Avalon

By Jeffrey West

Catalina Island has been thrust into the depths of terror; clashing with the savagery of global politics, and the brutal chaos of fate.

“West captures the soul of a sailor, and the unique character of everyday Americans, and blends them with the explosive reality that we are living in a dangerous world where our most troubling fears are just a heartbeat away.” -Barnes and Noble reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey West
• Release date: Jan 3, 2010

Book preview

Prologue

America was born of farmers, mariners, and craftsmen. It has been said that only the heartiest of body, keenest of senses, and stoutest of heart arrived on her shores, for anyone less would have failed and likely never would have ventured forth in the first place. America’s prosperity and strength today can be traced directly to her founding fathers, and to the adventurers and entrepreneurs who risked everything by coming, and gained everything by staying.

The spirit of exploration lives on today in pioneers of all sorts. One can learn a great deal from people with an adventurous past, as they apply their experiences and discoveries to everyday living in a way that usually makes for a more fascinating perspective. This is likely how so many words and expressions born centuries ago on the seas of the world are still prevalent in today’s language.

In the years past, the depths of a sailor’s soul were littered with fears and apprehensions, for sailing across oceans for years on end entailed numerous near death experiences and hideous hardships that racked a man’s nerves to the breaking point, and rendered his mind and emotions a complex array of perceived possibilities.

Pummeled by storms or ripped open by island shores or hidden reefs, due to the inexact science of visual analog navigation, many vessels were defeated by the sea. Others were raided by pirates or disease. The sum of these hardships ended the lives of untold numbers of seamen and vessels, the stories of which saturated others with caution.

The fundamental terror in every sailor’s heart is that of ending up in the grip of Mother Nature’s most ferocious of powers, and being plunged into the depths of her unknown. It’s the not knowing that scares him the most. What monsters, real and imagined, could be lurking two thousand feet below and what horrid deeds will they do when he is cast into the vast realm of their inescapable trap.

Still, maritime shipping carried on. For centuries, the fear of the sea did not stop great sailing ships from transporting goods, exploring new lands, and waging war. Losing ships was as much a part of sailing them as was the sailing itself. While shipwrecking was accepted as a general risk, it did not alleviate the fear of it. In fact, it brought the fear to full effect, strengthening the capabilities of sailors and of their vessels over time to the point of enabling a trip across vast expanses to be relatively safe, if not enjoyable.

While the fear of the sea is nowhere near what it was long ago, it still exists even in today’s weekend cruiser. While his escapades are drastically more comfortable and less dangerous than years past, with the availability of modern navigation electronics, accurate charts and easily handled, seaworthy vessels, there still lives the real possibility of catastrophic episodes. This possibility is proven by events that occur to others, which are then broadcast on the news or around the scuttlebutt, or that are nearly experienced by many sailors who escape disaster only through amazing luck and the skin of their asses.

The fear, oddly enough, may also be what intrigues sailors the most. The allure is of living with and at times beating Mother Nature, of taking flight on the wings of her wind and the surge of her ocean, and of being capable of remaining safe and even cozy in the fortress of a well-built sailing yacht.

It is the well-founded respect for, and fear of, the sea that makes for a prepared, quick thinking and courageous seaman. During difficult conditions at sea, fear summons courage and invention. When mixed with basic tools, most potential disasters are cleverly avoided.

With time and experience, the anxiety is suppressed into dormancy. Then the fun, learning, competition, and adventure of guiding a home away from home to other ports and islands become a reality. The dormant dread lies somewhat restless though, as all of the sailor’s senses are sharply tuned to the incongruency frequency. Should something look funny, smell funky or sound faulty, the fear rears up as if it were a hibernating bear poked with a cattle prod; for the end to an unresolved critical equipment failure, fire, or hull breach will likely be the exact dreadful torture and death that the fear has warned about for so long.

The sailor’s fear, a tremendous asset not only at sea but in life, is absent in the lives of the majority of Americans. They have little reason to fear, as they are relatively well protected from disease, hunger, war, and generally speaking, violence and misery as a whole. Their isolation from mass human suffering likely being the product of a well-designed constitution and over four centuries of their ancestors’ blood, sweat, and enduring love of God, family, and country.

On solid ground, there is little reason to worry about being suddenly submerged, either literally or in a figurative sense not yet imagined. Therefore, no precautions are set in place to prevent such an occasion.

One

The islands of Polynesia can be at once beautiful and haunting. With soaring volcanic mountains covered in intricate greenery, palm branches rustling, and gentle waves caressing the shores, there is also a sense of ancient spirits. The feeling is that of trespassing through a jungle of ghosts; yet they are not apparitions, but real beings. There is a curious sense of intrinsic voyeurism, as though there are many things thousands of years old that hypnotize into a sense of tranquility, luring one closer. They demand to be seen, yet can also see.

The islands are the perfect place to get lost in. The wonder and awe inspired by the peculiar beauty easily distracts visitors away from others’ behavioral oddities. A person can be as carefree and loose as their internal essence desires, without fear of judgment and, in many cases, without even being noticed by other visitors.

Ansell Moreau and Gerard Dupont casually strolled down the beach on the shoreline of Manihi Island in northeast French Polynesia. The two childhood buddies, now in their early teens, had been hiking for most of the day. By late afternoon, they were on the other side of the island from their resort. Their parents were busy at a luau, feasting on roast pig and luscious fruits, and slurping on pink tropical drinks that sloshed about inside glasses the size of punch bowls.

As the day wore on and the boys’ feet were wearing out, they decided it may be time to turn back in order to be able to return to the hotel before anyone became worried.

Just as they rounded the last beach corner, the last of last corners that had summoned them to continue on, the anchored stern of an old cargo ship emerged from behind a group of palm trees, about a quarter mile from shore. A few more seconds of walking revealed the ship’s rusting black hull and white superstructure.

Wow, Ansell look! Gerard said in French.

Yes, I see it. Looks like one of the old tramp freighters. Why is it out here?

How should I know? Look, there is another boat there. Let’s get closer.

The boys walked around the edge of the huge cove, watching the ship and the boat tied up to it. When they had a good view, they sat in the hot sand, spread their legs out in front of them and leaned back against their hands. The new yacht tied to the rusting cargo ship was an impressive contrast to the neglected hull of the larger vessel. It looked like some millionaire’s big flashy offshore cruiser, with lots of shiny bits around the edges and navigation equipment domes on top.

That’s a nice boat, Ansell commented.

Yeah, probably owned by some big-shot executive.

Or a drug dealer, Ansell joked.

Yeah, he’s probably loading drugs onto that freighter, Gerard said with a laugh.

At that moment, a hoist aboard the cargo ship lifted a large crate off the top deck of the yacht, swung the crate around, and then began lowering it into the ship’s hold.

Oh, they really are loading stuff onto the freighter, Gerard noticed.

Ansell looked again at the boats, then turned back to Gerard. Yes, but what would a freighter want from a yacht?

Gerard leaned forward, then sat straight up. Shit! he yelped, his recently deepened voice momentarily breaking back to high pitch. They really are loading drugs! He squinted to focus on the decks of the boats. That’s why they are hiding out here to do their work. That freighter is probably heading for Papeete.

Ansell’s head shot back towards the boats, then around in all directions. Uh, Gerard, we should leave, he said, nearly whispering.

Maybe, but I don’t see very many people on the boats. Maybe we should go have a look after dark?

Ansell looked sideways at his friend. What? Forget it. Are you insane? They will shoot us. The people are probably inside.

We don’t know if they are drug dealers. Anyway, they can probably see us clearly already and nobody is shooting. Let’s wait until dark and climb aboard. There’s a ladder hanging there, do you see it?

Yes. I mean no, you go. I’ll wait here.

Coward.

No, I’m just not as stupid as you.

Little girl.

Stop it.

Ansell, we always do stuff like this. When have you been afraid before?

We have always had a way to escape. Out there on that ship, there is nowhere to go and nobody to hear us if we get into trouble.

Sounds like more fun to me. How about if you just stay at the top of the ladder while I go look inside the top of the hold? You can jump off anytime you want. I’ll just look over the edge and then we’ll quickly get back here to the beach.

This didn’t sound too bad. Ansell agreed to go. He was afraid; but this made the thought of adventure even more compelling. As long as he had an escape route, the plan was a good one. In fact, it was the escaping part that would be the most fun.

When there was no light left of the day, the boys stripped down to their underwear and waded into the sea. The water was warm and the sand soft under their toes. Even if the ship turned out to be a bore, at least they would have a good swim. The fancy yacht had departed and left the side of the ship an easier target. The boys swam out to the side of the old vessel and grabbed on to the bottom of the rope ladder.

Ready? Gerard grinned.

Yes, you go first.

At the top of the ladder, Gerard looked around for any guards. He could see people inside the bridge under the lights, but they were far away and probably couldn’t see him on the darkened decks. He hopped over the rail and motioned for Ansell, who then began climbing the ladder.

There’s nobody around, Gerard said when Ansell reached the top of the ladder.

Good. I’ll wait here.

Right. Ansell look, the holds are sealed. I won’t be able to see in.

Then let’s go.

Gerard looked around again. His curiosity was overwhelming him. He spotted an open hatch only a few yards away, with a stairwell leading down.

I’m just going to look through that door.

Gerard, don’t.

Just wait here.

Gerard sprinted to the nearby hatch and looked inside, then walked down the steps into the bowels of the ship. At the bottom of the steps, he looked down the corridor. The interior was dimly lit with red lighting of the type designed to preserve a crewman’s night vision. Down at the end of the corridor, he saw an open door on the left with white light coming from the inside.

Gerard tiptoed over the grating and peered around the corner of the cargo hold door. His eyes immediately went wide and he inhaled quickly. He was instantly and profoundly confused. He knew what he was looking at; he just had no idea why it was all here. Gerard stared and pondered for over a minute, until Ansell’s bare feet came running up behind him.

Gerard, what are you doing? Let’s go.

Ansell then peeked around the same corner of the door, under Gerard’s arm. Ansell was confused as well, but this turned immediately into deep terror. So much so, he suddenly felt nauseas and nearly passed out. He was just able to grab Gerard’s arm and pull him back towards the stairwell. Gerard turned to look at Ansell and saw the fever of fear in his eyes, which spread instantaneously to him. The two staggered backwards, stumbled back across the steel grating and then began ascending the stairs.

Thirteen days later, the ship was steaming at nearly full speed through the darkness of early evening. The weather had turned nasty, with high winds, light fog, and a bad-tempered sea. The ship plowed through the breaking waves, moaning and creaking, and angry at being driven on. The sea spray cascaded over the rails and whipped around the bridge, as the hoist cable and other rigging clanged from side to side like broken church bells. All the while, the giant engine droned on, throbbing against the ocean and echoing throughout the caverns of the ship.

The crew on the bridge steered the old vessel on her course, steadily watching the rolling ocean out in front of them. For technical reasons, the radar and radio equipment had been temporarily switched off. No other vessels were expected to be out in this weather, and the region had been checked prior to shutting down the radar. Despite this, the shut down eventually prevented seeing a sailboat dead ahead, running from the storm into the blackness. The sailing vessel was now only a quarter mile in front of the ship, and quickly being overtaken.

Suddenly, beaming through the spiraling fog, the sailboat’s spotlight flooded the bridge of the freighter and then scanned the front edges of the ship. The sailing yacht in the path of doom was now about a hundred yards away, and trying to race to starboard. Through the illuminated mist, the ship’s crew could see two men in the yacht’s cockpit. The ship’s helmsman did not alter course.

At about the same time that the yacht crewmen were desperately trying to evade the fast-moving ship, Ricardo Cruz sat in his Swedish leather recliner inside his dockside home in Newport Beach, California, watching soccer on his sixty-inch television and gnawing on peppered beef jerky.

Ricardo was following the moves of nearly every player, occasionally pulling on his thick gray hair when his team fouled up, and taking puffs on an eighty-five dollar cigar to calm his nerves.

An avid sailor, Ricardo would have been horrified by the oncoming cargo ship, had he been aboard the imperiled sailboat. However, he may as well have been aboard, for the horror would soon reach all the way to Newport Beach.

As he watched players boot a soccer ball around on a high-definition grass field, Ricardo had no way of knowing that his family would soon be neck-deep in the catastrophe developing at sea. Yet the true terror would not be the looming collision, but what would come after.

Two

So long ago that it seems like a previous life, in September of 1960 at the age of seventeen, Ricardo Francisco Cruz left Cuba to defect to the United States. At the time, Fidel Castro, the wealthy lawyer who had turned radical communist, had taken over Cuba almost two years previously. Since then, fear and hunger were the daily order for many.

Ricardo was a bit of an undersized boy of about five feet seven inches, yet he possessed great genes inherited from his mother’s side of the family that produced naturally bulging muscles and strong facial features. These were accented by sharp, squinting eyes reminiscent of an American cowboy movie star. With his short dark hair, smooth chin, and a woman’s kissing lips, if he were donned in a tuxedo and had been able to carry a tune, he could have been cast as a singing teenage idol.

Ricardo’s father, Eduardo, and mother, Francesca, had owned a tobacco plantation fifteen miles outside of the city of Gibara that had been expropriated by the Castro government. Ricardo and his family, well known for their success and contribution to the local economy, had been unceremoniously stripped of their assets and subsequently forced to work on their own farm. Through the implementation of the fundamental psychology of Communism, the Cruzes were made to feel as though they were fortunate to not only have jobs but also still have a roof over their heads.

There was a two-century history behind the Cruz family tobacco farm, beginning shortly after the Spanish arrived in frequency and created a trade demand for the produce. During this time, the Cruz’s ancestors were assigned the surname of a Spanish galleon captain, causing their original Guanahatabeyes Indian family name to be long forgotten.

Generations of Cruzes had worked their backs and limbs to the breaking point and had ultimately prospered as tobacco farmers and cigar makers, until the day that is was all stolen from them. Tobacco farming was the only trade that the Cruzes knew, and they had become accustomed to the comforts and pleasures produced by their hard labor.

Francesca, whose mother had been Cuban and father a Spaniard of Italian descent, had stunning European features covered in beautiful brown skin. Her beauty still emerged, even as she wept. Fretful and intuitive as any mother might be, she was concerned not for herself so much as for her children, who along with honest labor had by then been well educated and sculpted to become respectable citizens.

Francesca softly sobbed many evenings after dinner, when the family would retire to the two bedrooms in the tiny farm-worker house where they had been moved. Their former home, no more than a couple of hundred feet away, had been occupied by the regional minister of agriculture. It was as if the Cruz family and their ancestors were being punished for imagining a better life and working arduously to fulfill their dreams.

The Cruz family, driven by their father’s strength and mother’s love, were too proud and too insightful to be poor and deprived for the rest of time. After much argument and heartache, the decision was ultimately made for Ricardo to escape to the United States. Since the escape would likely be via boat, Ricardo was the most logical candidate, as he was the only family member with any seafaring experience.

Their vision was for him to get settled and prepare for other family members to arrive, and even possibly aid in their subsequent escape from Cuba. They could then restart their family business and continue their tobacco farming legacy as free people in America.

This was all emotionally and logically debated for many weeks in the evenings as the family congregated in the kitchen. The whole idea sounded noble and exciting; but whenever the gritty details of such an undertaking were brought out into the open, usually the conversation would taper off and then melt into a game of Dominoes.

The decision to escape Cuba became cemented irrevocably when the family learned of a sunken sailboat in a remote shallow bay in eastern Cuba. The vessel had been abandoned by a young American who had only been described as having long hair and a short beard. Nobody saw the owner after the wreck, as he had apparently returned to the United States, leaving the boat forsaken. All that was known about the boat’s demise was that the American had anchored poorly prior to an afternoon thunderstorm, and his boat had been pushed onto the rocks for destruction.

Ricardo had heard of the wreck from his sister’s husband, who had been in the village of Toa in eastern Cuba delivering sugar to the local market. A small community of about eight hundred, Toa’s location was about three miles from the site of the submerged vessel.

Ricardo’s brother-in-law had discussed the boat and its skipper with the market’s owner, Alberto, a slight, eccentric man in his late forties who was aging poorly. Ugly as a bulldog in a dogfight. Some say that the years of worrying for the needs of people had taken its toll on his appearance, while others analyzed his quirky behavior and guessed that the endless chin-wagging of customers had bored him to psychosis. His saving grace was his generous nature and the spotless dress pants and white shirts that he wore while working his storefront. He was by far the cleanest man in town.

Alberto had told the story of a Cuban Army boat helmsman, who was also in charge of supplies procurement for the local army post. The helmsman had seen the wreck just after a thunderstorm, and had heard from others that the anchor had slipped and that the marooned owner had set off for Havana to find his way home.

Ricardo’s brother-in-law, who made long-range deliveries for the country’s finest sugar cane plantation and mill near Puerto Padre, had no other details about the boat’s situation, its damage, size or precise location. Ricardo would have to discover these things on his own.

With the discovery of the wrecked sailboat, it became obvious to Ricardo’s mother that someone had been listening to her prayers. The caveat was the sacrifice that she would have to make in seeing one of her sons off on a dangerous endeavor, and the strength required to wait indefinitely until she heard from him again. Francesca was not overly enthusiastic about sending someone on a mission to bring about the eventual rescue of the entire family, but the hope of her children and future grandchildren someday being independent and happy overcame her fears, a little.

The family recruited five other young farm hands who were close friends of Ricardo’s. These were the only men who could be trusted with a secret of this importance, and whose lives had also been virtually ruined by the changes occurring in their country. They were a motley crew, with mediocre navigation experience and nearly void of sailing experience. They had done some fishing together offshore in rented outboard-powered boats, yet their only sailing knowledge was based on what they had seen on the ocean, and heard about in the local hangout from the captains of sailing skiffs that trolled the coastal waters for Dorado and Wahoo.

The plans and parameters were developed during several evenings together, and they eventually began to take shape. The other boys’ relatives were not to be told the truth about what was taking place. As cruel as it may have been, the other families could not be informed of the plans. Even when the defectors were safe in the United States, or if they were discovered missing or found dead at sea, the Cruz’s awareness of the escape could never be revealed.

On a warm Tuesday morning, Francesca walked up to the rear of her previous home and entered the enclosed back porch, which had been converted to an office, and reported to the foreman that Ricardo was bedridden with likely a highly contagious flu.

When do you think he will be able to return to work? the foreman asked in his Honduran Spanish accent, while his eyes roved over Francesca’s curvy body.

I don’t know. You know how these things are, he could be in bed for days. I’ll let you know his condition every morning. Please make sure the other workers do not visit. I don’t want their families to blame us for an outbreak.

Now Missus Cruz, how could anyone blame you for anything? the foreman said as he winked and grinned.

The foreman had a soft spot for Francesca, and would usually flirt harmlessly any chance he had. Along with her long black hair and supple complexion, well preserved by expensive conditioners and creams, she would use her attentive eyes and bashful smile to provoke the imagination of the defenseless foreman whenever she needed something from the house or other favor.

While Francesca chatted with the foreman, Ricardo was riding a bus from Gibara to Sagua De Tanamo, a town close to the east end of Cuba. He would go alone to examine the boat to determine the location and feasibility of repair.

As Ricardo rode in the antique bus, he tried to arrange his behind in a position that did not allow the exposed seat spring to continue to pierce his rump. This was nearly impossible due to the huge woman sitting next to him, squeezing him against the window.

As he shifted endlessly in his seat, Ricardo wondered uneasily about how on Earth he and his friends could make use of a boat that rested on the bottom of the ocean. All of the excitement and planning had been based on the assumption that they had a free boat to use. Nobody, including himself, had pointed out the possibility that raising a boat from the ocean might be ridiculously impossible. With the other passengers gossiping and holding their children and assorted fowl, Ricardo began to think that this trip was merely an exercise in the confirmation of futility.

Arriving in Sagua De Tanamo in the late morning, Ricardo stood outside the bus station, searching the neighborhood for any means of further transportation for the last thirty-eight miles to the village near where the boat rested. He was already travel-weary from the awkward ride from Gibara, and was not looking forward to continuing in possibly a worse form of conveyance.

The old town lethargically moseyed about as dogs and chickens roamed the streets amongst the townspeople. The ancient wood and stucco buildings had some residents lounging in the windows and doorways, seemingly interested in absolutely nothing remarkable. While not presenting a look of being completely hopeless, the town had a feeling about it that it might become desperate someday soon.

After a couple hours of asking questions and shaking down motorists, it became apparent that nobody was going to Toa or even headed in the general direction. There was a roundtrip bus route to Baracoa running twice a week, allowing townspeople to visit Toa and other villages between Sagua De Tanamo and Baracoa. However, the route wasn’t scheduled for another two days.

Ricardo eventually leaned in the shade against a chicken truck that had been loading its brood at a breeder next to the bus station. The truck’s chicken dung odor was strong, but the slight breeze kept most of it headed in the opposite direction, and the cover from the sun justified the burden.

Ricardo pulled out his hand-drawn map and began analyzing options. While Ricardo studied his map, the delivery driver walked out of a tin shack and approached the side of the truck.

Can I help you? the driver said cynically, thinking Ricardo might be a chicken thief.

No, sorry, I’m just getting out of the sun.

Fine. Can you get out of the sun someplace else?

Yes, sorry. I’m not going to cause you any trouble, sir. I’m just waiting to find a ride.

The driver eyed Ricardo and then looked down at the map lines and numbers scribbled on Ricardo’s piece of paper.

Where are you going? the driver asked.

To a village near Baracoa.

Toa?

Yes, that’s it. Do you know it?

Know it? It’s on my delivery route today.

Ricardo stood silent, frozen with anticipation.

The driver smiled, showing a silver tooth and a couple of others missing, and said, You can ride with me.

Thank you! Thank you, my friend.

The chicken truck driver, Leonardo, was a forty-ish distant descendant of a Taino chief and lived twenty-two miles southwest on a remote pig ranch. The ranch land had been in his family since they had ruled the entire region five hundred years ago.

Weighing only about a hundred and fifty-five pounds, slim for his nearly six-foot height, Leonardo was completely gray including his mustache. He had a face very squared and noble, with high cheekbones and well-framed black eyes. In his filthy flannel shirt and cotton army-green cargo pants, he could pass for a jungle-born revolutionary ready to slit your throat for belching. However, one look into his smiling eyes put you completely at peace. You could trust this man with your life, even if it meant giving his.

Ricardo trusted Leonardo instantly. It was quite easy to talk to him, as if he had been Ricardo’s personal driver