Stowed Away: A Modern Pirate Tale

By Aaron Riensche

Filled with beach bums, exotic-animal peddlers, knifewielding strangers, young lovers, ruthless assassins, modern-day pirates, and other colorful characters, Stowed Away is a fast-paced adventure that follows three mariners off of South America as they attempt to surf and sail their way around the continent. They don't get far though, as their progress is constantly impeded by various mishaps and frequent spells of dead calm, which prompt them to pour a few cold beverages and reminisce about the events that brought them together. Blake, the captain, regales his mates with a tale of crime and misfortune that ruined his marriage and his business. Iván, a novelist and professor, hunkers belowdecks and writes a story about traveling aboard a pirate ship. Malcolm, a recent graduate, sits in the sun and daydreams about his time in Ecuador, living with a college buddy's family, torn between two romances, and eventually shocked to learn the truth behind the family business. Their voyage comes to an abrupt end when they discover a secret that may cost them their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron Riensche
• Release date: Mar 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476360430

Aaron Riensche

Aaron Riensche lives in Seattle with his wife, Johanna. His first novel, Stowed Away: A Modern Pirate Tale, was loosely inspired by his extensive experience living, traveling, and working in South America. He holds a BA in International Studies from the University of Washington and a JD from Seattle University. He is currently working on his second novel.

Book preview

STOWED AWAY

By Aaron Riensche

Copyright 2011 Aaron Riensche

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Dave Riensche. notbadart.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Johanna, for her love and support.

Many thanks as well to the family and friends who provided feedback on earlier versions. In particular, Mom, Dad, Ian, Nate, Chris, and Scott all looked at multiple drafts and helped shape the story. Johanna kept my Spanish on track, and Dave designed a cool cover.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

The sun baked the tarmac of the Guayaquil airport, a hazy vapor rising from the asphalt surface. Two figures looked like visions as they rushed toward the airplane, their images quivering and blurry as Blake tried to keep them in sight through the terminal windows as he hurried through the waiting area. He handed his boarding pass and passport to a guard at the exit and inhaled deeply, his husky chest and shoulders rising under his T-shirt, and shook his unruly red hair out of his face. "Gracias," he mumbled as he snatched the documents back and ran to the aircraft.

The flight was full, and he was the last passenger to board. Everyone had settled into their seats already, except the two men who had arrived just a minute earlier. He tried not to look at them as he straggled down the aisle, but couldn’t help a curious glance. They were young, both wearing surfing trunks and flip-flop sandals—one a clean-cut Ecuadorian, the other a tall American with sandy blonde hair. Their T-shirts were sweaty and their eyes bloodshot, either from salt water or sleep deprivation—he couldn’t tell which.

As Blake reached their row, the Ecuadorian suddenly turned and stepped into the aisle. Blake stopped abruptly to avoid a collision, and their eyes met in surprise. Blake was momentarily speechless, struck by the familiarity of this stranger’s features. The latter muttered a polite excuse me in perfect English and then started toward the back.

Blake followed until he found his seat. There was no space in the overhead bins, so he had to stuff his backpack under the seat in front of him. He sat heavily and looked back. The man he had nearly collided with was talking with a young flight attendant.

Then Blake looked ahead to see what the other was doing. From his angle, sitting a few rows back but on the other side of the aisle, he could see that the tall American’s head was resting against the seatback and his eyes were closed.

When the aircraft began taxiing, Blake was surprised the Ecuadorian companion hadn’t yet returned. During the safety instructions, he glanced back occasionally, but saw no passengers coming his way. Then the plane stopped, and the pilot ordered the cabin crew to prepare for takeoff. A flight attendant, the same one he had seen earlier, walked down the aisle instructing passengers to push their carry-on bags under the seats in front of them and to raise their seat backs.

At the tall American’s row, she paused to adjust his companion’s seat and then appeared to hand him something as she pulled away. Blake watched the American staring down, apparently reading something.

Blake looked back to the aft again—still no sign of the other man. As the plane moved forward Blake heard a commotion and looked back toward the front, seeing the American on his feet now, yelling at the flight attendant. It was a barely intelligible mix of English and Spanish—something about getting off.

Excuse me, sir, a woman’s voice called over the public address system, in correct, slightly accented English, please sit down. We are about to take off.

The American continued his protest, now running toward the front, yelling in English to stop the plane.

Two flight attendants stood and blocked his path, and a voice warned from overhead that he would be arrested when they arrived in Panama if he didn’t return to his seat immediately.

Blake looked out a window and saw the earth falling away beneath them. When he returned his eyes to the front, the American seemed to have accepted his fate. With his head down and a bewildered look on his face, he returned to his seat. The flight attendants continued glaring at him until he buckled himself in.

When the aircraft leveled off, and the seatbelt light was extinguished, Blake rose from his seat, grabbed his backpack from the floor, and started up the aisle toward the vacant seat next to the tall American.

1

Somewhere off the coast of Panama, a sailboat rests idly in a dead calm, long and sleek, painted white, with the name Stowaway emblazoned in blue on the side. An occasional ripple laps up against the hull. The sun is just beginning to appear above the landmass to the east, and the mid-morning heat has yet to arrive.

Down below, Malcolm lies on his bunk with his face buried in the mattress. He can’t seem to find a position to relieve the aching in his skull, and the vessel’s gentle rocking does nothing to help the nausea in his gut. He can hear his companions’ voices up above and finally gathers enough willpower to rise.

He lifts his torso and slides his legs gingerly over the edge of the bunk. The movement is upsetting. He inhales and exhales deeply for a minute or so, trying to control the pressure mounting in his abdomen. Cocking his head to one side seems to assuage the pounding in his head.

He can hear the voices up above more clearly. It sounds like yet another iteration of their standard conversation of late—Iván asking Blake how he acquired the Stowaway, and Blake insisting that it’s a long story and that he has to go back to the beginning. At times, Malcolm finds Iván’s insistence and Blake’s corresponding reluctance more intriguing than the story itself. But at the moment the thought of listening to them going round and round is simply exhausting.

Eventually, he musters the energy to make his next move. Placing both feet flat on the floor, he slowly rises to his feet. The boat rolls softly to one side, and he stumbles forward and catches himself at the cabin entrance and rests his head on the doorjamb. The door to the head that he and Iván share in the aft end is just outside his cabin. So he advances a few more steps and stops at the entrance, then falls onto his knees in front of the toilet.

He grasps the sides of the bowl and stares down into the porcelain for a while. He can feel the upheaval inside, but cannot motivate an expulsion. Giving up on this endeavor, he rises to his feet again and staggers to the companionway, where he rests his head on each step momentarily as he makes his way upward.

Now he can hear the conversation above him clearly. Blake is recounting the day he met his ex-wife. He describes her as a gorgeous blonde who turned the head of every man in Honduras as she stepped off the plane in Tegucigalpa. Malcolm listens to the story of how her father brought her from the US to help run their charter sailing business, until he reaches the deck.

As he emerges, he squints out at the Pacific. There isn’t a cloud in sight, and the morning sun glistens on the surface of the ocean’s blue. To port, he can see the steeple of the humble chapel in the tiny fishing village where this trip began.

His curly hair, bleached blonde from the sun, stands in the places where his head has pressed most heavily against the pillow. His blue eyes are bloodshot. He wears his favorite shorts and tank-top, which he donned yesterday for good luck as they embarked.

It’s about time you got up, gringo, a voice taunts from the aft deck.

He turns and slumps to the deck, his back against the gunwale, looking back at the table where Iván and Blake regard him with amusement. A dog rises lazily from the shade of a bench and pads across the deck, stopping next to Malcolm and licking his face. Hello, Robinson, Malcolm greets, petting his head.

Care for a Bloody Mary? a voice offers.

Malcolm looks up and sees Iván, a stoutly built Latino with an angular face and curly, closely cropped hair, proffering a glass of red liquid. Across the table from Iván, Blake raises a similar glass, half-consumed, in Malcolm’s direction and grins from under his straw hat.

Jesus, you guys, Malcolm mutters, more to himself than to them.

Now, Malcolm, you have arrived just in time for me to propose a toast, Iván announces.

Let me guess, Blake interrupts, to some junkie writer we’ve never heard of.

An excellent idea, Iván replies, but no, this toast is for your young compatriot here. May Malcolm never be the lazy, deadbeat, alcoholic, loser, son-of-a-bitch gringo that you are.

I’ll drink to that, Blake agrees, raising his glass. Now I have a toast. He lifts his drink again. To Iván. May you get off your ass someday and get a real job instead of sitting around all day claiming to be drinking for inspiration, but passing out before you ever write a damn page.

After clinking their glasses and helping themselves to long sips, Blake and Iván eye Malcolm expectantly. No toast, my young friend? Iván queries.

Malcolm struggles to his feet, briefly giving the impression that he might make his way to the table and join in the festivities, but then turns clumsily and leans over the rail, vomiting into the sea.

Bravo! Iván yells, applauding.

That’s good, Blake exhorts. Chum that water so we can catch dinner.

Malcolm wipes his mouth and lowers himself to his seat on the deck. He closes his eyes, and the morning sun warms and soothes his face. He curses his companions for being worthless drunks.

Blake and Iván watch him for a while longer and then give up. Well, I think that’s enough of that story for one day, Blake says, looking down at his freckled arms. I should probably get out of this sun.

Yes, Iván concurs. Your chastisement and your storytelling have inspired me to write.

*****

In his cabin, a short while later, Iván opens his suitcase and removes the typewriter that comprises half his luggage. He carries it to the salon and heaves it up onto the dinette table, and then returns to the suitcase to retrieve a few sheets of paper. He feeds these into the return and flattens his palms on his thighs, staring at the blank page. After a few minutes of nothing, he lights a cigarette and stares up at the ceiling, allowing his natural respiration to expel the smoke from his lungs. When the cigarette has burned to his fingers, he squishes the smoldering nub into an ashtray. After another reflective pause, he begins to type…

2

My name is Iván Artemio Alicante Cruz, father of two (but estranged from their mother), professor of North American literature at Guadalajara University, former editor of the subversive newsletter, Grito, and aspiring novelist. I currently find myself on board the sailing vessel Stowaway, in the tropical Pacific, just off the coast of Panama, traveling southward, in an effort to circumnavigate South America.

My shipmates are three. Blake is our fearless captain, the Stowaway’s putative owner, who has sailed around the world and now has the goal of circumnavigating each continent. Robinson is Blake’s faithful companion, a mongrel with an affectionate disposition that turns to menacing ire whenever he senses something might be threatening his master’s well-being. Malcolm is the newest member of our crew, a young American who arrived on Blake’s heels, looking distraught, after Blake made a sudden, secretive trip to Ecuador last month.

One might wonder what a man of my stature is doing out here, in the middle of nowhere with a pair of nobodies. The short answer is that I met Blake on a bus as I traveled through Central America. He offered to share a six-pack with me, and in addition to this common interest, we seemed to enjoy each other’s company. We are both fond of storytelling and we spent most of the trip exchanging tales of our world travels. Sometime during this trip, he mentioned his plan to sail around South America, and this sounded to me like the perfect thing. By the time we reached San José, where I intended to disembark and visit an old friend, I had persuaded him to take me along, and I remained on the bus with him all the way to Panama.

The real question, then, is how I happened to be on that bus in the first place. This is a more complex question, and one that cannot be answered without some background.

The story begins sometime before, during a period when I was separated, temporarily I hoped, from my wife and children. In order to escape a certain conflict caused by my own foolishness, I had left our home in Guadalajara and was staying with my mother in Puerto Vallarta. Of course, for a man of my age and ego, to move back in with my mother after so many years of independence required me to swallow some pride. I also missed my children, however, and I thought I might increase my chances of seeing them if I were living with their grandmother.

And yet, as the days turned into weeks, it appeared that my wife was not going to forgive me for my indiscretions anytime soon. To distract myself from the sadness of this separation, as well as from the mind-numbing conformity of my mother’s aristocratic neighborhood, I had no choice but to immerse myself in writing. And so, I spent many an evening locked in my room, hunched over a typewriter, as if I were a teenager again, writing late into the night.

I was in that position, with my mind in another part of the world, when suddenly someone grabbed me from behind, and a hand covered my mouth. I was so lost in my own thoughts that, for a moment, I believed it was a character from my own book, come alive and attacking me. Then my reverie turned to bewilderment as a cold, hard blade of steel flashed the reflection of the desk lamp.

My assailant’s grip relaxed, allowing me to turn my head enough to look at him, but with the blade still at my throat. He was dressed in black, with dark skin and a black beard. His black hair was unkempt, covering his ears, with a few wisps falling into his eyes. He held the dagger loosely, and as I looked down the blade, I could see the shape of a seahorse engraved on its hilt. Finally, he removed the weapon from under my chin and pointed toward the window.

I wanted to resist. Every fiber in my being urged me to fight, but I controlled the desire to fly into a rage. Instead, I obeyed as he ordered me to climb out my bedroom window to the stone courtyard on the waterfront side of the house. When he alighted next to me, he pointed out to sea and affirmed his instruction with a silent nod.

I knew what he meant to say. Instead of skirting the house to the pathway that led down to the waterfront, I walked straight ahead to the edge of the property. Then I climbed down the retaining wall and dropped down onto the beach.

It was a dark night, with clouds obscuring the stars and the moon, and I could barely see a short distance in the glow from the houses along the coastline. With wind ruffling my hair and the rolling sounds of the surf, I knew nobody would hear me if I shouted. I was on my own.

My abductor was at the top of the retaining wall. I waited for him to turn his back and climb down, so I could kneel without his noticing and collect a fistful of sand to hurl in his face. But he didn’t climb down. Instead, he squatted, placed one hand on the edge, and vaulted nimbly to the ground.

I had no time to think—I just reacted. As soon as he hit the sand, I whipped one leg at the back of his knees. His momentum carried him tumbling forward, and I followed with a wild kick at the ground near his head, blasting sand into his face. He turned his head and absorbed most of it with his black hair. Then I ran.

Wait! my assailant called out to me in Spanish.

I ignored his plea and rushed forward through the sand, toward the entrance to the path that led up to the road. I was in my stocking feet, and the fabric on my soles seemed to slip in the sand every few steps. It had also been quite some time since I ran any distance, and I could feel my energy fading. Considering the interloper’s athletic jump from the retaining wall, I guessed he would have no trouble catching up to me once he got to his feet, but I had to try.

As I neared the trailhead, I called out Dilmer, the name of the neighborhood watchman, with each plodding step. He couldn’t hear me, of course, but I didn’t know what else to do.

I was shocked to reach the pathway without being caught and I resisted the urge to look back and see where my pursuer was. Instead, I focused on rounding the corner where the retaining wall met the trail as fast as I could without falling.

As I turned the corner, however, I collided with an unexpected monolith. The barrier was solid and unyielding, and I bounced off and landed sprawling on my back.

Propping my torso up on my elbows, I looked up at a large, muscular man. I could only see his outline in the darkness, but he seemed to be well over six feet tall, with brawny shoulders and a barrel chest. His hair was bushy and disheveled, and he wore a white T-shirt that picked up some of the glow from the neighboring houselights. His arms were crossed, and he stared down at me formidably.

Then my original captor was standing over me, offering his hand. Please, he implored, we mean you no harm.

There was something sincere in his voice that made me want to believe him. It was also clear that I had little hope of escaping. I extended my hand and allowed him to pull me up. Then the big man brushed past me toward the shore, and his cohort gestured with his free hand—the other hand still wielding a knife—for me to follow.

They took me to a beached rowboat, and soon the three of us were traveling out to sea, with the big man rowing in the bow and my initial kidnaper perched in the stern staring at me as I sat in the middle of the boat returning his gaze as defiantly as I could. The knife rested on his thigh. The seahorse on the handle had turquoise eyes that seemed to glow slightly despite the lack of moonlight. With his dark skin and clothing, and his salty, black windblown hair and beard, he blended well with the night.

Somewhere out past the breakers, we boarded a sailboat. My captor covered my head with a pillowcase and cut a breathing hole with the seahorse-handled dagger, but not before I spied a gun turret mounted in the bow. I sat on the deck in darkness for a long while, listening to the sounds of a sailboat at night: the straining of the ropes against the mast, the wind rustling the pillowcase over my head, the occasional footsteps on the deck passing me by without a word.

When we reached another vessel, they forced me to climb aboard blind. It was not until they had led me to a cabin on the lower deck that they finally uncovered my head. Then my abductor, without a word, exited the cabin and closed the door, and I heard it latch from the other side. I kneeled on top of the bunk in the corner and looked out over the dark ocean through a porthole.

I felt no fear. Although I had no idea who these men were or what they wanted from me, I assumed that if they wanted to kill me, they would have done so by now. Apparently, they wanted something else. Ransom perhaps, but my family is not exceedingly wealthy. I settled down onto the cot, staring at the cabin door. I was suddenly very tired.

3

The Stowaway’s crew idles in the dead calm. Blake sips a beer, perched next to the rudder, as if ready to steer the moment the wind arises, his gaze lost in the stars that appear one by one as the sky darkens. Malcolm, mostly recovered from his hangover of earlier in the day, sits with his feet propped on the gunwale, watching the sun set over the horizon.

They hear the rhythmic tapping of Iván’s fingers on the keyboard down below. Malcolm looks over his shoulder at the handful of lights on shore that represent Santa Doménica. Despite knowing they haven’t traveled more than a few hundred yards since their departure yesterday, he somehow hoped to look back and see the little village gone from sight. A circumnavigation of South America would take their whole lives at this rate.

This makes the notion of jumping ship in Ecuador seem all the more appealing. Though he was there for only a few months, since his arrival here, a few hundred miles to the north, he thinks every day about going back. He leans his head back and looks up at the stars, and his memories drift back to the night he first arrived…

*****

In a way, that first night was much like the countless parties in college—Diego magically weaving a circle of friends out of a room full of strangers, while women whispered in his ear as if they were old friends exchanging their deepest secrets. But in other ways it was different. Then, women had been too infatuated with Diego, the dark, handsome foreigner, to pay much heed to the tall blonde guy who stood nursing a beer, observing jealously. Now though, Malcolm was the foreigner, and being tall and blonde made him too obvious to overlook. And so, a steady stream of beverages crossed the table in front of him, as Diego made the friends and they in turn wanted to meet Malcolm. Some conversed in competent English, others attempted a few broken English sentences and then resorted to a laborious conversation in Spanish. One young man approached, hoping Malcolm would help him practice his German, then walked away disappointed.

But the language barrier, combined with alcohol and travel fatigue, was increasing his exhaustion. So when he met Catherine, an American woman in a small black dress that revealed shapely legs and a petit physique, he was relieved to settle into conversation with a native English speaker. Her straight hair was dark and hanging over one shoulder in a long braid, and she smiled appreciatively as he claimed the bar stool next to her and introduced himself.

Hi, I’m Malcolm, but my friends call me Mal.

It’s nice to meet you, she replied. I’m Catherine, but my friends call me Cat.

He leaned over the bar and signaled the bartender. She looked down at his watch as he extended his arm. You dive? she asked.

He fiddled with the altimeter. Is it that obvious? he asked. I guess this big thing is pretty obnoxious. Yeah, I dive a little.

So what brings you to Ecuador? She asked. Her accent was clearly American.

Malcolm turned toward the dance floor and searched the faces for a few seconds, then pointed out Diego. That guy.

The one with the slicked-back hair…

Yeah.

…dancing with the girl in the red dress?

That’s the guy, my best friend from college.

So he’s from here?

From Rayas.

Oh, she said. "And what brings a scuba-diving gringo and a costeño to Quito on a Friday night?"

Well, there were no waves on the coast, so we decided to climb a mountain instead.

Oh, surfers. I see. She looked skeptical.

Well he’s a surfer. Supposedly he’s going to teach me, but I brought my dive gear just in case. Actually, we’re just here for the airport.

I see. Coming or going?

Malcolm finished a swallow of beer. Coming.

So you just got here?

Yes indeed. He looked at his watch. About four hours ago.

Really? So you were in the States this morning?

For about a minute. I caught the 12:01 redeye.

You must be exhausted.

I was a couple hours ago, but I’ve caught my second wind. I’m ready to paint the town red now.

I see. So that’s why you’re one of the only two people in the bar not dancing.

He laughed. Got any better ideas?

Well, she raised her eyebrows, there are two of us not dancing...

He leaned toward her. Catherine, look at me. I’m a tall, skinny American white guy. You don’t want to see me try to dance Salsa.

She nodded as Malcolm’s beverage arrived. Well, maybe if I get a few drinks in you, I’ll have the chance to teach you a little merengue.

We’ll see. He decided to change the subject. So what brings you to Quito?

Oh, I needed a change, she said wistfully, staring down at the ice cubes as she stirred her drink.

Tired of the same old stuff?

Kind of, she sighed. Tired of the direction my life was going. She took a long drink. Basically I dropped out of grad school because I hated it and because I wanted to live closer to my boyfriend. I thought our relationship was stagnating and being closer would turn things around, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. She took another long drink. So one day I woke up and found myself in a dead-end job and a dead-end relationship, and I decided to get out. I had an Ecuadorian friend who had just opened a travel agency here in Quito. Since I had studied Spanish and traveled quite a bit, he had told me that if I ever went to Ecuador, he would have a job for me. So one day I’d saved up enough for airfare and I left.

And your boyfriend?

She coughed and rinsed her throat with a drink. Well, he’s still there.

Did you break up?

Not officially, but he didn’t express any interest in coming down to visit me. Said he wasn’t interested in South America, and he didn’t seem too concerned when I told him I thought he should feel free to see other people. She laughed in embarrassment. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. I’m sorry. I’m suddenly spilling my life story to you.

Don’t worry, baby, he grinned and winked, you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m your man.

Well, that’s very kind of you, she emptied her glass and cocked her head to listen to the music as it mixed into a new rhythm, but what I really need is a dance partner. Are you ready to learn to dance merengue or what?

He chuckled nervously and looked at the half-full bottle in his hand, then at her. She had elegant high cheekbones and mischievous eyes whose color he couldn’t discern in the dim light.

She looked at him expectantly.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. When in Rome… he muttered and chugged the rest of his bottle. Then he slammed it on the bar, jumped to his feet, and offered her his hand. Let’s do it. He would have been content to remain perched next to her, losing his voice in the din, but he