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thirty-one f

Seasick

M ike left the boatyard without giving notice and went to work for what he now called The Crew. Each day he came home with a pocket full of cash.

“Coupla weeks more, and we’ll be able to move to a better place,” he said.

“I like it here.”

“Doll, we hit the big time. One of these days I’m takin’ you to Ben’s mansion in Palm Beach. We should be livin’ large like him—yachts, planes, Maseratis.”

“Just be careful.”

“Nothin’ to worry about. All the business is done in international waters. How’d you like to go on a deep-sea voyage?”

I’d gotten bored with my “lady of leisure” lifestyle. I needed some excitement and a change of scenery.

“They’d let me come along?” I asked.

“Not just come along. They want you to be part of The Crew. Gary says they could use a cook. I’ve been braggin’ ’bout what a great cook you are.”

“I’ve never cooked for more than a handful of people at a time.”

“They only got six or eight onboard. They buy the best gourmet shit. All you gotta do is heat it up and put it on plates,” Mike said.

“If you’re sure it’s safe.”

“’Course it is. Gary gives us the coordinates and we sail out to meet the freighter. We offload bales of pot onto a few yachts. We get new coordinates and offload our cargo onto cigarettes and fishing boats. We scrub it all down, get rid of every seed and stem, and come into port clean.”

“I won’t do it unless we’re clean.”

“These dudes are pros. Rumor has it they’re bringin’ in fifteen percent of all the grass comin’ into the US. Been doin’ it for years and never got caught.”

Pot, coke, and alcohol clouded my judgment, and made Mike’s offer seem like a good idea. I rationalized I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Smooth Sailin’ , the largest and most elegant yacht in the harbor, shone in the afternoon sun. The captain escorted us onto the immaculate deck and invited us into a sunken teak living room with a full bar. Our suite was done in white leather and looked like something out of a James Bond movie.

The Crew stocked the boat with enough high-end food and wine to make me look like a gourmet chef. They even supplied us with designer outfits to wear when we returned to port. The “bosses,” as Ben and Gary called themselves, wanted us to exude wealth and leisure. The guys were clean-shaven and well-groomed, the girls perky and well-dressed.

We took the Smooth Sailin’ out for a week. We partied nonstop on the way to meet the freighter. From that point, the work began. We were one of four seventy-five-foot yachts circling the freighter, which was manned by Colombians. We’d sail close, and they’d toss bales of marijuana onto our boat. One by one, we took them below. Every closet, every empty cabin, every inch of floor-to-ceiling space was packed with our cargo. An occasional bale fell into the ocean, but nobody seemed to care. They shrugged it off as the cost of doing business. Once we filled up, we moved aside, and the next yacht picked up their share.

“Got my exercise in for the day,” Mike said, as we sailed away from the freighter. “Let’s party!”

“I’m exhausted,” I said.

“C’mon, Ava. We’re done. Won’t be meetin’ the smaller boats till tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.”

Our cabin reeked of marijuana. I had barely enough floor space to walk from our bunk to the head. Exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep. It was dark when I awoke and time to make dinner.

The mood was festive in the dining room, especially between Mike and Melinda, one of the other women on board. I saw her whisper something to Mike before they turned around and saw me. Melinda looked away and busied herself with setting the table.

Mike was unfazed. “Hey, doll. Have a good nap?”

I glared at him and walked back to the galley.

I suspected Mike cheated on me back in Jersey, but to do it right under my nose—

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“You slept with Melinda,” I said without looking at him.

I saw him flinch for a second before he regained control.

“Are you nuts? I’d never cheat on you.” He held me close and ran his tongue down my neck.

Despite his obvious lie, I chose to take him at his word.

The next day, we caught up with several cigarettes and fishing boats. This time we were the ones tossing bales, and as before, a few were lost at sea. Carl, our boat captain, made note of the losses and how many bales went to each boat.

I was exhausted but determined to stay on deck.

“Tired, Ava?” Melinda asked me. “I know I was beat on my first trip. Why don’t you lay down? Tomorrow’s gonna be the hardest day.”

I doubted she had my best interest in mind. I took a quick shower and glued myself to Mike’s side for the rest of the day.

Melinda was right about one thing. The following day, every piece of bedding, every towel, every article of clothing was taken to the laundry room. We worked in bathing suits, which would be laundered once we finished. Each of us took an area of the boat and literally scrubbed it clean. We started by brushing the ceilings, followed by wiping with a damp cloth. The walls were next, followed by the floors.

Carl, the most experienced crew member, inspected every inch of space.

“Ava, remember to check behind the toilet,” he said, pulling out a few seeds.

I panicked for a second. “Sorry!”

“No problem. For a beginner, you did great. Glad to have you along.”

“Anything else I can do?” I asked.

“Help me open all the portholes and turn on the AC units,” Carl said.

I gave him a quizzical look.

“Gotta get any traces outta the air.”

That evening we sat on deck, passing joints from our personal stash.

“Tomorrow afternoon, we dock in Fort Lauderdale,” Carl said. “We do a last-minute cleanup, dump our stash, and change into our white bell-bottoms and navy-blue shirts.”

“Won’t we attract attention, all of us dressed alike?” I asked.

“Hell, no. We’re going for the preppy look. They expect it from rich brats like us,” Carl laughed.

I shrugged. “Okay by me.”

The next morning, we did a final cleanup and sailed into port that afternoon. We sat on deck with a bottle of champagne, toasting our journey. Nobody paid us a bit of attention.

I watched a young, nondescript guy get on board.

“That’s Gary, the boat coordinator. Lemme introduce you,” Mike said.

“How’s it goin’?” Gary asked.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied.

“Heard from Carl you did a super job,” Gary said.

“Thanks.”

“Here you go.” Gary handed a bait bucket to me and one to Mike. “Next time, it’ll be more.”

The bucket was full of hundred-dollar bills. I stared at Gary, not knowing what to say.

“You worked hard. Now enjoy,” Gary said.

Mike and I went below to count our cash.

“There’s ten-thousand dollars in here!” I screamed.

“Twenty-five thousand in mine!”

Mike picked me up and twirled me around the cabin.

“This is only the beginning,” he said.

Thirty-five thousand for a week’s work was a fortune in 1977. Two more trips, and we’d have enough to buy a house and furnish it. A few more and I’d have enough to fight Tom for custody of my kids. I couldn’t wait for our next trip.

Our next excursion mirrored our first: a smooth sail to the freighter, followed by three days of intense work. We changed into our blue-and-white outfits, pulled into a different marina, and played our roles perfectly.

“I could get used to this,” I said to Mike.

“I already am,” he replied.

Gary handed us two bait buckets. “Great job, guys.”

This time my bucket held fifteen-thousand dollars, Mike’s thirty thousand.

“How can they afford this?” I asked Mike. “The yachts, the waste, the salaries?”

“Like I told ya, these guys are the biggest. They’re makin’ millions, and they don’t even own guns.”

I’d never thought about guns or violence.

That night we celebrated with some of the cleanest cocaine I’d ever tasted along with a four-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. And why not? We worked our butts off and were confident another trip was right around the corner.

Two weeks later, Gary sent us on a third trip aboard the Smooth Sailin’ . The second day out, Carl, our captain, was in a foul mood.

“Radar’s showing a storm in the Caribbean near where we’re meeting the freighter,” Carl said.

“Can we turn around?” I asked.

The entire crew stared at me like I was crazy.

“We’re picking up seventy-thousand pounds of grass, wholesale value at fifteen million bucks. You really expect The Crew to be okay about us turning around?” Carl asked.

I tried unsuccessfully to hide my shock. “Guess not.”

The storm hit the night after we connected with the freighter. Fifteen-foot waves broke over our seventy-five-foot boat. If we had stayed on deck, we would have been washed overboard. Below deck was nearly as bad. Between trips to the head, we watched the waves slam against us. The motion would cease for a moment, then return with a vengeance. My muscles burned from so much vomiting. I prayed for sleep, then I prayed for death.

When I thought life could get no worse, it did. We lost power. I had thought we could throw the bales overboard and radio for help. But with no power, we were lost at sea.

After the longest night of my life, the storm subsided. We crawled on deck to survey the damage. It was bad but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. I inspected the galley. With no refrigeration, most of our food had to be thrown overboard. That day the fish ate better than most of us humans.

Damage in the engine room was significant. Was Mike talented enough to get the Smooth Sailin’ up and running? I had my doubts. The rest of us did what we could to return the boat to some degree of normalcy. Then we had nothing to do but wait on deck for a miracle.

Our miracle came in the form of a cigarette boat. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the boat and someone puking over the side. Once he finished, he waved to us. I knew he wasn’t part of the Coast Guard, but could we trust this man with our cargo?

“It’s Ben!” Carl screamed and waved furiously. Just then we heard a rumble from below. The engine was up and running.

The Crew securely tied the cigarette boat to the Smooth Sailin’ and helped Ben on board. He was unsteady and a little green but soon regained his composure. I went below for fresh water from our dwindling supply.

“You must be Mike’s girl,” he said. “Benjamin Kraus. Everybody calls me Ben. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ava Novak.” I held out my hand to my boss, my benefactor. I struggled for what to say or do next until we heard a scream from the bridge.

“We’re saved!”

Mike had not only fixed the engine but also had our radio and command center up and running. Everyone cheered as Mike joined us on deck.

Ben slapped him on the back, “You saved the day, Motor Mike.”

As if Mike needed more ego stroking.

The Crew rerouted the yacht and eventually connected with the fleet of smaller boats. We offloaded our cargo, scrubbed, cleaned, and sailed into port a day late. We made do with canned and dry food, but our fresh water supply was nearly depleted.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered as I set foot on land. Everyone else thanked Mike.

Gary met us with two buckets. Mine contained twenty-fivethousand dollars; Mike’s had fifty thousand. The next day Mike bought a brand-new Horizon Blue Oldsmobile Cutlass 442.