Shipwreck (3 page)

Luke shook his head. “Poor kid. He forgot to download his personality before they made him ship his computer home.”

“I wonder why he got sent here,” mused Lyssa.

“He probably wouldn’t mind his own business, just like you,” snickered Will.

“Shut up.”

Charla stood poised on the gunwale. She was perched only on the tips of her toes, but she didn’t move a muscle, even with the gentle rocking of the boat. Gracefully, she sailed off the side in a perfect jackknife, hitting the water with barely a splash.

The other swimmers and even Captain Cascadden burst into cheers and applause.

Charla broke the surface, took a few smooth powerful strokes, then flipped effortlessly to float on her back. She had always been comfortable in the water, but it was more than that. Swimming somehow seemed to relieve her pressures and tensions, and she had quite a few.

“You’re a fish!” cried Will.

She shrugged modestly. “I’m on the swim team at school.”

“And the diving team?” asked Luke.

She nodded shyly.

“But you were talking about track and field before,” put in Lyssa.

“Only the hundred meters and the hurdles,” said Charla, embarrassed by the attention. “I like gymnastics better, anyway.” She felt a twinge of uneasiness. Why was she talking so much? These people didn’t need to know her private business.

“Man, what are you doinghere ?” exclaimed

Luke. “You’re the perfect kid! What — your parents signed you up because you’re too good? Maybe you can take rotten lessons from Ratface.”

Charla’s smile disappeared. “I’m not so good.” In two textbook strokes, she was at the ladder and clambering back on board.

Luke was mystified. “What’d I say?”

“Don’t worry, Luke,” said Will. “You can accuse me of being good. I can take it.”

Lyssa splashed him in the face. “There are a lot of words that describe you. Good isn’t one of them.”

Charla glared down at them from the gunwale. Rich kids always acted like they knew everything. What did they have to worry about, besides deciding which mall to shop at? The other athletes she knew — the ones whose dads weren’t working three jobs — could enjoy their sports. It wasn’t theirticket .

“It’s your ticket out, Charla

It’s your ticket up

Your ticket to college

Your ticket to a better life.”

She heard those words twenty times a day from her father. “Pick one sport. You’re spreading yourself too thin. It’s your ticket to the Olympic team. Go, go, go.”

I’m twelve, Dad. And isn’t this supposed tobe fun? /don’t want a ticket. If I even hear the word again,I’m going to scream !

Maybe if she’d had the guts to say that, she might have avoided that fateful morning when she couldn’t get out of bed because her arms and legs wouldn’t move. Charla Swann, who could twist herself into a graceful pretzel on the uneven bars, could barely walk into the emergency room. And yet there was nothing physically wrong with her.

“Burnout. Classic burnout,” the doctor had said.

And that had led to aticket even her father hadn’t anticipated — the one to Guam that included a berth on thePhoenix with a bunch of spoiled rich kids.

Well, okay, they weren’t rea//y rich. Just richer than her, which wasn’t hard to be. Except for that hotshot from California. He was loaded. He had a pair of sunglasses that would probably sell for more than her dad’s car.

Come to think of it, where was J.J.?

And then a voice yelled, “Aloha!”

A voice from above. There was J.J., high up in the mainsail rigging.

Captain Cascadden saw him too. “Crewman — get down from therethis instant’t”

J.J. waved. “Sorry, Captainl Can’t hear you!”

“Mr. Radford!” roared the captain. “I need you on deck!”

The mate was asleep in his berth, after taking last night’s watch. But the captain’s strident voice brought him up the companionway in a matter of seconds. He took in the scene in an instant.

“Don’t even think about it!” he barked furiously.

Too late. With a cry of “Geron/mo/” J.J. grabbed onto a loose rope and swung himself off the mainmast, clear past the deck and out over the open sea. There he let go and dropped like a stone into the water.

It seemed like a long time — a breathless time — before JJ. surfaced again, howling in triumph. The celebration was short-lived.

Cursing with rage, Mr. Radford took a running leap off the side of the boat and hit the water swimming. His form was crude and untrained, but Charla had never seen anybody move that fast in water. He scooped JJ. up Red Cross style, towed him back to the swim ladder, and hauled him, still protesting, on board.

“You miserable little muckworm, do you know what mutiny is?”

JJ. blinked innocently. “Wasn’t that a classic movie from way back when you were — you know — still old?”

Now Radford was screaming. “Listen, Richie Rich! When we left Guam, we left the United States! In international waters, the captain is God! And I’m assistant God! When we say come down, down is where you come!”

He turned his fury on the three still in the water. “Okay, swimming’s over! You’ve got your friend Richie Rich to thank for that!”

Charla watched in sympathy as Luke, Will, and Lyssa scrambled nervously up the swim ladder. Captain Cascadden was a nice man, she reflected, but he didn’t seem to notice that his mate was more than just a gruff sailor. Mr. Radford didn’t like people, especially kids. And his bullying seemed to increase with their distance from land.

She swallowed hard. They were going a lot farther than this

Thursday, July 13, 2235 hours

Luke had plenty of complaints about shipboard life, but he couldn’t say there was nothing to do. In fact, he’d never been so busy. The sails alone were a full-time career. They constantly needed raising, lowering, trimming, letting in, letting out — somehow, the state they were in was never the right one.

When Luke and the others weren’t fussing with the boat, they were fussing with the sea around it. Science stuff, mostly. Whale watching, plankton tows, identifying schools of fish. They did math with wave heights and water temperatures and indexed it to their location, which they got from the handheld global positioning satellite system.

It was all supposed to go in their logbooks, but Luke could never think of anything to write. He was sitting on deck, trying to describe a fish he’d seen ten hours ago, when a shadow fell across the flash-lit page.

Captain Cascadden was unfolding his six-foot-five frame out of the companionway. “Evening, crewman.” He noticed the logbook in

Luke’s hand. “Ah, keeping a log is one of the great pleasures of life at sea. As the years go by, you’ll read this over many times.”

Right. Like he wanted to relive this lousy trip any more than he wanted to remember the arrest and trial leading up to it. But he bit his tongue and said nothing. Captain Cascadden could be annoying with his long, boring speeches about the joys of the sea. But he was a nice guy at heart. You definitely had to respect him. Not like Ratface.

“Here’s something that would make a fascinating entry,” the captain rambled on, pointing to the sky. “Notice the bright halo around the moon. According to legend, that tells of a coming storm. Count the stars inside the ring — one, two. That means the storm is two days away.”

“Really?” Luke was amazed. “And that works?” ‘

The captain chuckled. “It’s just an old salt’s tale. But a hundred years ago, it was considered science.” He made a great show of lighting a corncob pipe. “Today we get constant weather updates by fax.”

“So there’s no storm,” said Luke.

“We’re fine,” the captain assured him. “Rougher seas tomorrow, though. No swimming.”

Luke said good night and slipped down the companionway to the boys’ cabin.

“Bad news, Evel Knievel,” he said to J.J. “No swimming tomorrow. You’ll have to find another way to kill yourself.”

“Bug off,” yawned the actor’s son. He rolled over in his bunk and banged on the bulkhead. “Hey, ladies, which one of you wants to come over and give me a nice foot massage?” There was a scrambling sound on deck above them, followed by the shuffling of shoes on the companionway.

The furious face of Mr. Radford soon appeared. “Hey, Richie Rich. The girls’ cabin is on the starboard side. Behind this bulkhead is where I sleep. And if I get any more invitations like that, you’re going over the side with an anchor in your pants.”

“Way to go,” Luke muttered in a low voice as the mate stormed away. “Ratface isn’t the friendliest guy in the world as it is. Thanks for putting him in an even worse mood. We really need the grief.”

“It’s not smart,” added Will in a softer tone. “When he’s mad at you, he’s mad at all of us.”

“Thanks for the life lessons,” said J.J. sarcastically. “Don’t you know who I am? My father is Jonathan Lane!”

“And I’m Bugs Bunny’s kid,” snorted Luke. “Notice the family resemblance?”

“I am!” J.J. insisted. He pulled his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. “Paul Smith, the fashion designer, gave these to my dad in England last year. They’re custom-made. There’s not another pair exactly like them in the world!”

Luke examined the sleek silver shades. On one earpiece was engraved: JONATHAN LANE, THE TOAST OF LONDON — P.S.

Will was impressed. “Your dad’s an amazing actor.”

It all came together in Luke’s mind — rich father, fancy lawyers. If Luke had had that

“This is just great!” he exclaimed. “You’re allowed to be a maniac because you know your big-shot daddy has the power to get you out of anything!”

Furious, J.J. leaped out of his bunk and leaned into Luke’s face. “Well, I’m stuck here with you! So obviously there are a few things he can’t get me out of, right?”

They stood seething, toe-to-toe.

“Hey, come on — ” began Will. But a brawl seemed unavoidable.

And then a muffled sob broke through the tension. All three turned to follow the sound.

Ian Sikorsky rocked back and forth on his bunk. His knees pulled into his chest, he was crying as if he had just met the end of the world.

“Hey,” said Luke in a voice that was none too steady. “Don’t do that. Nothing’s worth it.”

“Yeah,” echoed J.J., speaking as much to Luke as to Ian.

Ian nodded and sniffled, struggling to get himself under control.

It was Will who couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Ian, what did a nice kid like you do to get yourself a seat on this Windjammer cruise?”

“I — I watched TV,” quavered the younger boy, and the tears started up again. This time there was no stopping them until sleep claimed him.

Friday, July 14, 0610 hours

Slam!

Four orange life jackets came sailing down to the deck of the crew quarters.

Will came awake with a start. He sat up and was nearly tossed from his berth by the rolling of the cabin.

“Personal floatation devices!” barked Mr. Radford. “Get dressed and get in them!”

Will’s heart was in his throat. “Is the boat sinking?”

“They’re called waves!” snarled the mate. “Maybe you’ve heard of them. Now hurry up!”

The four boys got themselves ready in a tangle of elbows and knees. On deck, they found Lyssa on her hands and knees at the gunwale, throwing up over the side.

It was the one sight that could have brought a smile to Will’s gray face. “Mom and Dad always tell us: Find what you do best and do your best with it. You’re turning into a real whiz at barfing, Lyss.”

Lyssa was too weak to fire off a retort.

“Good morning!” bellowed the captain from the cockpit. “I think today might test your sea legs a little. We’re seeing eight-foot waves with swells in the ten-foot range. And the wind’s going to pick up later in the day. So let’s be extra careful on deck. Now I want all of you to go and eat a hearty breakfast. You’ll need your strength. That’s all.”

The six crew members crept gingerly aft and climbed down the companionway to the tiny galley, which was just off the main cabin. There the powerful odor of sizzling butter practically knocked them over.

“Scrambled eggs!” crowed Mr. Radford. “Nice and greasy! They’ll slide all the way down!”

In a flash, Lyssa was back up on deck, gulping air.

Luke opened the latch and folded the table down from the bulkhead. The crew gathered around it.

“That Ratface is some piece of work,” he muttered. “Three days of dry toast, but now that we’ve hit heavy seas, he decides to get creative in the kitchen!”

It was a rough day on the inexperienced crew. The wind was whipping around the rigging, and the deck pitched to and fro. They struggled through the fine chilling spray off the whitecaps, their shoes slipping on the slick deck. By 1100 hours, Will was beside his sister at the rail, giving up his scrambled eggs to the Pacific.

“It’s days like this,” yowled Mr. Radford, “that made me become a sailor!”

ThePhoenix tacked, sailing close-hauled at an angle, first to port, then to starboard.

“It’s called beating to windward,” the captain explained. “We can get where we’re going in a zigzag without ever having to sail into the wind.”

The constant changes in direction meant a lot of work on the sails. Their hands were raw and bleeding by the time Mr. Radford called lunch.

The meal was another rough-weather masterpiece — liver and onions with canned succotash. The mate took great delight in watching the faces turn green. Ian and JJ. barely touched their food, but Luke refused to give Radford the satisfaction of hearing him say uncle. He sat across the table from the cook, glaring into his eyes, and matching him mouthful for mouthful.

“Ready for seconds?” challenged the mate.

“Bring it on,” replied Luke, tight-lipped.

The wind got stronger. Captain Cascadden ordered the sails trimmed and took down the two jibs on the bowsprit. By this time, the swells were reaching twelve feet.

“It’s like a roller coaster!” moaned Will, hug-ging the mainsheet as if he were trying to enmesh himself in the ropes and pulleys.

If I get through this day, he vowed, /swear I’ll give up smoking if I ever startl

“I love the sea!” roared Mr. Radford, shaking off a faceful of spray like a sheepdog after a bath. “We’ll make sailors of you lot yet!”