Pirate - Duncan Falconer [71]
He walked into the surf and dived at a breaker and swam hard into the next set. She stood on the beach and prayed that once she stepped off the sand and into the water she would never have to return. She waded in until a large wave rolled in and she dived into it. The water was chilly and it felt good as she pulled hard to catch up with him.
Both were soon through the breakers and swimming over the deep swell. Stratton paused to get his bearings and find the boat he had been aiming for. He saw it and waited for her to catch up before setting off again.
The swim was further and more tiring than either of them had calculated, not that it would have made any difference. When they arrived at the boat, Stratton hauled himself on board. The girl grabbed the side and held on to catch her breath. Stratton took a firm hold of her hands and yanked her out of the water.
He surveyed the boat while he caught his breath. It was basic and untidy with all kinds of fishing equipment scattered around. It had a wheelhouse in the centre the size of a phone booth. A couple of outboard engines bolted to the transom with their props out of the water. Stratton went straight to them.
The engines were two different makes, one a one-twenty with an extra-long shaft, the other a seventy-five with a standard draught. They were an odd match but he doubted the fisherman who owned them cared for the equilibrium as long as they worked.
The girl made herself useful and checked around for fuel. The two working tanks seemed to be full, judging by the weight. She inspected the contents of a large drum lashed to the side of the wheelhouse, the fumes engulfing her. ‘This is just over half full,’ she said, closing the lid.
The engines looked well used but short of starting one up he had no way of knowing if they would work. He looked towards the only other motor boat he could see that might have been big enough for the proposed journey. But it did not appear to be as seaworthy as the one they were on.
‘Let’s take a paddle over to that one,’ he decided. ‘See what fuel it has.’
He found a couple of oars, handed one to the girl and went to the bows and untied the line attached to a buoy. They had to fight against the tide, moving at an angle across them. They pulled hard together, the girl leaning over the stern. The distance between the boats quickly shrank as they heaved with the desperation of escaping convicts.
Stratton dropped his oar inside the boat as the gunwales collided and the girl grabbed a line and looped it over a cleat. She leaned back and held on to it firmly and Stratton nimbly cross-decked.
He inspected the working tank attached to the single outboard engine. It was heavy and he carried it over and lowered it into their boat. He searched the vessel for more and found several cans beneath a large decaying canvas.
He couldn’t find anything else of use and climbed back over.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘A wild guess … I’d say we have enough to get a hundred miles, give or take a few. That’s if the motors are working OK,’ he added.
‘How far is this transit corridor?’
He looked at her. ‘I thought you would know that better than me.’
‘Why?’
‘Weren’t you sailing the bloody Gulf?’
‘I knew about the corridor but I didn’t plan on sailing that far north.’
Stratton took a moment to see the map in his head. He thought he remembered the Gulf being around two hundred miles across but the Yemen and Somali coastlines didn’t quite run parallel. ‘I’d say the corridor was around a hundred miles away, give or take.’
‘And when we get there we just wait to be picked up?’
‘That’s about it.’
Trying to break the plan down didn’t look like it had helped her.
‘It’s not going to get any better than this, sweetheart,’ he said.
She knew he was right, once again. If he had asked her to swim back to the beach to try and come up with some other plan, she would have found it very difficult.
‘How long will it take?’ she asked.
He wasn’t sure what she meant exactly. ‘To find a boat once we get to the corridor? Hours