The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (2 page)

F
uture.

The name of the yacht appealed as much to Hans as her
ability to engage open water. He knew there and then he would buy her.

The Atlantic was not a new challenge for the teardrop-hulled
cruiser, her previous owner making the crossing several times before the tumors
took hold. A single mast, roller-furling mainsail and electric winch made for
ease of handling, and a salon-style cockpit, modern galley and spacious lounge additional
comfort – an important consideration with a seven-year-old aboard. To her
builders – Marine Projects of Plymouth, England –
Future
represented the
leading edge of sail power. To Hans Larsson, from Portland, USA, she meant a
whole lot more.

It had been a difficult time. Family and friends felt
uncomfortable discussing the murders, preferring to ask, “Are you okay?” and “How’s
Jessica doing?” Had he been young and single – he
was
single – he could
have drowned the pain in alcohol and self-pity. But there wasn’t only him to
consider. He’d never say it, but Jessica had always been the special child. Two
years older than her brother, she exuded that innocence only a daughter can. He
had to be strong now for her sake and put the horror behind them.

“What do you think, Jessie?’ he asked, as
Future
bobbed
beneath their feet in the marina. “Do you like this boat?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Would you like to go see some places in her?”

“Can Bear come?”

“Of course. Bear can help sail her.”

“I like it!”

“I’ll take her,” he told the agent.

Afterwards, father and daughter sat dangling their legs over
the dock, the emerald water lapping against the marina’s wooden posts. A school
of mullet cruised by, torpedoes shimmering in the sunlight. With their blunt
heads and prominent scales, they looked like the carp of the sea.

Hans smiled and pointed. “Look!”

“Fish, Papa!”

“And you know what, sweet pea?”

“What, Papa?”

“We’re gonna catch a lot of fish on our trip!”

“Yay!” She thrust her arms in the air awkwardly, as
youngsters do, with palms upwards and fingers bent and splayed. “Will Mommy and
JJ be coming with us, Pa—?”

She fell silent, staring into the water.

“Don’t you remember what we said, Jessie, when we sprinkled
them in the sea?”

“That the sea will always be around us.”

“So
who
will always be around us?”

“Mommy and JJ!” She grinned.

“That’s right.”

“I miss Mommy and JJ.”

“Me too, sweetie. But do you know what I do?”

“What, Papa?”

“Sometimes, when I feel the sun on my face I close my eyes
and imagine we are walking along a soft sandy beach by a beautiful blue sea – you,
me, Mommy and JJ – and it’s sunny and warm . . . and the seagulls are squawking
. . . and the air tastes fresh and salty . . . and we’re smiling, sweet pea . .
. We’ll always be together . . . and we’re smiling, my darling. We’re smiling.”

“
T
V,
Papa!” Jessica rushed into the yacht’s saloon.

Hans smiled. The twelve-volt flat-screen with built-in DVD
player wouldn’t place too much demand on the yacht’s batteries, and, seeing
Jessica’s face light up, he knew it would serve a purpose in the coming weeks.

Another item Hans was pleased to have aboard was a compressor
for filling scuba tanks. Diving was in his blood and had played a central role in
his military career. He had introduced Jessica to the sport at a young age –
not that she needed encouragement. In their twelve-meter pool in Portland, she swam
without aid by the age of two, paddling like fury facedown in the water and
rolling on her back every few seconds to grab air. At three she could swim a
length, often underwater on a single breath.

With her aquatic ability, scuba diving came naturally to
Jessica. Hans had introduced her to the equipment in the shallow end of the pool,
and before her fifth birthday they were diving together in open water off Maine.
Hans had altered the smallest buoyancy jacket available on the market to fit
her, and she only needed two pounds of lead to submerge. He was glad they had
brought their gear with them, including Jessica’s three-liter cylinder, though
it cost a small fortune in extra baggage charges.

When it came to sea survival, the previous owner had relied
on
Future
’s
inflatable tender for abandoning ship. Hans shook his
head and sought directions for the nearest chandlery.

Old Bill looked the sort to have sunk a few boats in his time –
along with a good amount of grog. Standing amongst the dusty merchandise
packing his dated premises, the archetypal sea dog was pleased to meet an
American who put the safety of his crew first.

“So, me hearty, you need a life raft?” He looked at Jessica,
his weathered lines curling skyward.

“Aye aye, skippa,” she replied to his delight.

“Well, let’s just see what we’ve got then, ’ey?”

The four-person OceanTech Emergency Pod catered for every
sailor’s worst nightmare, the company’s smaller model far too cramped for even
a minute adrift. At £2,700, Hans felt it was worth every penny. The instruction
manual listed its onboard equipment but, leaving nothing to chance, Hans put
together an accompanying ditch kit – a waterproof bag containing additional
survival essentials. Most important of all, he bought a hand-cranked
desalinator, handheld VHF radio and emergency position-indicating radio beacon,
although where to place the latter item presented something of a problem.

When activated by contact with water, the EPIRB would broadcast
a global-positioning signal on frequencies monitored by commercial aircraft and
satellite. Search and rescue services could then locate them should they have
to board the life raft. The instructions said to protect the device from
outside interferences, listing every hazard existing on a boat, and that it
should be accessible at all times. The dilemma posed to Hans was, would they
have time to retrieve the beacon as the boat sank beneath their feet? In the
end he resorted to packing it in the ditch kit. He would make sure to grab the
bag should the worst-case scenario unfold.

D
espite
the friendly nature of the Trapthorn Plaza’s staff, it was a relief for Hans to
finally check out and move on board
Future
. The adventure suddenly
seemed so real.

After unpacking their gear, Hans and Jessica took the yacht
for her first sea trial under their command. As they motored away from the
dock, Hans pointed to a sea lion happily porpoising in the opposite direction.

“Look, Jessie!”

“
Yeeeee
!” She clenched her tiny teeth.

Once clear of the marina, Hans showed Jessica how to cut the
engine and unfurl the mainsail. Unlike the SAS – the Saturday and Sunday brigade
– he never relied on auxiliary power longer than necessary.

Under a cerulean sky they cruised into the picturesque bay. Behind
them, crowning the city’s seafront cliffs, the historic esplanade of Plymouth
Hoe grew distant and a small tree-crested island rose out of the inky depths ahead.
Nestled in the island’s contours were a number of fortifications and
outbuildings.

“That’s Drake’s Island, sweet pea.” Hans had done his
homework. “A long, long time ago a man called Sir Francis Drake was the queen of
England’s favorite sailor. He sailed around the world and found out about
people living in places like the jungle, and he discovered plants and animals
that nobody knew about before.”

“Did he live on the island, Papa?”

“No, the people of Plymouth just named it after him because
he was such a good sailor.”

“Did he have a boat like
Future
?”

“He had an even bigger boat, called a galleon. It had lots
of guns, and he needed a hundred men to sail her.”

“Why did it have guns, Papa?”

“Because in those days the English were at war with a
country called Spain, a long
way over there.” Hans pointed to the
horizon. “If the English sailors saw a Spanish ship, they would fire their guns
and stop her. Then they would jump aboard and steal all the treasure.”

Hans chose not to reveal the darker aspect of Drake’s career.

“And, hey, you’ll never guess what.”

“What, Papa?”

“One time Sir Francis was playing a game of bowls – you
know, like the bowling we play at home sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he was playing a game of bowling right up there on
the grass” – Hans pointed to the long flat stretch of Plymouth Hoe – “and a
messenger ran up to him and said, ‘Sir Francis, quick, quick, the Spanish fleet
is coming to attack us. You must take our ships to sea and stop them!’ And do
you know what he said?”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on her father.

“He said, ‘Okay, I will stop them. But first I’m going to
finish my game’!”

“And will people shoot guns at us, Papa?” She looked at him
in earnest.

“No! Don’t worry, sweet pea. I’d never let that happen.”

Guarding the entrance to Plymouth’s harbor stood a mile-long
breakwater, built by French prisoners captured during the Napoleonic Wars. Four
million tons of locally quarried limestone ferried out and dropped to the
seafloor. Standing ten feet proud of the water at high tide and capped with
dovetailed granite, it was an impressive sight – remarkable still that some of
its five-hundred-ton blocks simply disappeared when Neptune threw a tantrum.

Leading up to the bulwark the sea was calm, but no sooner
had they passed its protective lee then the swell angered. No problem for
Future
,
though. She sliced stoically on through with hardly a roll.

“What’s the most important rule at sea, First Mate?”

“Life jacket and safety line, Pap— er, skippa.”

She’d put on both and G-clipped herself to the guardrail without
prompting.

“Well done!”

Seeing Jessica take responsibility for her welfare reassured
Hans. Even for experienced crews it was nigh on impossible to rescue someone who
fell overboard in heavy seas. Hans intended to avoid such an emergency and
would drum the drill home at every opportunity.

They circuited the bay with Jessica at the helm, Hans giving
systematic instruction in the art of yachting. Despite her short years, she caught
on fast. Hans beamed with pride.

“You up for a challenge, froggy face?”

“Yes!” Jessica nodded enthusiastically but kept her eyes
dead ahead.

“It’s called the keelhaul challenge.”

“What is it?”

“In the olden days, when Sir Francis was a captain, if one
of his men was naughty – like he stole something or didn’t do his job properly
– the ship’s crew would tie a rope around his waist, throw him in the sea and
then haul him under the keel – that’s the bottom of the boat.”

“Why, Papa?”

“It was a type of punishment. The boats were big, so it was
a long time to be underwater and very frightening, and the keels were covered
in sharp barnacles, so if the sailor got pulled really fast he would get badly cut
and wouldn’t be naughty again. But don’t worry: we won’t use a rope, and
Future
hasn’t got any barnacles. We’ll just swim under her for a bit of fun, right?”

“You go first,
froggy
!”

“Ooh, you’re
definitely
gonna get a keelhaul!”

With
Future
drifting under bare poles, Hans stripped to
his shorts, and Jessica put on her wetsuit.

“Monster backflip?” he suggested.

“
Heeeee
!”

Jessica was the master of the monster backflip – or any other
execution involving her father lobbing her into a body of water with flagrant
disregard for health and safety protocol.

Standing on the upper deck, Hans cupped his hands around her
foot. “Okay . . . seven . . . three . . . eight . . . four . . . two . . .
go
!”
He launched her into the air, his protégée rotating one and a half times before
piercing the surface with hardly a splash.

“Ha-ha! Nice dive, Jess!” Hans passed her a mask and snorkel
and a set of fins. “Best dive of the century from Daddy?”

“No, you’re
stupid
!”

“Oh, stupid, am I?” His mouth fell open as he looked to the
sky. “I suppose you think I’m not even the best diver in the whole wide world
and I look like a big hairy elephant.”

“No, stupid froggy. Hee-hee!”

“We’ll see about that then, won’t we? I’m gonna do a forward
somersault, then I’m gonna do a back somersault. Then I’m gonna fly around the
boat
three
times, and then I’m gonna hit the water perfect like . . .
like an angel, and then I’m gonna eat you all up like a big ugly shark!”

“Froggy shark!” Jessica giggled, having gotten used to her
papa’s idiocy.

“Okay, coming in . . .” Hans concentrated intently, ready to
pull off the stunt of all stunts. “You better tell everyone we’re gonna make
history here!”

“There’s no one else here, stupid froggy.”

“Yeah, but there’s a whole lotta fish, and they probably
wanna know there’s an amazing thing about to happen.”

“Little fish, Papa is a stupid froggy face, and he’s just
gonna fall in like he always does.”

“Oh, that is
so
cruel! You don’t believe this is the
dive of the century?”

“Ut-
uhh
.” She gave a definitive shake of her head.

“Well, watch this . . .
Yeeee-hah
!”

Hans leapt high in the air . . . to land with the worst
belly flop Plymouth had ever seen.

“Did you see that!” he shrieked, his chest turning red.

“Terrible! Daddy’s very terrible!”

“I’ll give you terrible!”

Hans sunk below the surface. Jessica screamed and tried to
make a break for it, but even wearing fins she was no match for her father’s
powerful strokes. Hans zeroed in from below like a great white shark targeting
a seal and lifted her clear out of the water.

“
Arrrrrh
! Gonna eat you all up!”

Jessica squealed in a mixture of torture and delight, Hans smothering
her with kisses. Since Mom’s and JJ’s death, the bond between them had reached
a new level, and now, holding her tight, Hans felt something special again,
something inexplicable. He started to cry silently, the water masking his tears.

Jessica wasn’t blind to these episodes, though, her mind
ascribing them to the “thing” that happened to her mother and brother, too
young to understand her father’s outpouring of emotion was an expression of the
love he felt for her.

“Right, time to swim under the boat.” Hans rallied himself. “Who’s
going first?”

“You are.” Jessica prodded him in the chest.

“No, I think
you
should.”

“No, silly froggy goes first.”

“How about handsome froggy and monkey butt go together?”

“O-
kay
.”

They duck-dove and swam down. With the late-spring sunshine
penetrating the surface at slack tide, visibility wasn’t too bad, but the water
was by no means warm. Hans held the family record for holding a breath – four and
a half minutes – Jessica once managing an impressive two minutes twenty.

Future
’s draft was deeper than Hans had imagined, but
fortunately they were able to swim around her bulbous T-shaped keel instead of
under it. He was pleased to see the agent was good to his word and the hull was
free from algae and other gunk. He felt a pang of pride: their new boat looked as
smart below the waterline as she did above it.

Surfacing on the port side, Jessica had plenty of breath
left.

“Reckon you can do it without fins, sweet pea?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pass them here then.”

Jessica pulled the rubber flippers off one at a time and
handed them to her father, who threw them on deck. On the count of three they
ducked under once more, Jessica’s feet kicking ten to the dozen as Hans
followed close behind. The little girl would quite happily have gone for it
again, only
Future
had drifted too near the rocks for comfort. Hans
congratulated Jessica on passing the keelhaul challenge, and they climbed the
stern ladder.

On the return journey the yacht’s engine decided not to play, so
Hans entered the marina under sail, to the delight and applause of the Saturday
and Sunday brigade, who sat sipping Sundowners while waiting for barbecues to
heat. Hans aimed
Future
at the pontoon at quite some speed, furling in
the remaining sailcloth at the last moment and sluing her around to step onto
the dock, mooring line in hand, as if it were the order of the day.

“Whey-hey!” came a voice, English and female.

Hans looked over to see a young woman, late twenties, reading
a book on the adjacent yacht.

“Good read?”

“
A Manual of Yacht and Boat Sailing
,” she replied, scrambling
up to help him. “It’s a reprint of Kemp’s original 1923 text.”

“Oh!” said Hans, marveling at the speed with which she
secured
Future
’s front line.