And the Sea Will Tell (16 page)

Back at the
Sea Wind
, Muff invited Wolfe and Sanders for dinner. She broiled some of that afternoon’s catch, fixed steamed rice, and put together a salad from a small palm Mac had cut fresh that afternoon.

When Wolfe told his story about being bitten by the dog, the Grahams were frankly disgusted. It was clear from the conversation that Muff hated sharing the island with the other couple. And both she and her husband were especially leery of Roy.

“He doesn’t say anything to me anymore,” Muff said, “even when I say hello.”

“He sure doesn’t talk much,” Wolfe agreed. He was reminded of the phrase “keeping his own counsel.” That described Roy. So did “tightly wound.”

“And those missing front teeth,” she went on, “make him look—creepy.”

Wolfe saw Muff give a slight shudder.

A
UGUST
16, 1974

O
N THEIR
fourth and last full day on the island, Wolfe and Sanders joined the Grahams for a fascinating exploration of Palmyra’s outer islets. The party marveled at the variegated formations, chatted playfully, and caught dozens of small crabs, a fine pretext for a going-away feast aboard the
Sea Wind
that night.

When they returned from the excursion after dark, Wolfe and Sanders walked back toward their boat in order to clean up. They dawdled along the way, stopping at a few old buildings and searching with flashlights for keepsakes of their stay. When Wolfe stepped into the shed where the old fire truck was parked, he noticed right away that the rat poison was gone. Every last box of it.

Normally, Wolfe wouldn’t have thought twice about the missing poison. There were enough unwanted rodents on Palmyra to justify spreading some around. But after hearing Muff go on and on about Roy the previous night—well, her paranoia was contagious. The Grahams had so many things on the
Sea Wind
that Roy and Jennifer went without. Most important, good food and plenty of it.

From his occasional work with pesticides, Wolfe knew that this particular poison, warfarin, would be fatal to humans. It had been mixed with cornmeal, shaped into cubes. A few cubes crushed up and mixed in food might never be detected. It was odorless, tasteless, and effective in very low dosages. Not that the poison would kill anyone immediately. Rather, death would be an extremely painful, drawn-out affair lasting up to a week, during which the victim would be hemorrhaging internally and frequently vomiting.

Wolfe said nothing to Sanders. As they walked the rest of the way to the
Toloa
, he forced himself to deduce a logical explanation for the disappearance of the poison. Maybe, after hearing Wolfe’s story the night before, Mac had sprinkled it around the island to waste a certain pit bull. That thought was reassuring.

At the
Sea Wind
’s anchorage an hour later, Wolfe took Mac aside. He didn’t want Muff to hear because she was already frightened enough. “You know, the rat poison is gone.”

Mac blinked, but that was all.

Wolfe couldn’t read him. A crazy thought flashed up:
Is it actually Jennifer and Roy who should worry?
Nevertheless, he added, “Be careful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mac said. His voice was level and calm.

Aboard the
Sea Wind
, Muff was already busily at work on dinner, a 1950s Betty Crocker come to life. She had cracked all the crab, a laborious job.

Mac handed Wolfe and Sanders crystal tumblers brimming with bourbon over ice. “Seems like you just got here,” he said warmly. “What’s your next stop?”

“Apia,” Sanders answered.

“Western Samoa, huh? Muff and I especially liked Pago Pago in American Samoa. What time you shoving off tomorrow?”

“Late morning.”

“We’ll give you a hand with the lines.”

“That’d be great,” Sanders said.

Muff sat down with a cocktail of her own. She had added the crab to a pot of rice and left it simmering. A ham was baking in the oven. “I sure wish you fellows would stay longer,” she said plaintively.

The table had been set with sterling flatware. Muff served dinner on hand-painted china sold in chi-chi sporting boutiques—each plate decorated with a different type of ocean fish. The meal was scrumptious. Afterward, it was obvious no one wanted to say good night. Mac served after-dinner cognac in snifters.

“You guys have a gun?” Wolfe asked abruptly, without thinking. He wasn’t sure why he asked, because he knew almost every cruising boat was armed.

“Oh, yeah,” Mac answered. He went to the front of the cabin, opened a cabinet door above a bunk, and came back with his two handguns. He put the .357 magnum on the table in front of Wolfe, and next to it placed a small two-shot .38-caliber derringer.

It was the derringer that Wolfe picked up, because he’d never seen one. The weapon fit nicely into the palm of his hand. He held it for a few seconds, then put it down and looked at Mac. “It would be so easy for someone to just disappear here. You guys watch yourselves.”

Wolfe understood that Mac and Muff weren’t the only ones taking chances. He and Sanders had thousands of miles of unpredictable ocean to cross before they could truly relax. Deep-water sailing was risky business. The Grahams lived with a different kind of risk—being on a nearly deserted island where they could expect no help in an emergency. Jennifer and Roy, too, were living precariously. What would happen if they ran out of food and realized their boat couldn’t make it to another island?

“I’m tougher than him,” Mac blurted out, bolting down the remaining cognac in his glass.

Everyone in the cabin knew what he meant.

“If he tries to get me,” Mac said jauntily, waving the big revolver like a Dodge City gunslinger, “I’ll get him first.”

It sounded like more than a promise. It sounded like a dare.

A
UGUST
17, 1974

A
BOUT NINE
o’clock the following morning, Sanders returned from shore with a Buck knife. “I traded Roy for it,” he explained, sliding the knife from its leather sheath to reveal a broken blade. “These knives have a lifetime guarantee. All I have to do is mail it in and they’ll send me a new one.”

“What’d you give him?” Wolfe asked.

“Just a large can of chili. He said he was starved for meat.”

“Jennifer brought over a loaf of bread,” Wolfe said. “I didn’t want to take it but she insisted. It was pretty pathetic-looking. I threw it away.”

Wolfe didn’t tell his shipmate that he thought of the missing rat poison when Jennifer presented her small, hard loaf of bread, though he had a difficult time picturing the friendly woman stirring such a witch’s brew.

Clearly, it was time to get out of here. Although Palmyra exerted some sort of primal attraction, Wolfe no longer wanted to be a part of the dangerously strained atmosphere. There was a curious tension in the air, like the oppressive sense of heat before a storm.

At noontime, Mac and Muff came alongside in their Zodiac, and Muff handed Wolfe a bundle of letters to mail in Samoa. With Mac’s help, Wolfe slipped the
Toloa
’s mooring lines off the dolphins.

Sanders put the auxiliary engine into reverse, and the
Toloa
backed into the center of the lagoon. He shifted into forward and they motored toward the channel.

Wolfe waved to Jennifer, who waved back from the deck of the
Iola
. She seemed listless. Roy was nowhere to be seen.

Mac and Muff escorted the
Toloa
down the channel as if she were a departing ocean liner. As he felt the roll of the open sea, Wolfe cranked up the main and jib.

Pulling up at the reef near the entrance to the channel, Mac and Muff climbed on top of a big rock and stood there, waving. Wolfe and Sanders returned their farewell salute. Soon, the wind filled their sails and the
Toloa
sped southward.

Mac, Muff, Jennifer, and Buck were now alone on Palmyra.

L
ATE ON THE AFTERNOON
of August 17, long after he’d lost sight of Palmyra, Tom Wolfe went below to write a friend in California. The letter would not be mailed for days—not until he reached Samoa—but Wolfe wanted to put his feelings into words while his impressions were fresh.

“We sailed 1,000 miles to a tropical island named Palmyra,” he began. “It has plenty of room, an abundant supply of water and coconuts, and good fishing. It’s really a beautiful setting, right out of a South Pacific movie, with a lagoon, palm trees, beaches, coral reefs. But living there are two couples who are close to war. It’s amazing. I mean, we came to paradise and found resentment and distrust. Isn’t that a sad commentary on the world we live in?”

O
NE OF
the letters Muff had given Wolfe to mail was addressed to the Leonards on Kauai.

Another of Muff’s letters was sent to Mac’s mother, with a carbon copy to his sister.

On Kit’s copy, Muff wrote an additional handwritten note.

After the
Toloa
left, the weather broke. It rained hard for two solid days.

Jennifer put out buckets to collect drinking water, then sequestered herself in the
Iola
’s stuffy cabin, reading Michener’s
Drifters
between naps. During the deluge, she left the boat only once, to gather coconuts to grind into several servings for Puffer. She was determined to make the last sack of commercial dog food last as long as possible.

The weather got even worse the night of August 19. Jennifer awoke with a start sometime after midnight. The boat was tossing in the howling wind. As she came to in the dark, she thought they were at sea again. The lagoon had never been this choppy. The mooring lines must have snapped and the boat must have drifted out of the channel into the ocean!

Jennifer vaulted from the bunk and stumbled through the pitch-black cabin, banging her knee painfully on something unseen before reaching the steps that led to the deck. When she gained topside, she was relieved to see that the boat was in fact still safely tied to the dolphin. She stood for a moment in the drenching wind, amazed at the intensity of the gale. The coconut trees rattled insanely. She hurried back below.

In the morning, after very little sleep, Jennifer was delighted to find that the storm had passed and the sun was shining brightly again in a clear teal-blue sky.

Buck showed up in the afternoon. He went right to the galley without saying anything.

“What are you doing?” she asked, following him.

“Making cookies.”

“We have so little flour left. Why don’t you have a coconut instead?”

“I’m tired of coconuts, Jen. And I’m fucking hungry.”

Mac had written down Curt Shoemaker’s message in full: “We have been delayed by unforeseen circumstances, but hope to see you in October. We’ve enjoyed your letters very much. Of interest is the fact that bird eggs are considered superior eating to chicken eggs in many European countries. Hopefully, we will bring everything you need. We promise to bring a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. See you. Richard Taylor.”

October was a long way off, given their low supplies. Rough trip or not, sailing to Fanning for food was their only option, and Jennifer and Buck immediately began to make preparations for their departure.

The first thing Jennifer did was remind Mac of his offer to buy their portable generator.

K
AMUELA
, H
AWAII
S
EPTEMBER
4, 1974

“KH61HG calling W7VXV, over.”

In his secluded home on the mountainous northern slope of the Big Island, Shoemaker released the talk button and waited for a response. There was none.

“Come in W7VXV,” he repeated. “This is KH61HG.”

It was Wednesday night and Shoemaker had been calling Mac for the past twenty minutes. The expert ham operator had checked and rechecked his equipment. Everything was A-OK on his end, and he was tight on the same frequency he and Mac had always used for their radio communications these past months. The well-organized Mac would not forget their scheduled Wednesday-night talk. He was so precise. To Shoemaker, it seemed more plausible that his friend on the
Sea Wind
might be having trouble with his radio or antenna or even the generator. It was also possible that something had come up ashore and Mac couldn’t get back to the boat in time for their weekly chat. Too bad, Shoemaker thought, because he had new letters for the Grahams, and he knew how much they liked hearing news from home.

“Mac, I don’t know if you can hear me,” Shoemaker finally said. “But I’ll try you again next Wednesday night. Same time as always. Take care, pal.”

The following Wednesday evening at exactly seven o’clock, an anxious Shoemaker, with Momi at his side, tried again.

But again, there was no response from the
Sea Wind
. For more than thirty minutes the only sound from the set was the muffled static of a radio channel not in use. There were no garbled transmissions or disrupted signals—nothing at all to indicate Mac was trying to contact him. Just maddeningly meaningless pops and hisses.

“There’s just nothing,” Shoemaker said resignedly to Momi. “I’m afraid something has happened.”

When Shoemaker miserably flipped off his transmitter, his shirt was wet through with nervous perspiration. He was worried for his friends on Palmyra. Very worried.

Though it was still possible that equipment on the
Sea Wind
had failed, Mac had made no mention of having any problems during their last contact, August 28. And even if something had acted up, Curt knew that Mac could repair the damage from his complete store of spare parts, tubes, and wiring. Shoemaker just couldn’t visualize the very capable Mac seated helplessly in front of a broken-down radio set or defeated by a malfunctioning generator.

So, where were Mac and Muff? Curt’s thoughts went immediately to the hippie couple on the leaky boat who were almost completely out of food. Had they stolen the
Sea Wind
and left the Grahams stranded on the island?

First thing the next morning, Shoemaker called the U.S. Coast Guard and told the duty officer about his unsuccessful attempts to reach the
Sea Wind
.

“We can’t do anything until we know a boat is missing,” the officer replied.

“I tell you they
are
missing.”

“Just because you couldn’t reach them by radio doesn’t mean they are in trouble,” the officer explained patiently. “Boats sail to different ports all the time.”

“But my friends wouldn’t have left Palmyra without contacting me,” Shoemaker insisted. “Something has happened to them.”

“Sir, please try to understand. We need something more concrete than what you’re giving me. We just don’t have the manpower to track down every sailboat in the Pacific that hasn’t been heard from for a week. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Shoemaker said before slamming the receiver down.

O
N A BEAUTIFUL
day with clear visibility, a twin-engine aircraft descended out of a pale-blue sky and dipped low over Palmyra Island, like an albatross circling for prey.

The pilot, Martin Vitousek, a University of Hawaii meteorological researcher, was a friend of Curt Shoemaker’s. Vitousek was very familiar with the islands in this part of the Pacific. He’d first visited Palmyra some years earlier while conducting weather experiments in the area, and he’d returned to the island several times since.