atlantic weather.” John grinned. “Altogether, we’re talking about more than a four-thousand-mile cruise, here. Four thousand miles, plus.”

“Madre mio

!” Ireland, reacting to the distance, smiled and then, looking serious, said, “But why Charleston? We’ve always had good luck in Florida.”

“Florida’s getting hot. Too hot in Florida. Last place they’d expect to see pot coming in is Charleston, Ramon. Nobody goes to Charleston. Who goes to Charleston?”

“Nobody goes to Charleston,” Ireland said, smiling.

“Right,” John said.

I walked home feeling antsy. Four thousand miles in a thirty-six-foot sailboat? Pirates? Coast Guard? The plan seemed okay, but what did I know? What were the odds? I fought back the nagging of my conscience, which claimed I was just not cut out for this stuff. It was just not me. I considered quitting that night, before I got in any deeper, but I’d said I’d go. Plus the alternative was grim: no money, no job, no hopes for either. Besides, I reminded myself, I had felt the same sickening butterflies in Vietnam, just before the assaults. Once you get into action, the doubts vanish. Just suck it up and do the mission. Thirty thousand dollars could last us three years. Three years to get a book published.

Just do the mission.

CHAPTER 13

November 30, 1980—Jacksonville is having a cold snap. It’s forty degrees inside the Namaste. I’m lying in my bunk in the main cabin. I put my hand out and touch the bulkhead. The hull is just thick fiberglass, cold as steel, clammy. Ireland is asleep in the bottom bunk, John is on deck talking to the partner, Ray, the guy who owns the boat. I can only catch snatches, but I get the gist. Ray is unhappy with how long it’s taking, how much it’s costing. John is talking, louder, repeating himself. I’m getting depressed.

“Sure,” John says. “You sit out there in California while the dingers are busting their nuts putting the fucking boat together. Comes on a truck. Comes in fucking pieces. Yacht-fucking-kit. What do you know about going to sea, Ray?”