THE TOP OF THE MAST, sails, and lines were swinging wildly around the deck. I barely managed to duck in time to keep my head from being hit by the boom. “Damn,” I heard Jack mutter, but otherwise he remained remarkably calm. He hurriedly secured the boom.
“Can we still use the engine to go back in?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve got to secure all the lines first. Otherwise, we might wrap one in the propeller.”
I was reassured by the way he moved about the deck: calm, certain of his actions. When the lines were secured, he came back and tried the engine, but he couldn’t get it to start.
That earned another “damn,” but he quickly moved toward the mast. “Can you get below on your own?” he asked, as he made his way forward.
I nodded, trying not to panic.
“Do you know how to use a radio? How to call the Coast Guard? Call PAN-PAN. There are instructions near the radio if you don’t know how.”
“I know how,” I said, thinking through the sequence for a distress call. Calling PAN-PAN would signal an urgent but not life-threatening problem. One step below a Mayday.
“Good. I’ve got to try to get the mast secured before it tears the boat apart.” He attached a harness to himself, of the type that prevents a sailor from being lost overboard in a storm. Seeing my worried look, he added, “We’ll be okay.”
I clumsily made my way down the companionway steps, hearing Jack struggle with the mast. In the shadowy interior of the cabin, I found the radio and hit the power switch. It glowed to life. I switched to channel 16, the international distress and calling channel. I lifted the mike. Jack had printed the Pandora’s call sign on the instructions he kept near the radio. I pressed the mike button, saying “PAN-PAN,” and turned to read off our identification. It was then that I realized that no other vessel would hear me. The mike cord had pulled away from the radio.
Above me, Jack cried, “Got it!”
“Jack,” I yelled up, “the radio’s broken.”
There was no immediate answer, but then I saw him making his way below. Even in the dimming light, I could see his face was set in a frown. “We dismasted because someone pulled the clevis pin on the upper shrouds on the port side and replaced it with a wooden dowel. It was only a matter of getting enough wind in the sails when we made the port tack.”
I didn’t really know enough about sailing to understand exactly what he was saying, but I managed to grasp the implication. “So it didn’t happen accidentally?”
“No. It’s part of the standing rigging. Someone intentionally changed it.”
“What the hell does he want with me?” I said frantically. There was no need to explain who I meant.
“I don’t know, Irene. To scare you, I suppose. So the only way we can beat this is to stay calm. We’re not in as much danger as it looks. If I can’t get the engine running, I’ll try to jury-rig the mast. Even if that doesn’t work, we’re not all that far off shore, and we’ll be seen. I’ve got flares and other ways to signal another boat.”
I nodded. “Let me know what I can do to help.” I put my good hand in my pocket and found my little stones. Anything to calm myself.
“You’re safest down here for now. I only have the one harness on board, and it’s getting dark. If we lurched and you went into the water with those casts, I’m not sure I could get you back on board without hurting you.” As he spoke, he reached for a flashlight and turned it on. I felt an inordinate sense of relief when it worked. “They forgot to steal my flashlight battery,” he said with a grin.
He tried to start the engine again. This time, it worked, but we didn’t seem to be moving much.
He came back down and turned the cabin lights on.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’ll have to take a look. I can’t get it to do much more than idle,” he said, then made his way behind the ladder, near the engine. He moved the cover off the engine, flashing the beam of light over it. “They jammed the throttle linkage,” he said after a moment. He moved out from behind the ladder and over to a low compartment, kneeling to open it, and then pulled out a padlocked foot locker. He took a set of keys out of his pocket and used one to open the lock. “I learned a few things before I got kicked out of the Boy Scouts. I’ve got spares for almost everything – no spare mast, I’m afraid – I do have the tools and spares we’ll need to fix the engine.”
As he opened the locker, his light-hearted manner was suddenly lost. His eyes widened, as if in shock. “Stole your tools?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.
But he just shook his head and rocked back on his heels, gingerly lifting a large, lumpy manila envelope that sat on top of the other contents. In black felt pen, across the front of it, was scrawled, “Dad – Open only in the event of my death or disappearance.”
“Oh God,” he said hoarsely. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, as if trying to will himself not to lose his self-control. He shook his head again, then looked up at me and handed me the envelope. “Hold that for me, please.” I took it from him, and hearing an object slide within it, was almost positive that we had just found the missing knife.
Jack, although obviously still shaken, went to work on the engine. After a few moments, he corrected the problem with the throttle linkage.
“That should do it,” he said, “provided they haven’t done some other damage.”
“You think we’ll be able to make it back in, then?”
Before he could answer, we heard the sound of an approaching powerboat. He gave me a tentative smile and hurried to the companionway. “They may have seen the mast and come over to help.”
The powerboat drew closer. I felt the hair along my neck rise.
“Jack!” I called, but it was too late, he was already on deck.
I heard Malcolm Gannet’s voice call, “Having a little trouble, Mr. Fremont?”