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“Cozy in the extreme. Not the Moevenpick, but we’ve seen worse.”
“And the engine?”
“Old but well maintained. Should give us six or seven knots.”
Remi walked to the transom and inspected the propeller and shaft. “I’m betting the bearings could use repacking.”
Ed translated, listened, then replied, “He says another fifty and he’ll have it done in two hours.”
“Twenty-five,” Sam countered. “He gives me the supplies and the tools, and I’ll do it myself.”
Buziba jutted out his lower lip and stuck his chin in the air, thinking. “Fifty. I add potable water and food for two days.”
“Three days,” Remi replied.
Buziba considered this, then shrugged. “Three days.”
CHAPTER 16
INDIAN OCEAN
“OKAY, SHUT HER DOWN,” SAM CALLED.
Remi turned off the ignition key and the dhow’s engines sputtered out. Sam hoisted the sails, and they held their collective breaths for a few seconds until the canvas caught the wind and billowed out. The dhow’s bow lifted slightly and the boat lurched forward. Sam crab-walked aft and dropped onto the afterdeck beside Remi.
“We have liftoff,” Sam said.
“Here’s hoping we don’t have to call Houston with a problem,” Remi said and handed him a bottle of water.
It was already midafternoon, and they were only five miles north of Mafia Island. While Remi’s discerning eye had noticed the propeller shaft’s bearing problem, it hadn’t been until Sam had gotten it apart that they realized how much time the repair would require. As Remi supervised the boys in finishing up the maintenance and changing out the sails, Sam and Ed worked under the shade of a makeshift sheet awning.
Once done, Buziba and another dozen boys appeared and carried the dhow down to the waterline, where they tested the engine and took the dhow for a test drive around the harbor. An hour later, the dhow fully stocked with water, supplies, and food, Sam and Remi waved to Buziba and Ed and set out.
“How long until we get there?” Remi asked.
Sam got up, retrieved the chart they’d found inside the cabin, and unfolded it in his lap. He checked the readout of his handheld GPS unit and plotted their position. “Another thirty-nine miles. We’re doing about five knots . . . If we run all night, we’ll get there sho
rtly after midnight. Or we could find someplace to lie up tonight, then set out early and get there about dawn. There’s an unnamed island about twelve miles south of Fanjove.”
“That’s my vote. Without radar, we’re asking for trouble.”
“Agreed. We wouldn’t be able to see anything of Sukuti until daylight anyway.”
They sailed north for another five hours, caught a tailwind for the last hour, and found the island just as the upper rim of the sun was dipping behind the horizon. Sam steered the dhow into a small cove and dropped anchor. Once the boat was secure, Remi ducked into the cabin for a few minutes, emerging with a lantern, a camping stove, and two cans of food.
“What can I serve you, el capitán? Baked beans or baked beans and franks?”
Sam pursed his lips. “Choices, choices. Let’s celebrate our not sinking. Let’s have both.”
“A fine choice. And for dessert: fresh mango.”
THE SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE double army cot, combined with the salt air and the gentle rocking of the dhow at anchor, lulled them into a deep, restful sleep. At four A.M. Sam’s watch chimed, and they got up and moving, sharing a breakfast of leftover mango and strong black coffee before weighing anchor and setting out again.
They lost an hour of progress to sluggish predawn winds, but shortly before sunrise the air picked up and before long they were clipping north at a steady six knots that brought them within sight of North Fanjove Island by seven A.M. A half hour later they drew even with the atoll Mitchell had pointed out. Here they secured the sails, switched to engine power, and spent another nerve-racking forty minutes picking their way through the reefs until they reached the south side of Little Sukuti Island. Sam tooled along the coast until Remi spotted a mangrove-choked cove they hoped would shield the dhow from prying eyes. Following Remi’s hand signals from the bow, Sam steered into the cove. He shut off the engine and let the dhow drift forward until the bow gently wedged itself between two mangroves jutting diagonally from the bank.
Having listened to the steady put-put-put of the dhow’s engine for the last hour, the sudden silence was jarring. They stood still for half a minute, listening, until the jungle around them slowly came back to life with a cacophony of squawks and buzzes.
Remi secured the bowline to one of the tree trunks, then headed aft to join Sam on the afterdeck. “What’s the plan?” she asked.
