The Nautical Chart

  "We may lose two or three days," Coy said. "But we have time to spare."

  Tanger wrote something and then stopped, the pencil hovering over the chart.

  "We don't have time to spare. We'll need every available hour."

  Her tone was severe, almost reproachful, and once again Coy felt annoyed. The weather, he thought, doesn't give a shit about your available hours.

  "If we get a strong wind, we won't be able to work," he explained. "The seas will be choppy and the echo sounder won't work efficiently."

  He saw her open her mouth to reply, and then bite her lips. Now the pencil was drumming on the chart. On the bulkhead, next to the barometer, two clocks marked local time and Greenwich time. She sat staring at them, and then checked the stainless-steel watch on her right wrist.

  "When will this happen?’

  Coy paused.

  "Can't be sure... Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow."

  "Then for the moment, we'll keep going here."

  Again she concentrated on the screen of the Pathfinder, considering the matter settled. Coy looked up to meet El Piloto's eyes. You do it, said the lead-gray eyes. You make the decision. There was more than a little needling in that look, and Coy fled from it, excusing himself to go topside. There he studied the sky on the horizon, where high clouds unraveled into strings like white mares' tails. I hope to God, he thought, that it will get really bad, that we'll have fierce waves and a murderous easterly, and have to haul ass out of here. Then she'll run out of Dramamine, and I will get to see her hanging over the side, puking her guts out. The bitch.

  His hopes were fulfilled, at least in part. Tanger didn't run out of Dramamine, but the next day the sun shone briefly amid a halo of reddish clouds that later turned dark and gray, and the wind veered to the southeast, kicking up whitecaps. By noon the sea was getting rough. The pressure had dropped another five millibars and the anemometer was indicating force 6. At that same hour, after the last position had been carefully noted on the squared zone of track 56, the Carpanta was sailing toward Aguilas with a reef in the mainsail and another in the Genoa, both hauled to port.

  Coy had disconnected the automatic pilot and was steering manually, legs spread to counteract the list, feeling in the spokes of the wheel the tug of the rudder in the water and the force of the wind in the sails, along with the powerful pitching of the boat as she plowed the waves. They sailed southwest quarter to south on the compass, and with the large rock at Cabo Cope on the gray horizon. On the log, the anemometer showed 22 to 24 knots true wind. Sometimes the bow breasted a crest and spray showered as far as the cockpit, covering the windshield with spindrift. The air smelled of salt and sea, and the whistling in the rigging rose octave by octave, making the halyards chime against the mast with every plunge of the boat.

  It was obvious that Tanger didn't need the Dramamine. She was sitting on the coaming of the cockpit, legs stretched toward the windward side, wearing the red foul-weather pants El Piloto had lent her. No one could doubt that she was enjoying the sail. To Coy's surprise, she hadn't protested too much when the wind forced them to interrupt the search. It seemed as if she had adapted better to the ways of the sea in recent days, accepting the fatalism inherent in the changing fate of the sailor. At sea, what couldn't be couldn't be; or was, in fact, impossible. Sitting there now—oversize pants, wide suspenders, T-shirt, kerchief knotted around her forehead, bare feet—she looked different, and it was hard for Coy to take his eyes off her and pay attention to the course and sails. Leaning against the cockpit, El Piloto was calmly smoking. From time to time, when he took his eyes off Tanger, Coy found his friend's eyes on him. What do you want me to say, he answered in silence. Things are what they are, not what you want them to be.

  The anemometer soon showed 25 to 29 knots, and gusts hardened the feel of the wheel in Coy's hands. Force 7. That was strong, but not unmanageable. The Carpanta had weathered storms of force 9, with fierce winds at 46 knots howling in the rigging and short, quick, twenty-foot waves. Like that time when he and El Piloto had to run twenty miles with a following sea and under bare poles after the storm jib had split. Even with the motor, they were falling off and only just passed into Cartagena inlet, sixteen feet from the rocks. Once they were tied up, El Piloto knelt down and very seriously kissed the ground. Compared with that, 29 knots wasn't much. But when Coy looked up at the gray sky above the swinging mast, he saw that high cirrus clouds were advancing from the left of the wind blowing at sea level, and that to the east a line of dark, threatening-looking clouds was beginning to form, low and solid. That's where the wind would be coming from soon. Better to keep an eye on it, he concluded.

  "I'm taking in the second reef, Piloto."

  As Coy said that his friend was looking at the mainsail, thinking the same thing. But on board El Piloto was the skipper, and that kind of decision was up to him. So Coy waited until he saw him nod, flick his cigarette leeward, and stand. They started the motor to head the bow into the sea and wind, with the jib fluttering, a third of its canvas rolled in the stay. Tanger took the wheel, holding the course, and while El Piloto caught the boom in the center and then eased off the main halyard, letting it drop, flapping, to the second reef, Coy stuffed some gaskets in his pockets, held another in his teeth, and went to the base of the mast, trying in the violent pitching to keep from being sent into the sea a second time in one week Bracing himself with his knees against the windshield of the cockpit, he fit the eyelet of the second reef onto the weather hook. Then when El Piloto held taut again, Coy moved toward the stern, adjusting as he went to the movements of the boat, and threaded a gasket in each eyelet of the sail, knotting them beneath the boom to anchor the surplus. At that moment a heavy spray broke over the deck, soaking his back, and Coy leaped into the cockpit beside Tanger. Their bodies collided in the rolling, and to keep from falling he had to catch himself on the wheel, arms around Tanger, clasping her in an involuntary embrace.

  "You can steer," he said. "Gradually let it fall to leeward."

  El Piloto, coiling the main halyard, watched them, amused. She turned the spokes of the wheel to starboard, and the sails stopped flapping. A little before the Carpanta picked up speed, the sea shook her abeam, whipping the mast, and making Tanger stagger within the circle of Coy s arms and chest, as he helped her effect the exact turn of the wheel. Finally the rock of Cabo Cope, standing gray among the low clouds, was again off the starboard bow, beneath the swollen Genoa, and the needle of the log stabilized at five knots. A spray stronger than the previous ones broke over them, soaking their faces, hands, and clothing. Coy saw that the cold water had made Tanger's hair stand up on her neck and bare arms, and when she turned to face him, closer than they had ever been, she was smiling in a strange way, very happy and very sweet, as if for some reason she owed that moment to him. The shower of saltwater had multiplied to infinity the specks on her face, and her lips opened, as if she were going to speak words that certain men wait centuries to hear.

  ON the terrace of the restaurant, a two-story open-air structure of wood, cane, plaster, and palm leaves rising high over the beach, the orchestra was playing Brazilian music. Two young men and a girl were doing a good imitation of Vinicius de Moraes, Toquinho, and Maria Bethania. As they sang, some of the customers sitting at the nearest tables were swaying in their chairs to the beat of the tune. The girl, a rather pretty mulatta with large eyes and an African mouth, was rhythmically drumming the bongos and gazing into the eyes of the smiling and bearded guitarist, as she sang "A tonga da mironga do kabulete." On the table were rum and caipiriha, a heady Brazilian drink. Palm trees lined the sea, and Coy thought how it could be Rio, or Bahia.

  He could see the beach through the open wooden railing, and beyond that El Piloto, sailing from the pleasure-craft port, whose forest of wood pilings rose from behind a small mole. At the back of that cove, on the high rock that protected the docks and fish market, Aguilas castle was surrounded by a crest of gray stone that grew darker as dusk fell. At the en
trance, the sea was breaking on the point and on the island whose shape gave its name to the port. But the wind had died, and a fine, warm drizzle left puddled reflections on the dark gray sand of the beach, where the water was calm. He saw the first beacon go on, its black-and-white-striped tower still visible in the uncertain light, and he counted the cadence until he could identify it: two white flashes every five seconds.

  When he again turned to Tanger, her eyes were on him. He had been talking, just making conversation about the music and the beach. He had begun, rather tentatively, only to fill an uncomfortable silence after El Piloto drank his coffee and said goodnight, leaving the two of them with the music and the last ashen light slowly fading over the bay. Tanger seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but he had finished, and he didn't know what to bring up to fill the silence. Fortunately, there was the music, the voices of the girl and the other singers, its effect intensified by the proximity of the beach and the drizzle whispering on the palm-leaf roof. He could keep silent without seeming too unsociable, so he reached for his glass of white wine and took a sip. Tanger smiled. She was moving her shoulders slightly to the beat of the music. Not long before, she had shifted to the caipirina, and it shone in the navy-blue eyes fixed on Coy.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "I'm watching you."

  He turned back to the beach, uncomfortable, and poured more wine, though his glass was nearly full. The eyes were still there, studying him.

  "Tell me," she said, "what it is that changed about the sea."

  "I didn't say anything about that."

  "Yes, you did. Tell me why it's different now."

  "Not now. It was already different when I began to sail."

  Her eyes never left him; she seemed truly interested. She was wearing a long, full blue cotton skirt and a white blouse that emphasized the tan of the last days. Her hair was silky and clean, like a sleek gold curtain; he had seen her washing it that afternoon. For the occasion she had replaced the masculine wristwatch with a silver bracelet whose seven links glinted in the light of a candle stuck in a bottle at one side of the table.

  "Does that mean the sea doesn't do it anymore?"

  "It isn't that either." Coy made a vague gesture. "It does. It's that... Well. It isn't easy anymore to get away."

  "Get away from what?"

  "There's the telephone, the fax, the Internet. You go to nautical school so... I don't know. Because you want to go places. You want to know a lot of countries, and ports, and women—"

  His distracted eyes stopped on the mulatta singer. Tanger followed the direction of his gaze.

  "Have you known a lot of women?"

  "Right now I don't remember."

  'A lot of whores?"

  He turned to face her, irritated. How you enjoy your damned little game, he thought. Now what he had before him were unblinking eyes the color of blued steel. They seemed amused, but also curious.

  "Some," he answered.

  Tanger evaluated the singer.

  "Black?"

  Coy gulped his wine, emptying half the glass. He slapped it down on the table.

  "Yes," he said. "Black. And Chinese. And half-breeds... As the Tucuman Torpedoman used to say, the good thing about whores is that they want your dollars, not conversation."

  Tanger seemed unfazed. She smiled pensively. Coy found nothing pleasant in that smile.

  "How are black girls?"

  Now her eyes were on Coy's muscular forearms, bare below rolled-up shirtsleeves. He contemplated her a few seconds and then leaned back. He was trying to think of something appropriately outrageous to say.

  "I don't know what to tell you. Some have rose-colored cunts."

  He saw her blink, and her lips part. For a moment, he noticed, perversely satisfied, she seemed taken aback. Touché, hot stuff. Then again the serene gaze, the sarcastic smile, the dark, blued steel reflected in the light of the candle.

  "Why do you like to show off how gross and tough you are?"

  "I'm not showing off." He drank what was left in the glass. He took his time doing it, then lifted his shoulders a fraction of an inch. "You can be gross and you can be tough, but still be a damn fool. On that island of yours, it all seems compatible."

  "Have you decided whether I'm a knight or a knave?"

  He waited, thoughtful, playing with the empty glass.

  "What you are," he said, "is a witch. A goddamn scheming witch."

  It wasn't an insult; it was a comment. The statement of an objective reality, which she took without moving a muscle. She was staring so intently at Coy that he ended up wondering if she was looking at him.

  "Who's the Tucuman Torpedoman?"

  "Was."

  "Who was the Tucuman Torpedoman?"

  My God, he thought, how self-contained and clever she is. How bloody clever. Again he folded his arms on the table and shook his head, laughing almost to himself. A resigned laugh that swept away his irritation the same way wind dissipates fog. When he looked up, the eyes were still staring at him, but the expression had changed. She was smiling, but this time the sarcasm was gone. It was a frank smile. Nothing personal, sailor. And he knew deep down that was true; it wasn't anything personal. So he asked the waiter for a Sapphire gin and tonic, then made an expression as if he was trying to remember. A thoughtful Popeye with a drink in his hand. Those nights with Olive Oyl, et cetera, et cetera. And since that was exactly what it was about, and she was waiting, and he didn't have to invent anything because it was all mere in his memory, he laid himself, the character of himself, out on the tablecloth, effortlessly spun from the taste of gin on his tongue. He talked about the Torpedoman, about Crew Sanders, about the merry-go-round horse they stole one night from a New Orleans amusement park, and about Anita's in Guayaquil, and the Happy Landers in El Callao, and about the southernmost whorehouse in the world, which was the La Turca bar in Ushuaia. And about the row in Copenhagen, and another with police in Trieste, and another time the Torpedoman and Gallego Neira had to run after they broke a patrolman's jaw—leg, don't fail me now—with Coy, as usual, dangling between the two of them, an arm around each, his feet running in the air without touching the ground, but they had reached the ship safely. And he also told Tanger, who was leaning forward and listening intently, about the most fabulous fight ever seen in any port in the world—the one on the tugboat in Rotterdam that was carrying sailors and stevedores from dock to dock and ship to ship, all of them seated on long benches, when a thoroughly trashed Dutch stevedore had tripped over the Torpedoman, and the fight spread like a flash of gunpowder. Viva Zapata! Gallego Neira had yelled, and eighty men filled with booze went at it tooth and fist in the main cabin. Coy went up on deck to get some air, and from time to time the Torpedoman would stick his head through a porthole, take some deep breaths, and then jump back into the melee. It all ended with the tug delivering unconscious and beat-up sailors, and stevedores reeking of alcohol off-loading them like cargo, dumping off bales here and there, each to his own dock and his own ship, like a pizza delivery service

  Pizza delivery, he repeated. Then he sat back, a slight smile on his lips. Tanger was very quiet, as if afraid she might tumble a house of cards.

  "What has changed, Coy?"

  "Everything." The smile disappeared, and he took another drink, savoring the analgesic scent of gin slipping down his throat. "No such thing as a voyage today, almost all the real ships are gone. Now a ship is like an airplane. It's not a voyage; they transport you from point A to point B."

  'And it used to be different?"

  "Of course. A person could find solitude. You were suspended between A and B, and it was a long passage— You carried very little baggage, and not putting down roots didn't matter."

  "The sea is still the sea. It has its secrets and dangers."

  "But not the way it used to be. It's like arriving too late at an empty pier and seeing the smoke from the funnel disappearing over the horizon. When you're a student you use the correct vocabula
ry, port and starboard, and all the rest. You try to preserve traditions, you trust a captain the way a child trusts in God But

  that doesn't work anymore. I dreamed of having a good captain, like Mac Whirr on the Typhoon. Of being one myself some day." "What is a good captain?"

  "Someone who knows what he's doing. Who never loses his head. Who comes up to the bridge during your watch and sees a ship closing in on the port beam, and instead of ordering 'Hard to starboard, we're bearing down on her,' keeps his mouth shut and looks at you and waits for you to perform the correct maneuver."

  "You had good captains?"

  Coy grimaced. That was a real question. Mentally he turned the pages of an old photo album stained with drops of saltwater. And not a little shit.

  "I had every kind," he said. "Miserable and drunk and cowardly, and some remarkable men too. But I always trusted them. All my life, until just recently, the word 'captain' inspired respect. I told you that I associated it with the captain Conrad describes: 'The hurricane... had found this taciturn man in its path, and, doing its utmost, had managed to wring out a few words.' I remember a bad storm, a nor'wester, the first of my life, in the Bay of Biscay, with huge waves that swept over the bow of the Migalota to the bridge. She was fitted with McGregor hatches that didn't fit right, and the ship was taking a beating. Water was coming in every time the seas broke over her, and the cargo was a mineral, which shifts when it gets wet. Each time the bow plunged into the water and looked like it was never coming up, the Captain, don Gines Saez, who was welded to the wheel, would mutter 'God' very low, to himself.... There were four or five people on the bridge, but since I was standing beside him, I was the only one who could hear. No one else noticed. When he glanced my way and saw how close I was, he never opened his mouth again."