about it—but not now. I have a splitting headache. Guess I need some chow.”
“Sure, forget it—for now.”
Rose went to the refrigerator, which was barely working due to the lack of current—pulled out a crock of cheese we'd opened for lunch. Placing the cheese on the table, she opened the cracker jar. She ate in the dim light and suddenly spit out a shower of crumbs. Cursing savagely, Rose lit a match and pointed at the cheese —it was already moldy. I told her, “Easy, hon, we can always open a fresh tin.”
Rose wiped her lips with the back of her hand, somehow a terribly weary motion. Then she shook her head. “No, no. You're right, Mickey. Another few days of this lousy rain and I might flip. No sense kidding ourselves about the engine—we can't get a new oil cooler out of thin air. We'll leave here. We'll leave... but...
VI
When we dropped anchor in Jacksonville, Florida, it was exactly seven weeks from the time Rose and I had it out in our hut on Ansel's island. The odd thing was, even talking about leaving had been a tonic: the rain had kept up for another few days but we were no longer bored—we argued. But without much heat. Rose tried to make me understand I'd be risking her life by returning to the States and I kept saying she was in the clear—if she had told me the truth.
After a few days we switched sides. I didn't care if we left the island or not. All the gamblers I'd ever known had yanked the rug out from under themselves when they had it made—never knew when they were well-off. I was troubled by the thought that if Rose wasn't telling me the truth, why chance the ideal set-up we—or I—had? But Rose now had a sort of fatalistic outlook, said she had no right to stick me in the islands for the rest of my life and anyway—what was going to happen was going to happen no matter what she did. So, crazy as it may seem, she was the one insisting we leave.
We both agreed on a few precautions. We'd register at hotels as Mr. and Mrs. Mickey Anderson of Tampa and I had cards printed, stating I was in the wholesale shrimp business—along with a few “identification' papers —a phony Lions Club card, and an old novel-of-the-month card I fixed up with ink eradicator. Rose cut her hair short and colored it black, wore plain eye-glasses, and was to dress simply and a bit on the sloppy side. We made a list of the three names Josef had mumbled in his sleep: William Sour, Me-Lucy-ah, and Gootsrat —which sounded like “Good rat.” The first thing we'd do on landing would be to check the phone books for these names. We'd live modestly and never carry or flash much money—leave most of the loot locked up in the Sea Princess. Rose flatly refused to go to Miami but the general idea was to work our way up the coast and then back to the island. We told Ansel we were sailing the Gulf of Mexico and would return in a few months, or sooner.
It was a cold, rough crossing. Rose was so tense every time we even passed a boat flying the USA flag, I felt lousy. But when I suggested we turn back, she said we'd already thrown the dice and had to see what came up. Our first night in Jacksonville we quickly ate in a waterfront restaurant, checked the phone book, and slept for over fifteen hours aboard the boat. Rose acted lovey-dovey and coy, trying to keep me in her bunk, but we finally went ashore in the afternoon. Replacing the oil cooler was a snap. Then we bought clothes and bags, checked into a modest hotel. It was the first time I'd worn a suit and tie in years.
That night we kept to our room, Rose hitting the bottle. But she couldn't get juiced enough to overcome her jitters. The next day we took in a couple of movies, watched TV in a bar, and returned to the hotel to sleep like tops. I awoke first and soaking in a tub of hot water, I decided all this was wrong. Certainly not worth Rose having a breakdown over.
To my surprise, when she awoke Rose seemed very calm. When I mentioned heading back to the Caymans, she said we might as well stay a few days at least and get our fill. We did about all there was to do in Jacksonville, and Rose was in such a sudden good mood she told me the suit I'd bought was a double for an undertaker's helper, and we went into a swank men's shop and bought me a mild sport jacket and slacks. She wore a formless dress that made her look a big hick.
After two days we sailed up to Charleston and then on to Wilmington. In each city we had a ball, especially in Charleston, where we took in the night life, and of course all the movies. Rose seemed at ease. One night in bed she told me I'd been right, all her fear could have been her shocked imagination. Of course we still checked the phone books, avoided talking to people in bars, and didn't live too big. If Rose had lost her tenseness, I had a new bug in my head. Now that we were back in the States, what had I proved—except Rose's cock and bull story had been exactly that? I not only felt I was farther than ever from her real story, but I became nervous if she was out of my sight for a few minutes. I had this feeling that since she thought she was safe, Rose might leave me and go back to wherever she'd come from—to the guy who'd given her the loot. The fact she didn't want to go back to Ansel's made me suspicious.
I told her we'd gone far enough North; we'd had it. I'd given up any idea of going to New York City. I practically insisted we go back to the island. But I had one other idea in my empty head. I was very proud of the Sea Princess, felt she could go anywhere in the world. As a sailor I'd heard what a rough place Cape Hatteras was and I wanted to give it a try. Don't ask me why. I was like a clown trying to see if his car can make a hundred miles an hour and forgetting what a blowout would mean.
We agreed to sail around the Cape to Norfolk, then head back to the Caymans, stopping at coast towns we hadn't visited on the return trip. I carefully checked the charts and the weather, listened to the bull stories fishing boat men told me, and even Rose was fairly excited about trying the Cape. We set out for Norfolk and the ocean off the Cape was so calm I nearly laughed.
We didn't like Norfolk very much. For one thing it was March and so cold we had to buy coats. So after two days we ran up sail again and headed South. We'd about rounded Hatteras with the water merely choppy, when a hell of a storm hit us, knocking the Sea Princess on her beam ends. The lousy storm came out of the Southeast full of sudden fury, snow and sleet. While the radio had warned of a “possible squall,” this was far worse than the hurricane. Waves higher than our mast pounded the Sea Princess badly and Rose was terrified. I was scared dumb myself. I tried going out to sea, afraid we'd hit the reefs and rocks near the coast.
I kept Rose in the cabin while I sat at the wheel with a rope around my chest to keep from being washed over.
The icy water went through my oilskins and I thought my fingers were breaking off as I close-reefed the mainsail. But the storm grew worse; the only thing to do was turn and run before the wind. The battens in the big sail had snapped, and the backstays and rigging were in a crazy dance. I managed to furl the mainsail and even with only the jib up, we went down the wind—and North—like a speed boat. The radio rigging was carried away, the dinghy smashed and yanked off the cabin top.
We went roaring before the wind all night and I was numb with cold. In early morning the jib went to pieces —I didn't know how it had stood up so long. I figured we were far enough at sea to lash the wheel and put out a sea anchor. Anyway, there wasn't anything else I could do. After locking the hatch, I went below. The cabin was a mess; broken dishes and junk all over, Rose in her bunk moaning and screaming with fear. I told her to shut up and had some food and whiskey. I felt human again even if we were bouncing around so it felt as if we were living inside a soccer ball.
I forced Rose to kill a bottle but it didn't knock her out. She crouched in her bunk, stiff with fear. I sat on my blankets, holding on to the bunk, sure we were going to die.
Toward dawn we stopped bouncing—a little. I went on deck and the wind was dying. The rigging was mostly okay and steering by compass, for a change, I headed due West with both engines; thankful we had the power —as I wondered how long our fuel would last—we were still running in a full sea. I started the pumps, happy to find we hadn't taken on much water. The sky cleared and a few planes passed. I made Rose come on deck where she felt better, the raw wind acting like a shot in the arm. Several hours later we crossed the wake of a rusty freighter, watched some sailors calmly waving at us. Perhaps they thought I was a rich yachtsman out for a sail.
We began passing more ships—all of them work boats—soon we saw the coastline. Rose had to make the usual crack about kissing the ground. Within two hours we were tied to a dock in Asbury Park, New Jersey. The storm had blown us that far North. Except for the loss of the dink, the jib, and some shrouds, the boat was okay.
It was a sunny day, but cold, with a thin layer of snow on the ground. Going ashore for lunch, we read in the papers that a “freak' squall had pounded the coast, damaging plenty of boats and summer homes. When I said we had to go back to the Sea Princess, Rose flatly refused. I told her to wait in the greasy spoon. I found a boatyard, arranged for the boat to be hauled out at once, the rigging repaired, her bottom scraped and painted.
We took a room in a cheap hotel. Rose was all for selling the Sea Princess, flying back to the islands and buying another boat there. I told her to shut up—we'd see. We hit the bed and pounded our ears for sixteen straight hours. I was feeling good, cocky. I'd been sailor enough to ride out the storm.
The next few days we hung around the boatyard, I
