Dead calm

“Watch your language, Mate. I just bathed in the Pacific Ocean.”

“God, the English language, at seven o’clock in the morning. I mean the dirty wife of a clean sailor.”

“Okay, Moonbeam McSwine. How about a cup of coffee?”

“Love it.” She swung long bare legs off the bunk and disappeared into the head, which opened off the narrow passageway between the forward and after compartments. She came out a few minutes later, face washed and hair combed, and sat down on the bunk with her legs braced against the one opposite. He handed her the mug of coffee and a lighted cigarette. “We’ve got company.”

“You mean somebody else is using our ocean?”

He nodded. “I just sighted him.”

“Who? Where?”

“Three or four miles away, to the northwest. Looks like a yacht. Yawl or ketch.”

“Where do you suppose he’s going?”

He grinned. “Nowhere at the moment. He’s becalmed too.”

“If we could get together and all whistle for wind at the same time, like a grievance committee, or a delegation—”

“This won’t last much longer. We whittled off another twenty or thirty miles last night. In a few more days we ought to be picking up the Trades.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining. Being becalmed has its points.”

“It does?” he asked. “I can only think of one.”

“That’s the one. Nobody has to be at the wheel.”

“I thought you liked to steer.”

“I do.” She smiled roguishly. “And no further comment, not at this hour of the morning.”

“You’re a hard woman. Look, I intended to run the engine a few minutes today to dry it out; if you want to, after breakfast we could run over and hail our neighbor. You like to gossip awhile, or borrow a cup of sugar?”

“Sure. But could I have a swim first? Or is he within binocular range?”

“Not unless he’s got the Mount Palomar telescope. Anyway, you could wear a suit.”

She sniffed. “Swim suit? Fine pagan you are.”

After they’d cooked and eaten breakfast and washed the dishes, he returned to the cockpit. The sun was up now, glaring brassily on the polished surface of the sea. Saracen had swung around on the swell, but he checked the bearing on the compass and located the other boat without difficulty, using the binoculars. It was off the starboard quarter. Rae came up, wrapped in a terrycloth robe and carrying a towel. “Which way is he?”

He handed her the binoculars and pointed. She searched for a moment. “Mmmmm. There he is. Is he really that small, or just so far away?”

“He’s a long way off.”

She grinned. “Far enough, I think. I can’t even tell if there’s anybody on deck.”

he went forward, hung the ladder over the side, unbelted the robe, and let it drop. She stepped across the lifeline, poised for a moment, dived cleanly, and came to the surface almost immediately with a flip of her head to clear the hair from her eyes. He walked forward along the port side, watching the water around and below her, faintly uneasy as he always was when she was down there. Motion pictures to the contrary, sharks didn’t always travel on the surface with their dorsal fins conveniently showing. “Don’t go too far from the ladder,” he warned.

“I won’t.”

She swam back and forth several times and came back to the ladder. When she had her feet on the bottom rung and the lifeline in her hands, he said, “Wait there a minute.” He turned and ran below, grabbed a saucepan, and pumped a quart of fresh water into it at the sink. She watched, puzzled, as he came hurrying back. He knelt and poured it slowly over her head, washing the salt water out of her hair. She began to laugh, and when he put down the saucepan she sprang the rest of the way up the ladder and threw her arms about him. “It’s because I love you,” he said, as wet now as she was.

She kissed him again, and then broke up into laughter once more with her face against his throat. “I was thinking of that woman the Taj Mahal was built for.”

“Why?”

“When she was alive, I bet even her husband didn’t pour a whole quart of fresh water in her hair.”

“Probably nothing but emeralds.”

“The clod.” She pushed back. “But I’d better get some clothes on. They just might have bigger binoculars over there.”

He went back to the cockpit. She dried herself with the towel, wrapped it about her head, put on the robe, and went below. The engine controls were in the cockpit. He set the choke, switched on the ignition, and turned it over with the starter. It caught on the third or fourth try, coughed once, and settled down to a steady rumble. He let it idle a few minutes to warm up, and shoved the lever ahead. Taking the wheel, he brought her around and steadied up on the approximate bearing of the other craft. Now that they were under way, the rolling lessened almost miraculously, and the slight breeze of their passage felt cool against his face. He reached for the glasses, picked up the boat again, brought Saracen a few degrees to the right to line it up dead ahead, and checked the compass course. Three-fifteen was about right.

“Honey,” he called down the hatch, “when you come up, will you bring me a cigar?”

“Right, Skipper. But don’t get there too fast. If we’re going calling, I’ve got to dress and put on my face.”

“Take your time. It’ll be a half-hour or more.”

She came on deck in about five minutes, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a white blouse. Her still-damp hair was combed back and tied with a scrap of ribbon, and she’d put on lipstick. He lit the cigar she handed him. She picked up the binoculars and turned forward, searching for the other craft. The sun struck coppery highlights in her hair as she swayed with the motion of the ketch, balancing easily on bare feet.

“Still can’t tell whether there’s anybody on deck,” she said.

“She’s a long way off yet,” Ingram replied. “And they could be asleep—” He broke off at a muttered exclamation from Rae. “What is it?”

She spoke without lowering the glasses. “I thought I saw something else. Between here and there.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It was just a speck, and it’s gone now—no. Wait. There it was again.”

“Turtle?” he asked.

“No-o. It’d have to be bigger than that; it’s too far away. Here, you take a look.”

He slid over and stood up in the cockpit. She took the wheel and repeated the compass course. “It’s almost dead ahead,” she said. “I only had a couple of quick glimpses of it, but I think it was right in line with the other boat and probably three-quarters of the way over to it.”

He put a knee on the starboard cockpit cushion and leaned to the right to get out of line with the masts as he adjusted the glasses. He picked up the other craft and studied it for a moment. Ketch-rigged, he thought, and probably a little larger than Saracen. There was no one visible on deck. She was almost abeam to the swell and rolling sluggishly. He lowered the glasses a bit and began to search the slickly heaving surface of the sea that lay between.

“See anything?” Rae asked.

“Not yet.” Then he did. It was only a speck in the distance, showing for an instant as it rose to the broad crest of a swell. It dropped from view. He marked the location in reference to the other craft and tried to hold the glasses steady to catch it when it came up again. Saracen rolled, and he lost it. “Had it,” he said. “Wait—here it is again.” It was in view for several seconds this time, and he was able to make out what it was—”Dinghy,” he announced.

“Adrift?” she asked.

“No. There’s somebody in it.”

“Odd place to go for a row.”

Ingram frowned, still studying the tiny shell. “I think he’s coming this way. Must have sighted us and started