68 Knots (14 page)

“No way,” Arthur said. “I'm not—”

“Crystal's right,” Logan said. “We either take what we need, or we go ashore, call our parents—‘Hi, Mom and Dad. Guess what?'—and ask them to, you know, send us money for the bus ride home. And there's absolutely no way I'm doing that.”

“I don't see the big problem,” Marietta said, adjusting the lay of her T-shirt. “We have to be careful, we have to make sure we don't get caught, and then there's nothing to worry about. The people who own these yachts and things have more money than they know what to do with. They'll never even miss the food and stuff we'll take.”

Arthur shook his head. “I think we—”

“Yeah, we know,” Crystal said with a sneer. “You think stealing is wrong, and you think we should always do everything you say. Well I don't recall electing you captain. When did we put that to a vote? Just who decided you were captain anyway?”

Arthur stood up, his fists clenched at his sides. “
I
'
m
the one who got this whole thing going. If it weren't for me, you'd all be sitting at home right now, watching TV and listening to your parents snore. I'm the captain because I'm the one who led us when it counted. And if you don't like it”—he could hear his father's voice coming out of his mouth—“you can get the hell off this ship!”

“You led us when it counted?” Crystal tossed back. “All you did was come up with the idea. Well, I'm a part of this crew just as much as you are, and I don't feel like taking orders from you anymore. I say we raid some yachts and have a great summer—and if you don't like it,
you
can get the hell off this ship!”

The deck fell quiet; only the whisper of the breeze in the rigging and the murmur of the waves splashing the bow softened the silence. The crew sat for a long time without saying a word. Arthur sat back down on a stack of vinyl mats.

Eventually Logan spoke. “Look, Arthur,” he said, “I totally like having you as our captain. I think you make good decisions. But Crystal's right. We have, like, two choices. We can
steal from rich people who won't even notice, or we can give up. And Arthur—I don't want to give up. I'm totally having a great time out here.”

Another long silence. No one looked at anyone else. Finally Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “You want to raid yachts, fine,” he said. “I think you're out of your minds, but I won't stop you.”

Crystal started to say something, but Dawn gestured for her to keep still.

“So, okay,” Arthur said. “We'll steal to survive. It's wrong, but I don't see that we have much choice.” He thought about pointing out that the reason they were in this bind was because the crew had violated his orders in Freeport. He thought about mentioning that if everyone had followed his instructions and bought the items on their lists—and nothing else—they would have plenty of food and gear. He thought about emphasizing that he was the obvious choice to lead this crew throughout the summer. But he decided to keep those thoughts to himself. Enter into battle only if you're sure you're going to win, his father often said. Somehow, Arthur thought, his father's advice wasn't working out too well on board the
Dreadnought
.

“We'll start tomorrow,” Crystal said. “I'll take the helm and steer us to a promising harbor. We'll anchor nearby and wait for darkness. I'll assign the jobs, and I'll lead the raiding party. We should form two teams. One for water, and one for food. We'll sail into the harbor at night, row ashore, get the supplies we need, and sail out again before anyone knows we've been there. We'll have to be quick, quiet, and organized. Our parents sent us here to learn some discipline, and that's exactly what we're going to do.”

Logan took a long swig from a bottle of rum and then held it aloft.

“Avast, ye maties!” he growled. “Think about it. We're sailing an old schooner. We survive by plundering other ships. Arrrrgh, ye scurvy dogs! We just totally became pirates!”

“To pirates!” they cheered, raising their glasses. Then Dawn grinned.

“I like it!” she said. “Scurvy dogs. We plunder ships. That means just one thing. We are, my friends, the Plunder Dogs!”

“To the Plunder Dogs!” Logan howled. “To doing the pirate thing!”

They drank a toast again.

To the Plunder Dogs.

Even Arthur smiled. Only Joy seemed troubled.

It was a perfect evening for a raid. Heavy clouds blocked the setting sun, and a steady onshore wind raised enough surf to mask the sounds of the incoming dinghy.

BillFi crouched in the stern, peering through the curve of his glasses. Jesse's injured arm kept him from coming along, so Logan took one oar, puffing with exertion as he pulled each stroke. Arthur, despite his misgivings, took the other. Make friends with the worst possible outcome, his father had said. That way, you'll never lose. Arthur yanked the oar with short angry strokes.

The dinghy splashed slowly toward the harbor at Orrs Island, a quaint and trendy collection of wood-shingled cottages and cluttered boutiques. A cluster of impressive yachts, both power and sail, bobbed at their tethers along the docks. The tide was low, and the air was thick with the smells of salt and mud. BillFi pointed through the darkness toward a shadow standing at the end of one dock. No one spoke, but the dinghy moved quietly toward it.

The shadow was Crystal. She had spent the afternoon and evening on the waterfront, sunbathing, jogging, relaxing—and
taking note of which boats were occupied, how many people were staying on board, and how well-supplied each one seemed. The dinghy slid up to the dock and scraped along the splintered pilings.

Everyone knew what to do. They had discussed the plan all afternoon. BillFi climbed onto the dock, duffel bags in hand. Arthur and Logan, the Water Pirates, rowed the dinghy around the dock to find a spigot.

The Booty Pirates walked casually along the dock until Crystal, with a slight gesture of her right hand, pointed to a yacht. It was a large white cabin cruiser with the words
Sand Dollars
painted on the stern.

“Four adults,” Crystal whispered. “They look fuckin' rich. They started drinking on deck about four o'clock, and they were still drinking when a limo came for them at eight. They were talking about going to a steak house and then maybe to a club. The key is above the door frame.”

BillFi glanced at the glowing dial of his watch. “It's 9:15. We have plenty of time. Plenty of time. It's only 9:15.” They scanned the waterfront. People were moving, but no one was close by. Crystal and BillFi stepped onto the yacht, found the key, and hurried below.

The interior was an embarrassment of polished teak: in the glare of the dock lights shining in through the small windows, warm wood gleamed from nearly every surface. Behind the gangway that led down from the deck were two small berths, each sporting a thick mattress covered with floral sheets and matching dusty-rose comforters. To the left was a long sofa, plump and paisley, that looked like it might fold out into a sleeper. Below it were compartments for storage. To the right was a thick wooden table with upholstered benches on
two sides; the table had round depressions along its edge that would hold highball glasses and protect their precious contents. Beyond the table was a small stove with tidy cupboards above and below. On one side of the stove, in a tight rack, were a microwave, a coffeemaker, and a stereo CD player that operated by remote control. Standing at attention in a neat row were two dozen CDs, almost all of them reggae. Crystal scowled. These people are way too old and uptight for reggae, she thought. On the other side was a refrigerator. A doorway beyond the kitchen area led to the captain's quarters, a pointed chamber almost entirely filled by a large bed. The sheets and comforter matched the sets in the stern. To one side was a wardrobe closet and a tall narrow set of drawers. To the right was a small bathroom with a built-in showerhead. Throughout the entire boat were the details of wealth: crystal and carpeting and unrelaxed cleanliness.

“This place is cool!” BillFi said.

“This place is ripe for the picking,” Crystal whispered back.

They started in the kitchen. The cupboards over the stove produced an impressive array of cans and jars, and the fridge yielded fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables.

“Get this,” Crystal said, holding a jar she had found in the door of the refrigerator. “Mango chutney. What the hell do people do with mango chutney?”

They took just nine minutes. When they climbed back onto the dock, looking through the empty darkness for signs of trouble that weren't there, they hauled two stuffed duffels with them. They dragged the duffels to the end of the far dock where the dinghy had first landed, and set them down.

The next target was a bright red, tri-hulled sailboat. “One middle-aged couple,” Crystal explained. “Enough lousy jewelry
on her to sink the boat. They're visiting some friends in town and won't be back until late tonight.”

The interior of this boat was tucked neatly into the tri-hull shape, using every possible inch for storage or comfort. The boat was less a luxury craft and more a party ship; BillFi and Crystal saw a huge sound system with speakers in nearly every room, several well-stocked bars, and a lot of beds. It seemed like the kind of boat that would be designed by people who never quite grew up. The Booty Pirates got to work, emptying the kitchen cabinets, the fridge, and the desk drawers. They were just turning their attention to the bottles behind the nearest bar when they heard footsteps on the dock. Someone was coming.

“Oh, shit!” Crystal whispered. “They're back! The owners are here!”

“Oh no,” BillFi said. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”

They hunkered down behind the bar and listened as the steps grew closer. Then they heard a deep voice—Arthur's voice!—booming out a greeting. “Lovely evening, isn't it?” he asked. He sounded only slightly nervous.

“Spectacular!” a stranger said in a slight British accent. He seemed a bit too enthusiastic, probably drunk.

“It sure is!” agreed a woman. She seemed equally exuberant.

“So, ah . . .” Arthur was trying to think of something to say, some way to stall disaster. “Uh . . . this your boat?”

“Yessir,” the man slurred clumsily. “Thass my boat. Damnfine boat, too. Damnfine. Hey, honey, we shoulda named it the
Damnfine
.”

The woman squeaked a laugh. “Robert! You're drunk!”

“Guilty!” the man answered with a chuckle.

BillFi turned to Crystal in the darkened cabin. “How are we going to get out of here?” he asked. “How are we—”

Crystal shrugged. “How the fuck should I know? I—” She was interrupted by a violent retching sound from the deck.

“Oh, my!” said the woman. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know,” Arthur said weakly. “I don't feel very well. Could you both help me over to that bench?”

“Of course!” the man said. “Been there. Barfed that.” He laughed loudly again.

Crystal gave BillFi a nudge. “This is it. Arthur's giving us a chance. Let's go!”

The two of them crawled toward the ship's rail, dragging their duffel bags behind them. They peered out the door and saw that Arthur and the two strangers were across a small stretch of parking lot, next to a wooden bench. Arthur was sitting on the bench with his head between his knees.

“Now!” Crystal whispered. She and BillFi scrambled out onto the dock, duffels clenched firmly in their hands. They tiptoed down the dock and into twilight.

A moment later, Arthur looked up. “I'm okay,” he said to the couple. “Must have eaten some bad lobster.”

The man nodded. “Ate a lot of ‘bad lobster' in my day, shon. Nothing to be shamed about,” he slurred.

Arthur stood up shakily, thanked his new “friends,” and staggered down the dock, leaving the yacht owners by the bench. Once he joined the others in the darkness, they dashed toward the end of the dock. “We're clear,” he hissed. “Let's get back to the dinghy.”

A short time later, the
Dreadnought
was easing out of the harbor, flying just one small sail near the bow to avoid attracting
attention. Only when the ship was well out of earshot did the Booty Pirates dare to breathe. Dawn asked Crystal how the rest of the raid had gone.

“It was close!” Crystal said.

“Too close,” BillFi said. “Way too close. Far too close.”

They told the story to the rest of the crew, and Joy patted Arthur on the shoulder. “That was very impressive,” she said. “I don't know many people who can barf at will.”

Arthur smiled. “Fingers down the throat,” he said. “It's just one of my many talents.”

When at last the ship was anchored in deep water off Pond Island, a small tuft of land south and a bit out to sea from Orrs Island, the crew gathered around the dining table for Show-and-Tell. The oil lamps gave the room a sense of warmth and secrecy. Marietta sat next to Arthur. Logan poured a round of scotch and root beer—extra scotch for himself, but water for Crystal and Joy. Joy eyed Logan's overfull glass with a look of concern.