to try a Coconut Harpoon?”
He was a Brit, with gray hair and a ruby scar across his forehead. He had a belly so large that it rolled over his belt and jiggled when he walked.
“What the hell’s a Coconut Harpoon?” Sandy asked.
“It’s a tropical brew, made from coconut rum and pineapple juice.”
“Why do they call it a Harpoon?” I asked.
The bartender chuckled, “Well, lad, when ya drink a few, you’ll feel like you’ve been harpooned.”
“Okay, we’ll dive in,” Sandy ordered.
Against my better judgment, I agreed. When the drinks came, I found the taste to be delicious and refreshing. The usual bitterness of alcohol was gone, and the flavors were much like a fruit punch.
Over our drinks, Sandy started talking of home, and I was surprised to learn that he had a wife and two grown children. He told me he had been married for twenty-three years, and that his wife was always the happiest when he was at sea.
I asked if he had written her a letter.
“Na,” he said, “don’t know my words.”
I told him I would be glad to write it for him.
But he shook his head. “Na… there’s nothing to say.”
I grinned at his comment and smartly answered back, “Oh, Sandy, you’re such a quiet man.” With that, we both roared with laughter.
Over the second round of drinks, I learned that this was Sandy’s third cruise with Captain Gray. They had first shipped out, during the Revolution, when the skipper was a privateer. After the war, Sandy had shipped with him on a whaler for three years in the Atlantic. “He’s a fair man, and almost as good a sailor as me. And that one good eye can see more than most.”
Over my strong protest, Sandy ordered a third round. With dusk approaching, I thought of my berth and hoped for an end to my spinning head. But no, Sandy kept jabbering while the rum kept flowing. Finally, Mr. Gayle, the cook, staggered into the tavern and plopped down in a chair at our table. He was thrilled about his new tattoo from the shop next door. Lifting his sleeve, he proudly showed us a poorly drawn blue anchor running down his left forearm.
“Did that hurt?” I asked.
“Na, it’s my fourth tat. It tickled.”
“I’ve got two,” Sandy slurred, “Joe, let’s go next door and get one.”
Vaguely, I remember saying no, but by the time my flagon was empty, I couldn’t recall. It was as if I had lost all reason… along with my ability to walk.
I was in a deep sleep, having disjointed dreams of colorful parrots and tall, chocolate ladies. Then I became aware of something licking me. Opening my eyes, I saw a big rat resting on my chest, licking my shoulder.
Startled, I sat straight up in my bunk and flung the rat into the passageway. Unharmed, it turned and scurried towards the bilges.
There was fire in my arm, and my head was spinning like a tornado. Slowly, I gazed down at my left shoulder and was confronted by a crude tattoo of a perched eagle. The blue ink from the needle blended with the dried blood that the rat had been sampling. The tattoo hurt like hell.
By God, what the hell have I done? What will Becky say? I thought.
Carefully, I reached for the pitcher of water and took a long, cool drink. I must have been thinking about that eagle riddle, I reflected. Shaking my head gingerly, I blamed my condition not on myself, but on the rum and the riddle.
The Orphan was not spared the problems of the harbor. A few days later, the Mate reported that Seaman Wayne had failed to return from shore leave. Quickly, the skipper organized a shore party to search him out. But after hours of looking in flop houses, public houses, and sporting houses, the detail returned empty handed. That evening, Mr. Wayne was officially listed as a deserter.
The next day, with her reloading tasks completed, the flagship returned to the pier, where both ships began taking on water and fresh supplies. Soon we learned that two of the Columbia’s crew had also deserted. This was disturbing news, and I silently wondered if Louie had had a hand in those desertions.
Finally, I took my concerns to the Captain. He listened intently to my story of the scoundrel parrot “lady” and what the Portuguese soldier had told me. In the end, he told me that he would notify the authorities so that they could search out Louie and, with luck retrieve the deserters.
As I was preparing to leave the cabin, he stopped me and asked, “With Mr. Wayne’s departure, there’s an empty hammock in the forecastle. Sandy has a high option of you and tells me you’re ready. Do you want the berth?”
A broad smile spread across my face. “Yes, sir. What would be the pay?”
Smiling, the skipper replied, “Good, you’re learning. A seaman apprentice is paid seven dollars a month plus one percent of the ship’s share of the profits.”
“And how much might that be, sir?”
“It could be a sizable amount, maybe four or five hundred dollars.”
Extending my hand, I answered, “You can sign me on, sir.”
“Good,” the Captain replied with a handclasp. “You can move your sea bag forward and sign the ship’s articles.”
“But what of your needs, sir?”
“I’ll hire a new cabin boy, and you will need to train him.”
With my head spinning from this upturn in my fortunes, all I could say was, “Aye, sir.”
Because of the desertions, the Commodore canceled all shore leave. And the next day, as a further precaution, after the two ships were fully loaded, they slipped their moorings and anchored out in the harbor. Late that afternoon, three newly hired seamen reported to the flagship, and one new cabin boy, Marcus Lopez, reported to the Orphan. He was an African, with skin as black as coal, hair as curly as waves and teeth as white as cotton. At thirteen years old, he was a puny little scrap, and I wondered if he would be able to carry his load. Later, I found out that he was the grandson of the cigar maker. His arrival would prove to be a twist of my fate.
After forty-one days of prolonged delays, the ships prepared to get underway from Cape Verdes on December 21st. But Porto Praya had one last indignity for Captain Kendrick. When heaving away, Columbia’s anchor dragged, causing an imminent danger of collision with another ship. The Commodore shouted orders to cut the cable. The command was obeyed instantly and, thanks to some smart seamanship, the flagship maneuvered clear.
Captain Kendrick was in no mood to anchor again and grapple in the mud for his lost bower and cable. He had another anchor aboard and was determined to depart the harbor with all due haste.
THE FALKLANDS
