Berkeley Noir Page 13

  No answer.

  "You seem . . ." What's the word? Upset? Pissed off? Disconcerted?

  Regan refocused a thousand-yard stare onto Ron's face, mere inches in front of hers. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her eyes, which were of a green that the roadster could only hope to rival, liquified. She clutched the glass to her sternum. She shook her head.

  Captain Ron dropped the sail bag and embraced her. He didn't know what else to do. Her hair smelled of cigarette smoke. The glass smelled of whiskey. A shudder passed through her. Captain Ron realized that, beneath the knee-length faux-ermine coat, his boss might not have any clothes on.

  After a full minute she pulled back far enough to place the empty glass against his own sternum, but not so far as to break the embrace. She watched her fingernail, lacquered to match the shoes, trace the rim of the glass. "I'm not going to cry," she told the glass.

  "If you can't cry on your own boat," replied Captain Ron, "where can you cry?"

  She pursed her lips at the evident truth of this, but made no reply. A gust thrummed the stays. Boy Toy rolled to the limit of her snubbers and rebounded.

  Captain Ron raised his eyes toward the overhead. "If this keeps up we'll be sailing right here at the dock. We won't have to go—"

  "We're going out," she interrupted, still addressing the whiskey glass. "Are you ready?"

  Captain Ron nodded toward the sail bag, on the sole abaft him. "Need to bend on the small jib. Then we'll see if we can get out of here without holing somebody's million-dollar yacht."

  "I've got insurance," she whispered. And added, "The bastards." Regan turned out of Ron's arms and finished the drink. She placed the empty glass in the galley sink, and at last she looked at him in the eye. "I'll change clothes, and we'll be off."

  That is one good-looking woman, Captain Ron reflected, not for the first time, who pays me to take her sailing.

  The hint of a smile crept over her lips. "That's right."

  "Which part?"

  She smiled only a little more.

  "All of them."

  "Dress for weather." Ron hefted the sail bag and pushed it ahead of him, out the companionway.

  * * *

  The wind brought with it the unmistakable smell of rain as it raked through the harbor in search of mischief, which latter, aboard Boy Toy, amounted to having carried over the leeward rail the working or forward ends of both jib sheets, left unattended on deck, along with what standing length could follow until the stopper knots halted the chicanery at the after-cars, just forward of the cockpit, which is why they're called stopper knots. No big deal, although, as Ron soon realized, the ebb, falling strongly under the wind, had carried the lines beneath the boat, port to starboard. He had to walk the cordage forward, then aft and back again, hauling all the while, before he could tease the lines free of some object or other, beneath the rippling opaque brine, and drag them back aboard in a braided tangle, itself remarkable in that a braid is usually accomplished with three or more strands, proving yet again the adage, not confined to matters maritime, that if something can go wrong, it will. Hanging onto the cloth of the No. 4 while he bent its luff to the forestay presented another small challenge. A heavy weather sail is made of stouter stuff, and is respectively stiff, but that doesn't mean it won't blow overboard in a heartbeat of inattention. He used one of the sopping sheets to belay the bulk of the jib to the port bow cleat while he sorted clew from head and tack in the dark, then bent on everything in its proper order, the tack to the foot of the forestay, the head to the halyard's venerable bronze pelican shackle, each with a sennit he'd rove himself, and in between clapped the piston hanks to the forestay, throats port to starboard, in their proper order.

  The sail's empty bag he kept aboard by kneeling on it. After a quick trip aft to drop the sail bag down the companionway and retrieve forty feet of half-inch line, back forward he rove a chain knot about jib and forestay, belaying the line to the starboard bow cleat, so the sail wouldn't blow overboard on the way out of the harbor, yet at the proper moment he could raise it out of the slipknots of the chain with a reasonable amount of control. And now, as he deployed a variation on the bowline called a sylvain knot to reave the working ends of both sheets to the clew, an all-too-familiar sound rent the air, and before Captain Ron could so much as bring it to bear, the tip of an upper spreader had speared the big jib aboard Cohiba and the sail simultaneously ripped up to its tack and straight down to its boltrope, midway along its foot, opening as it were a vertical geologic fissure with a sound that most closely resembled that of eighty feet of one-hundred-dollar bills glued nose-to-tail being ripped down the middle one end to the other, only louder. The commotion of whipping sheets and streaming Kevlar gave Cohiba the appearance of flying to windward, a revenant ship. Maybe by the time we get back, Captain Ron reflected, observing Nature's profligate spree, maybe they'll have that mess under control.

  Regan came topside in full foul-weather regalia—bibbed Gore-Tex overalls, cuffs velcroed over sea boots, hooded jacket with gasketed sleeves, watch cap, fingerless gloves, a personal flotation device, or pfd, that would inflate at the tug of a lanyard or upon contact with seawater, with a built-in harness, a tether—which reminded Captain Ron that he'd be well-advised to jump below and don similar gear. Engine started, they performed practiced maneuvers to get underway, Regan handling dock lines and fenders with Captain Ron on helm and throttle, for it is not at all uncommon to encounter a capful of wind in this or any other marina on the San Francisco Bay. Blanketed by the considerable mass of Pay Dirt, they poked Boy Toy's bow into the fairway, got her headed up into the wind, and powered out. The water was very shoal at the entrance, and the chop was considerable, but, decisive on the throttle, they made the two quick turns, one to port, the next to starboard, and cleared the spuming breakwater without incident, leaving the structure's "continuous quick" flashing green light to starboard. The shriek of spars and rigging and the flogging of the ruined jib quickly faded, replaced by the salubrious cough of the diesel, wind in their own rigging, whitecaps slapping and thumping the windward topsides.

  After she'd stowed the three fenders, Regan took a seat on the starboard locker, opposite the skipper, just as Boy Toy lifted her bow and set it down with a crash. A gout of solid water engulfed the foredeck and streamed aft, port and starboard of house and cockpit, until it sluiced over the after-combing or drained away through the scuppers. Regan closed the companionway hatch and tore free the Velcro collar that covered most of her face. "I feel better already."

  "I can't hear you!" Ron shouted above the din.

  "I feel better already!" she shouted back.

  They motored west, quartering the weather in order to get some sea room between themselves and the Berkeley Pier, the ruin of which extends west-southwest almost three miles into the bay, coming ashore not three hundred yards south of the marina entrance. With the breeze on port they'd be fine; still, it was dark out there, and rough, and along the entire length of the pier there's but a single light, at its far end, flashing red every four seconds.

  After ten minutes, Ron gave the helm to Regan. "Keep her nose into the wind and enough rpms to keep steerage on her. Let the mizzen luff, so she won't start sailing before we're ready."

  Regan steered the bow into the wind, the gooseneck over her head rattling as Ron untied and hoisted the sail, its leach clattering. He made fast the halyard, hardened downhaul and outhaul, dropped the sail ties into the starboard locker, and scuttled forward. At the bow, though it was wet work, everything went as planned. Leaving the raised No. 4 with the breeze evenly streaming both sides, Captain Ron collected the forty-foot line and regained the cockpit.

  "Okay," he yelled, coiling the length of rope, "let's go sailing!"

  One foot on the wheel, Regan hardened the mizzen sheet. Ron took three turns around the starboard winch and hardened the jib sheet. Regan let Boy Toy fall off until the boat abruptly heeled as both sails took the wind and fell silent.

 
"Okay," pronounced Captain Ron, "kill the iron wind."

  Regan put the drive in neutral, pulled the choke, and the diesel died with a plaintive tweet. She turned off the key and a silence arose that consisted entirely of the noises made by a wooden boat under sail. Water purled along Boy Toy's hull, the odd gout lifted over the port bow, spray descended upon the foul-weather gear worn by the occupants of the cockpit. Below deck, a chimney in a gimbaled lamp tilted to touch its brass bail, the whiskey glass inched across the stainless-steel basin to the low side of the galley sink, a screwdriver appeared, as if out of nowhere, to roll around on the cabin sole.

  On deck, the working sheet creaked on the winch drum as Captain Ron eased it a bit. "Ease the mizzen, please."

  Regan made the correction and the starboard rail came up out of the teeming brine.

  Satisfied with the state of things, sheets made fast, Captain Ron joined Regan on the port side, their backs to the wind. "Where we going?" he asked, bracing both feet against the mizzen.

  "I'm just glad to be going," Regan replied. "I'll leave the details to you."

  Ron considered this. "There's four knots of ebb, but with a breeze like this we can go just about anywhere."

  "Your call," she reiterated.

  "The southwesterly makes for refreshing points of sail," Ron observed, which is true. Prevailing winds on San Francisco Bay blow out of the northwest. "We've got another hour of ebb. Let's reach over to Angel Island, tack, and have another reach behind Alcatraz. Before we get to San Francisco we'll tack again and have a throughly entertaining beat west. Close aboard Fisherman's Wharf or Aquatic Park we'll throw in a northwesterly bias and have ourselves a lovely beam reach toward some point between the middle of the bridge and Point Cavallo." With a glance at the compass he faced the wind, turning his head until the breeze blew evenly over the tips of his ears. "Maybe even a broad reach."

  "Either way, it sounds wet," Regan pointed out.

  "Wet on deck for sure, salt and fresh water both. By the time we close the bridge the tide will have turned and it'll be blowing like stink and raining too. We'll get as far west and north as we can before we fall off, and then we'll be running dead downwind right up Raccoon Strait. A sleigh ride. If we play our cards right we won't have to touch a string. A little work on the helm, though. With just the two sails we should make six or seven knots over the bottom. If we have to jibe in thirty knots of wind it'll be nothing but fun, if nobody gets killed, and by the time it's over you won't even remember who you are anymore, let alone why you lost your mind and bought a boat."

  Regan almost smiled. "I can't wait."

  "At the far end of Raccoon Strait we'll leave Buff Point to port and have a leisurely half-hour cruise in the lee of Tiburon Peninsula, till we drop the hook in Paradise Cove, which will be protected in this weather. We'll have a drink, eat some breakfast, and take turns napping and standing watch. Dawn's at six o'clock, sunrise is an hour later, though today we may not see the actual entity. We'll still have a bit of the flood midmorning and plenty of wind to go home on. If the entrance to the harbor is all cut up, we can go sailing again till things settle down. Altogether we'll have more fun tonight than most people have in a lifetime. What do you think?"

  "Let's go."

  Regan drove until, not half an hour and three nautical miles later, about a mile east of Angel Island, they tacked, and Captain Ron took the helm. Close-hauled on starboard with the port rail under, they bucked their way south-southeast, to the leeward of Point Blunt and Alcatraz, heading straight for the lights of San Francisco with the waning ebb nudging them westward. Wind over tide is what the sailors call it, wind going one way and tide the other; it can make for wet sailing, which some people think of as fun, delivered in a small enough dose.

  There was no shipping, large or small, there wasn't a light on the bay that wasn't stationary—the light on Alcatraz, for example. They had the bay to themselves, a stout ship underfoot, and all the time in the world, early on a stormy Monday morning.

  "It really is hard to credit," Regan marveled as they closed on the city. "Six million people in the Bay Area, and only two of them are on the water. What's the world coming to?"

  "No good end," muttered Captain Ron. He fanned one hand and passed it over the view, east to west, from the lights of the Oakland container port, along the illuminated span of the Bay Bridge, to Treasure Island, the ferry building, two or three of the tallest buildings on the West Coast, Coit Tower, Fisherman's Wharf, Fort Mason, the dark stretch of Crissy Field, Fort Point, all the way to the yellow nebulae of the sulphur lights that flank the six lanes of the Golden Gate Bridge, four miles west. "Although," he added, "from this perspective you'd like to believe that some good might come of it after all."

  After another half hour of steady sailing Ron said, "Ready about?"

  Regan took up the lazy sheet. "Ready."

  "Helm's alee."

  And as they tacked, the rain arrived with great force, obliterating much of the view. By means of short, close-hauled tacks, they worked their way west along the city front, visibility limited but reasonable. The tide donated about fifteen minutes of slack to their progress, but they were taking both wind and rain on the nose.

  About halfway between Aquatic Park and Fort Mason they tacked into a long beam reach, bearing midway between the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge and the inland blur of Sausalito.

  Now they had rain coming aboard in sheets. Both sailors sat on the port locker, their backs to the weather.

  "I forgot to figure this in!" Ron yelled above the racket, watching a continuous cataract of fresh water, captured by the spread of the mizzen, plummet from the clew onto his knees, and thence into the cockpit.

  "You're fired!" Regan yelled back.

  "It looks like Bridal Veil Falls!"

  "You're rehired!"

  A roller came along to lift Boy Toy, then shrug her off, as she fell into the trough behind, deep enough to lose the wind and appreciably slacken the sails.

  "That might have been the biggest swell I've ever seen inside the Gate," said Ron, as he corrected the helm. The darkness turned a shade darker. "Look to port."

  The lights on the Golden Gate Bridge were nowhere to be seen.

  Regan realized that she was looking at a wall of water. "Yikes!"

  "Just about perfect!" yelled Ron, correcting the helm as the next swell lifted the sails into the wind.

  The mizzen cataract appeared to redouble its effort to fill the cockpit. Regan thrashed her boots in the rainwater as if she were on a stationary bicycle. "Perfect!"

  When Boy Toy topped the next swell and Ron saw where they were: "Okay, boss, prepare to fall off under gale conditions."

  "Prepare to fall off under gale conditions. What's that mean?"

  "It's time for you to take the helm."

  Regan looked at him.

  "Come on," Ron said. "Switch positions with me."

  He scooted forward on the port cushion and Regan jumped aft to take his place.

  "We're going to fall off the wind," Ron shouted, "into a broad reach, maybe even a dead run! It's not a jibe, nor do we want it to be, but it will feel like one. As we top the next roller, ease the helm over as we ease the sheets. Otherwise she'll want to stay on her current point of sail. When were done we'll still be on port, but with the breeze over the port quarter." He slashed the edge of his hand at the new vector, to starboard. "In the course of this maneuver, not only will the skipper be steering, she will also be easing the mizzen." Ron freed the mizzen sheet, led it under the away horn of its cleat, and handed Regan the standing part. "Try not to burn a stripe through the palm of your glove."

  A gust heeled the vessel. Regan held the helm. The starboard rail dipped under, but Boy Toy heeled no further.

  Ron moved to the starboard side. "I'll be slacking the jib." He bounced his hand off the standing part of the working sheet, between the cleat and the winch, sufficiently taut that it might have passed for a stick of wood. "Keep your sail to
leeward of a right angle to the wind, keep the bow to weather." He unwrapped the working sheet until its standing part passed but once under the away horn of the cleat, as it passed from his gloved hand to the winch. "Ready?"

  "Ready!"

  As the next eastbound roller lifted the boat: "Fall off!"

  Regan eased the helm to starboard as both of them eased sheets. The swell carried Boy Toy eastward as the bow fell away from the wind.

  "Feel it?" yelled Ron.

  "Yes!" she replied.

  "Ease sheets. Ease the helm. Ease sheets. Center the helm. Ease, ease, steady as she goes . . ."

  Now, wind over her port quarter, Boy Toy was seething straight for the half-mile gap between the Belvedere Peninsula and the western tip of Angel Island, the entrance to Raccoon Strait, surfing the swells as they passed under her, having smoothly affected a course change of some seventy-five degrees in thirty knots of wind.

  "Steady as she goes, boss!" exclaimed Ron. "Make fast. Nice!"

  "Likewise, I'm sure," Regan said. "Skipper," she added, and they high-fived a couple of sodden gloves beneath the mizzen boom.

  Ron lifted his eyes for a thoughtful gaze at the main truck, rainwater running over his face. "We should do this more often!"

  "Yes!" Regan shouted back.

  A swell passed beneath the hull. Regan corrected to port. The jib slacked as Boy Toy settled into the trough. Regan corrected to starboard. Again, a following swell lifted Boy Toy into the wind. Regan corrected to port. Both sails filled with a crack, and the starboard sheet parted. The bow veered to port. Regan threw her weight onto the wheel. "I can't hold her!" she yelled amid the racket of the flailing jib.

  "Don't try!" Ron seized the mizzen sheet. "Give her her head!"

  Regan let the rim of the wheel spin. As the Boy Toy swung to port, broadside to gale and sea, Ron hardened the sheet so that the mizzen pushed the stern to leeward. The next swell turned Boy Toy broadside to the wind, and she might have broached. But Ron eased the mizzen as she rose so that, though yawing downwind and into the trough between swells, she had only her hull and but a little sail area to present to the wind as the next swell lifted her. She climbed the following swell and, on top, more or less righted, Ron hardened the sheet so that the mizzen carried Boy Toy's stern into the lee.