The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (3 page)

I
n
the morning Hans and Jessica set about getting
Future
“shipshape and Bristol
fashion,” as the Brits liked to say. She was already well equipped to cross the
Atlantic, but Hans always erred on the side of caution, a trait carried over
from his military service. For repairs at sea,
Future
carried spares of
all essential items, along with an ample tool kit and materials for
constructing a jury rig and shoring a damaged hull.

On the next trip to Old Bill’s chandlery, they bought additional
fire extinguishers, a fire blanket and a heat shield that Hans fitted behind
the stove in the galley. To secure the life raft to the deck, Hans opted for a
hydrostatic release unit and a weak-link painter. Should
Future
sink,
water pressure would activate the HRU, allowing the capsule to float free, the weak-link
painter triggering a carbon dioxide inflation cylinder before snapping under
tension to prevent the yacht dragging the raft into the deep. Hans did not want
to be preoccupied with launching the inflatable should his daughter be struggling
to escape a flooded cabin.

Foul-weather gear was also on the list, Jessie looking so
cute parading up and down the store in hers that both men chuckled.

Having figured out why the engine would not fire, Hans replaced
the brushes in the starter motor. He also gave the backup generator a thorough check
over. In the event of further engine trouble, the machine would supply onboard
electricity and, in conjunction with solar panels and a wind turbine, charge
Future
’s
batteries. It ran on regular gas, so Hans filled up eight two-gallon
plastic cans at the pump on the marina. He then hired a specialist to test all
the electrical equipment. Their final purchase from Old Bill was a high-power
flare gun and twenty cartridges to send a distress signal in an emergency.

Just as they were about to leave the cramped store, the door
burst open. It was the young woman who had helped Hans tie up the yacht the
previous day.

“Hey, Bill! Mind if I stick this in the window?” She held up
a postcard note.

“The finest skipper on the ’igh seas don’t need Old Bill’s
permission to do that, Cap’n Penny.” Bill grinned. “You put it where you want, my
girl. So you be looking for a new command?”

“Yeah. I just got in from the Med, crewing for a local
family. So this job ends here unfortunately. I’m looking to reach Cape Verde
before—”

“Cape Verde?” Hans interrupted.

“Oh! Hello again!” The woman’s face lit up. “Yeah, I need to
reach there by autumn.”

“Cape Verde’s on our route,” Hans tendered, turning to Old Bill,
seeking guidance.

“Listen,” said Bill, “if you need an extra pair of hands, then
you can’t go wrong with Penny Masters. She’ll see you around the Cape, Antarctica
and back again.” He winked.

“And where are you guys heading from there?” asked Penny.

“Across to the Caribbean and up the East Coast home to
Maine.”

“Excellent! When are you leaving?”

“As soon as possible,”
said Hans. “If you’ve got time later, I can show you our plans . . . over a
bite to eat perhaps.”

“Sure! That’ll be great!”

P
enny
was delightful, a real free spirit. She and Jessica hit it off immediately, the
little girl insisting her new friend tuck her into bed with a story that
evening.

Sitting in
Future
’s cockpit enjoying red wine and a
takeout in the warm air, Penny listened intently to Hans as he explained the
reasoning behind taking his daughter to sea.

“My parents had a few issues – kinda strict too – so I’ve
always given Jessica and J—” Hans stopped abruptly and reached for the second
bottle of Merlot.

“I’ve always given Jessica free rein. Tried to treat her as
an equal and support her to make her own choices. I thought the trip would be
good for both of us.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Penny passed the corkscrew. “I was
born into the sailing community. My parents are what you might call bohemian.”

“So you’ve crossed the Atlantic a few times.”

“The Atlantic, the Pacific, the Indian . . .” She smiled. “All
the Seven Seas, and most of them more than I can remember.”

Hans filled two coffee mugs to brimming with the fruity
Californian tipple, making a mental note to put wineglasses on the shopping
list.

“And what’s happening in Cape Verde in fall?”

“All being well, I’m skippering a Parisian millionaire and
his wife across to French Guiana.”

Penny reached in her bag and handed Hans an impressive résumé
with a gold-lettered business card clipped to the front.

“Perfect!” said Hans, having heard enough. “Cape Verde’s on
our route – if we can employ your services, that is.”

“Sounds like a deal!”

“
Arrhk-arrhk
.”

The noise startled them.

Leaning over the coaming, they spotted the sea lion Hans and
Jessica saw earlier. Swimming on its back and clapping its flippers, the
pinniped looked to be applauding Penny’s decision.

“Hee-hee!” Her face lit up. “That’s Guz.”

“Guz?”

“Yeah, Golf Uniform Zulu – Plymouth’s call sign during the
war. He’s kind of been adopted by the yachties and fishermen around here. Tame as
anything. Look.” She picked a king prawn from her stir-fry and tossed it over
the side. Guz plucked it from the water with ease.

Hans smiled. There was something about this girl.

W
hile
Penny moved her belongings aboard
Future
and took care of last-minute
business, Hans, Jessica and Bear explored the city, starting with the old town
district surrounding the marina. This was the historic Barbican Quay, where
Tudor buildings framed in oaken timbers flanked tiny cobbled streets, many of
them former Elizabethan merchant houses now trading in cream teas.

Below the high-water mark, seaweed tendrils lagged the basin’s
block-stone walls, its edge stones polished smooth by centuries of mooring
lines. Hefty iron cleats the size of blacksmiths’ anvils studded the quayside, interspersed
with bollards made from antique cannons cut in half, upended and sunk into the
stonework.

Along with pleasure craft, the picturesque port sheltered a large
number of commercial vessels. Scuba enthusiasts busied themselves aboard dive
boats, setting up regulators and buoyancy vests and zipping each other into dry
suits. Trawlers reeking of sea fare off-loaded plastic tubs brimming with catch
onto the wharf, from which excited youngsters dangled crab lines. With so many
tourists buzzing around, sightseeing and visiting souvenir stores and
restaurants, and locals going about their business, the place was a hive of activity.
Ambling along the dock, Hans could just imagine Sir Francis spending an evening
of debauchery in one of the Barbican’s raucous taverns before staggering back aboard
the
Golden Hind
.

“Look, sweet pea!”

Hans sighted the legendary Mayflower Steps leading down to
the water’s edge. A pompous Greek portico marked the spot where in 1620 the
Pilgrim Fathers boarded the
Mayflower
and sailed for the New World in search
of religious freedom and civil liberty. They reached North America in sixty-six
days and laid the foundations of the New England States. Hans’ lineage was
Swedish, but his late wife’s ancestors were English.

“You see these steps, Jessie?”

“Uh-huh.”

She eyed the chiseled granite slabs descending through a
flotilla of seaweed, beer and soda cans, bottles and candy wrappers into the
murky green water.

“This is where your great-great-great-grandparents got on a
big ship and sailed all the way to America.”

“Why, Papa?”

“Because back then they were very poor, and people were
horrible to them. So they said, ‘Hey, let’s sail to America and build a house
and a church and have a new life.’”

“We’re sailing to America, Papa.”

“We are, sweet pea.”

Hans neglected to mention that, according to a chuckling Old
Bill, no one actually knew the exact location the pilgrims set sail from. However,
the portico, with its ludicrous Doric columns and commemorative plaques, kept
the tourists happy.

From the doorway of a takeout, a blast of warm air flavored with
battered fish and vinegar blindsided them. Hans went inside and ordered cod and
fries at Jessica’s request and a traditional Cornish pasty for himself. They
sat on the harbor’s edge enjoying their lunch and spotting fish swimming beneath
the flotsam on the water below.

“What’s a pasty, Papa?” Jessica eyed his half-moon-shaped
meat-and-potato pie, the recipe for which dated back centuries.

“Pasties were the staple diet of local miners who lived two
hundred years ago, Jessie. You know about mining, right?”

“We did it in school. It’s called a
gold
rush.”

“Good girl! Well, here in Devon they mined a metal called
tin. On Sunday evenings the men would walk twenty miles from Plymouth up to their
mine workings in the Dartmoor highlands—”

“Where the little horses are.” Jessica remembered seeing
postcards in the tourist office depicting the rugged landscape and its wild
roaming ponies.

“That’s right. The miners’ wives would cook their husbands enough
pasties to last them the week, before they walked all the way home again. And
you see this thick crimped piece?”

“The crust?”

“Well done. The miners would throw this bit away, so if any
poisons from the rocks in the mine, like arsenic, got on their fingers they
wouldn’t get sick. Do you wanna try a bit?”

“Mmm,
please, Papa.”

As Jessica turned to take the offering, a piercing screeching
broke out. Two seagulls dove out of nowhere and engulfed her in a blaze of
white feathers. One snatched the entire fillet of fish from her Styrofoam tray with
its fat yellow bill and swallowed it whole before its wings flapped twice. The
other, in a moment of confusion, plucked Bear from her lap.

“
Nooooo
!”

She lunged to grab him back but toppled headlong into the
sea.

Without pause Hans leapt from the dock.

When Jessica surfaced through the oil, weed and scum, he put
his arm out to stabilize her.

“It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s gotcha.”

Treading water, Hans put on a broad grin to dispel the
drama.

“
Bear
, Papa!”

“It’s all right. He’s over there.” Hans nodded in the
direction of her teddy, floating nearby with his ass in the air. It was a sign
of her remarkable maturity that a cold plunge from a height of eight feet didn’t
faze her, only the possibility of losing her beloved companion. “You okay to go
and rescue him?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, peeling away using breaststroke.

A crowd gathered on the quayside.

“You all right, mate?” A man handed his wallet and Nokia to the
woman next to him.

“Yeah, we’re fine, buddy. Thank you.”

Hans was glad he left his cell phone on board.

Holding Bear, Jessica struggled to keep her head above
water, so Hans took him, and they struck out for a rusting iron ladder bolted
to the quay wall.

“You’ve a right one on yer ’ands there, me ’andsome boy!” a
fisherman remarked, grinning broadly as he passed by, surrounded by mesh pots at
the tiller of his crab boat.

“Er . . . yeah!” Hans replied, sensing the man meant well.

“You guys having fun?”

The voice came from above. Hans and Jessica looked up to see
Penny’s effervescent presence shining down on them.

“Penny –
phuh
.”
Jessica swallowed a mouthful
of harbor. “Bear fell in the water!”

“I can see that.”

Just then the thunderous clap of unsilenced Harley-Davidson
engines broke out around them. Two burly bikers in grease-smeared jeans, worn
leather jackets and denim vests, tattoos and bandanas had watched the episode
unfold from an open-air burger joint named Captain Jasper’s. Stepping off their
impressive custom-builds, they reached down and hauled Jessica onto the
dockside.

“You all right, me bird?” one of them asked.

“I’m not a bird!” She giggled.

“You’re a beautiful bird to me, mate!” He grinned, kissing
her on the cheek and displaying a row of nicotine-stained tombstones.

Hans received the same treatment – without the endearment.

“Where you staying to?” the other petrol head inquired.

“On a yacht in the marina.”

“Jump on.”

The man straddled his chromed beast and kicked up its
stylish skeleton foot stand with his booted heel.

Hans sat behind him and planted Jessica in between them,
noting the black eagle patch on the man’s denim vest and the badges “Aquila” and
“Devon” above and below it.

Hell, these dudes are serious!
Hans thought, Penny
riding pillion on the other chopper as they sped the wrong way down a one-way
street.

“Say, aren’t you guys supposed to wear helmets?” Hans yelled
above the din. “Isn’t it law here?”

“Ha!” the biker scoffed as traffic veered from their path. “We
are
the law.”

After a shower, Hans and Jessica drank a mug of hot chocolate
and ate buttery scrambled eggs cooked by Penny. Then the two of them set off to
do some more sightseeing, with Jessica reluctantly agreeing to leave Bear
pegged to the backstay.

Hans figured the central district would be as charming as
the seafront but was unaware of the enormous damage Hitler’s bomber crews did
during the Blitz, for attempting to neutralize Plymouth’s maritime
infrastructure the Luftwaffe had leveled the city, destroying historic
buildings and thousands of homes.

The charred stone ruins of an ancient church sat in the
middle of a busy roundabout, surrounded by modern office blocks and a shopping
mall. Gutted by German firebombs, the church was an eerie sight and testament
to the Plymouthians’ indomitable spirit and the horror of war.

Plymouth’s postwar reconstruction looked like some sort of
socialist experiment, the buildings – gray, concrete and austere – reminding
Hans of the crass, sixties and seventies town planning he had seen in the north
of Sweden. Every so often they came across a halfhearted attempt to revitalize
the dreary architecture with a garish postmodern design, like sprucing up an
out-of-fashion suit with a loud tie.

“Look, Papa!”

Jessica caught sight of a colossal sundial, the city’s
avant-garde centerpiece, its twenty-foot-high chrome gnomon rising out of a
gently cascading fountain to cast a shadow onto marble-block hour markers,
which at this time doubled as seats for weary shoppers. She dragged her father up
the five concentric tiers of neat brown bricks forming the sundial’s base.

Upon reaching the top, Hans chuckled. Despite the obvious investment
involved in commissioning the sculpture . . . it ran two hours slow.

Hans did not know what to make of Plymouth. He knew not to
expect cap-doffing peasants and tea-drinking gentry, as in Hollywood’s
portrayal of Little England, but what he witnessed surprised him nonetheless. The
city had a distinct element of behind-the-times naivety bordering on bizarre.
They passed a motorbike dealership named Not 4 Girlz and a sports car showroom
called Boyz Toyz. It was as if the struggle for equality had simply bypassed
this place. Hans would teach Jessica to ride a motorcycle and drive a car as
good as any man – if she chose to, that was. No fool would pigeonhole her with their
bigoted designs.

In the city center’s pedestrianized shopping area, an adult store,
Good Vibrations, featured lingerie-clad mannequins in provocative poses in its
window display, along with a sale sign designed to look like an oral sex act.
In the front of another store, Homeward Bound, the dummies were a gimp-suited man
whipping a woman in a latex bikini.

“Has she been naughty, Papa?” Jessica’s eyes screwed up.

“Er
. . .
no, honey. It’s a grown-up thing.”

In no way prudish, Hans wondered how local parents felt
about the message these prominent outlets gave to impressionable youngsters. The city seemed to go out of its way to objectify women.

Am I getting cynical?

Hans tried to think back to his younger self. Such issues
certainly didn’t bother him when sitting in the hold of a C-130 armed to the
teeth, ready to parachute out with his team and unleash hell on complete
strangers. Was it something to do with all the lies, double standards and
corruption he had witnessed over the years, the hubris and greed of
yellow-streaked suits born into privilege and hiding behind the bastions of
power? Could it be fatherhood and the responsibility of looking out for someone
else’s welfare and not just his own? On the other hand, perhaps he was just
sick to the back teeth of the whole goddamn show.

Just when Hans thought they had seen it all, he spotted a recently
opened wine bar with the sign “Hawkins House” above the door. He shook his head,
having read in the guidebook that Sir John Hawkins had been Britain’s most prolific
slave trader.

Who in their right mind would name a pub after this guy?

In the States, such a lack of consideration would cause
protests, even riots. It all came as something of a shock to the American, who believed
the British to be a cultured people with a history of fighting oppression.

Keen to get out of the area, “Fancy a walk along Plymouth
Hoe?” he asked the first mate.

“Okay, Papa.”

“How’s the legs?”

“They’re fine.”

Jessica gave a nonchalant shrug to cover her fib – anything
to spend more time exploring with her father.