Sailing the Blue-Green Line: A Tale of the Caribbean and an Unintended Pirate

By Frank S. Johnson

Stan Russell has a rebellious but honorable soul, and good scotch appears his only vice. Service in a foreign war leads him on a mission to heal. Putting college behind his youthful curiosity leads him to Key West and a vintage schooner captained by a benevolent old mariner.

His ladies, one a lovely exiled Cuban determined to aid her homeland and then yet another not so saintly, help steer Stan through intrigue from the islands to the mainland and back.

All the while, self-serving powers in Washington force Stan to illicit actions justified by his honorable intentions. Turbulent political winds carry his schooner, Marie, from Key West to Cartejena and the Windwards north. Stan Russell's actions arouse the conscience of the country and directly force the President into the jaws of impeachment.

A dark dream pervades the days and nights of this now far from ordinary pirate. Always on the run, death is forever gaining in his wake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595892105

Frank S. Johnson

The author has spent the better part of thirty years teaching science in rural Ozark schools. Firefighting in the Northwest, serving as a policeman in the army, and extensive traveling in his youth provided valued experiences. During his twentieth year a desire to write was sparked by two contemplative months as a fire lookout on an isolated peak above a wild river in Idaho. Different episodes in Europe provided opportunities to travel via train, bicycle, and his thumb from Athens to Amsterdam. Presently, he resides with his wife on a hundred acre farm where raising cattle and wine grapes have now taken the place of raising children. Five books later he maintains his quest to write novel tales for those of noble heart. The author has recently been honored as a finalist in the William Faulkner Literary Contest and on the short list with the Chanticleer Literary Contest.

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Copyright © 2007 by Frank S. Johnson

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Marie is based on the two-masted schooner, Lynx, which dates from the latterportion of the War of 1812.

ISBN: 978-0-595-44887-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-89210-5 (ebk)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Thanks

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

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

I must go down to the seas again to the lovely sea and sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song, and the white sail’s shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.

—from Sea Fever by John Masefield

There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. I am one who cannot.

—Aldo Leopold

Iron men in wooden ships once sailed the seas of our grandfathers. Wind powered sailors of our day and age, now so many fewer but still iron-willed, ply the vast waters of the globe. They seek to fill their sails with the perfect wind, to close haul at the tightest tack and greatest of speeds, and to encourage their indomitable spirits.

—the author

Acknowledgements

Try as I may, I am sure that the discerning reader will find the plot’s geography and the stage I am trying to portray imperfect. However, the platform for the adventures in this tale, the schooner, Marie, all one hundred and twenty-five feet of her, is far from a figment of my imagination. She is based on the delightfully fast and agile schooner, the USS Lynx.

From its launch in 1814 and later, several of these magnificent Baltimore pilot schooners, locally termed sharpies, have been built and one version recently from the time-proven ship yards of Maine. An aspiring but Midwestern sailor early on, my initial exposure to the schooner Lynx or its Lynx-like sister occurred in 1981 as I observed its stately two main sails and fore top sail casually propelling it across Bellingham Bay while carrying one of my lucky friends.

Come with me and enjoy, as have I, sailing the sensuous, vintage schooner, Marie, while the ghost of the fleet, the illustrious Lynx, remains a close and constant companion.

Note … gringo rubio translates as ‘blonde North American’ and the word gringo is initially termed a slur.

Thanks

During my college years I once traveled towards Key West but never made it. My friend and I stopped at Marathon for the beer and shrimp. He was the one who wanted to go on and in many ways Steve Miller did go on after he graduated, sailing on a windjammer from Miami to Ecuador and beyond. Thanks Steve for sharing the stories of so many of your adventures. I regret to have not visited Key West on my spring break so many years ago. What might have happened to me if I had, I can only imagine, and this is the nature of my story.

Both the final editing by Susan Parrish and a final critique by Linda Crane were much appreciated.

Again a special thanks to Megan, my youngest daughter, for proofing and taking the author’s photograph. My son Benjamin, Roger Grider, and my brother James are also thanked for critical reading of the manuscript and technical advice. Also, my wife of so many decades always deserves thanks whenever I finish a book and for critical reading.

A special thank you must be given to James Stephens for his description of Key West at sunset.

Again as always kind words go to the friends who assisted me when I first seriously began to write. Thank you again Susan Parish, Angela Myers, Ric Mayer, Linda Crane, Don Meier, and of course Stephen Shearer. Thank you also to my mother, Roberta Jean Johnson, and my mother-in-law, Helen Katherine Weiss, for reading earlier versions of my first book, yet despite my mistakes, telling me to keep on trucking.

This reminds me how a story written represents the energies of not one but many others in the background.

PROLOGUE

Again I was swallowed by the unwanted dream and helpless in its grasp. A high pitched scream turned my head. On the crowded, sun-drenched sand my eyes zeroed in on an exuberant young woman playing volleyball. A team of three other women cheered her on as she prepared to serve the white ball to a group of four browned and eager young men. Then, not far to the right the familiar image of an older woman opened the gate to my fears.

Wrap-around sunglasses sat on her scarf covered head. Her long blonde hair was tied back. So nondescript as to appear the opposite, her figure lay hidden under a short bathing robe except for her long tanned legs. She was clearly not seeking attention, however, today, unlike others, her path weaved slowly but perceptibly my way. While she seemed to be scanning the sea, I caught her looking in my direction time and time again.

I am sure that I had seen her before, maybe even known her before. Where? I couldn’t recall. The way she walked and the air about her rang alarm bells inside. Her progress across the sand continued. She intently kept tabs on me, pretending just the contrary as she discretely glanced then stared out to sea. A green, thickly-woven beach bag hung from her shoulder. Her right hand lay buried deep within it. Was it resting on a towel or clothing? An odd position for an arm, I thought. Was she cradling a weapon, maybe a pistol, or explosives, or maybe nothing but the paranoia induced by my long life on the run?

Next, the nightmare began as I expected. I sensed myself a sudden, flying, omnipotent viewer above the sand and the surf. The waves crashed below as I watched the woman beside my prostrate figure on the beach. I am sure it was my wife standing over my body. She waved her arms in panic. Further, beyond the now disrupted volleyball game, the woman with the green bag moved away, not hurriedly but constantly zigzagging through the small groups of normally placid pre-weekend sunbathers. Their eyes were now riveted in the direction of my wife’s hysterics.

I sat up. Awake at last, I was ready to scream but couldn’t get it out. Soaked with sweat, I franticly studied my surroundings in the low light. I certified myself over and over not to be asleep. Finally, I pinched my thigh. It was true. The vivid but fading picture from the beach still monopolized my thoughts. However with huge relief, I knew it was not real, yet.

Beside me in near darkness I heard my wife breathing calmly. Above me moonlight speared through a small window to the floor of my cabin. Under me I felt the reassuring roll of a gently, swelling sea.

CHAPTER 1

GRIEVING

The world can be such an ugly place or just the opposite. The latter, it seems to me, depends not only on how you look at things, but also upon your ability to pick the wheat from the chaff, the sincere faces from the multitude of hypocrites. Of those few chosen, rest assured, all depends on the quantity of trust and allegiance we allow ourselves to give or take.

These words, I feel certain, would not help you determine that others call me a pirate. Hopefully, they will introduce you to the premise that I feel I am not, although others with great power announce to the world on a daily basis that I am. I do claim to be an honorable man of the sea, or else tried to be as long as she was alive.

* * * *

The funeral dirge would have confused anyone who didn’t call this island mecca home. Despite the summer heat and glare, the rhythmic clattering of tambourines and farewells spoken in mostly feminine salutes resonated down the sun-swept residential street. The tail end of the processional featured a mixture of what I’d witnessed in New Orleans and in Jamaica. A jazzy but mellow cornet combined with the haunting vibes of a quick fingered alto saxophonist reminded us to celebrate the departed as much as we mourned.

From the somber faces of men and women, all resolute in their loyalty to the deceased but most not so in their sexual leanings, emissions of sadness were evident. To the misguided tourist stumbling upon the beginning of our cheerless pageant it might have appeared oppressive and macabre. However, whatever their predilection on life, the many people who lined that dazzlingly sunlit but still dismal avenue considered our piece of the puzzle in the grand scheme of things the norm in Key West.

If you watched the parade of the dead from the sidewalk as the procession passed, you would find it hard to comprehend its full meaning, unless you were a creature who had hung his hat in this hodgepodge of humanity for a few decades, as I. However, having earlier swept my pretensions aside when first making Key West my home port, I was then able to begin to understand. I had taken the time to look deeper, where others turned away. I had allowed the true worth of this social menagerie to surface.

One of the dead, who was clearly a he and not confused about his leanings, or at least I never sensed it in the twenty years I had known him, wheeled slowly past. His spent but large-framed body rested on plush, purple velvet, tastefully decorated on the side with palm fronds. Beside him, another form, shorter and slimmer with long, dark hair carefully splayed on a satin pillow, lay in final repose. The man had been a friend. His name was Carlos. The woman had been my wife.

Petite but feisty and of Cuban extraction, Angelina had filled my life. On the sea shortly after coming to the Keys I had luckily found her. She had been first and foremost a trusted companion and only later a mistress and then a wife. The lovely Latina had salvaged me from dire straits many times despite my innate desires to continue steering towards the rocks. Yet, she had sent me into dangerous adventures many times, often shouldering me aside to take the lead.

Her selfless living and even her leaving of this world had graced many. She had saved a less deserving soul who is telling this tale. Angelina had given her life but also more, precious time. A generation with me, plus a spit second, had made the difference, sealing her fate but giving me the opportunity to save others and deal some devilish men their due.

Angelina’s form passed by. She remained immobile on the mortuary’s royal colored cloth at Carlos’ side. Her face, although waxen, remained real to me. Only two days before in intensive care at our local hospital, she had lingered in an inevitable losing game with death. We were lucky to have that precious time, considering the grievous wounds she had sustained.

A sudden showering of rice arced through the air and distracted me from my dark reminiscing. I watched as the sweating skin of all present and the rich purple, cloth-draped plywood caught the blessing. This vehicle of death but likewise of life’s celebration rolled along at a plodding pace. Its ending point, I knew, to be the funeral home and cremation.

I had promised Angelina to lay her ashes at different places, a handful at sea, a small portion in her Uncle Alberto’s garden in Cartejena, and the remainder over her parent’s farm in her Cuban homeland. However, there were other heartfelt promises. Even near death my dark-eyed lady had remained a task maker.

I continued my visual tribute at a vantage point momentarily from a neighbor’s deck, then politely took my leave and followed the sad parade. Friends of mine from all persuasions, a few dressed as my family from a Midwestern childhood would find bizarre, trod a solemn dance along the street behind the slow rolling pick-up truck, today a hearse. They threw somber kisses and rice to anyone who wished to embrace their grief. It was a touching show of mourning because I knew it to be sincere. Angelina as a doctor had eased their suffering. Carlos as a bartender had surely listened to their sorrows.

The deceased male, a far from simple purveyor of drink and long old, it seemed to me, had failed to heed the American dream of remaining forever young. He had finally halted all bodily functions at age eighty-two with a stubbornness that had been amplified in the way he had lived his life. I chided myself for writing down only a few of his short but timely pearls of wisdom. It was pure coincidence that he had passed within a day of my Angelina.

Carlos Barossa was a man to be remembered. Cuban in birth, dark and worldly, his grand smile spoke of mysteries never to be unearthed. Serving behind the bar until death, he had swabbed the drinking boards of several local establishments and dished out advice for fifty years before succumbing to a life well lived. Before those often placid hours as a bartender, he told of exploits that I felt plausible for such a man. He had crewed on fishing and salvage boats, plying the dangerous reef-strewn waters that traced our shores and those of the big island of the Greater Antilles ninety miles to the south.

For the last ten or twelve years, I can’t remember exactly, he stood the bar at the Blue Heaven Restaurant and served many a tourist and few locals. I would go in occasionally, paying the extra dollar for a beer, just to see Carlos. He explained to me and his friends about his desertion from the more common watering holes, "The pay is good, Señor Stan, and my grand-niece in Miami is in school and needs the money. She is studying to be a teacher." Old Carlos lived next door in a small house much like mine. His weathered paint-pealed walls hid far more than a simple man. His wife had died before I knew him.

Angelina, the fifty-two-year-old woman lying prostrate beside him, had shared my bed and helped crew my boat for the best part of my life. When she was not on board Marie she was filling in at the clinic or treating sick children in rural Cuba and earlier in mountainous Colombia. A pediatric physician, trained well at the University of Cartejena, she was loved by entire communities. However, now she was no more than a wonderful memory etched in my soul three decades in the making. It was a sad day, doubly sad.

Later, a spiritual watch for Angelina and Carlos at St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church continued until ten o’clock that evening. There, I listened to Emily, an old friend, play a haunting, respectful tune on Angelina’s recorder. Its lilting sound resonated beautifully in the chapel and ended our vigil.

On that starry night the entire town, it seemed, turned out to celebrate Carlos and Angelina’s life. Then, with sullen faces and unsteady strides I watched a multitude of people retreat to their boats, houses near the beach like mine, or a few to the Naval Station not far away. Then in twos and threes a few of us migrated short distances to designated drinking establishments to toast the departed until dawn.

Over beers before the funeral my close friends had related the impact of the passing of the two. I remembered my own stories as numerous others spoke his laurels and then hers. Carlos many times had pulled me from my yard in the wee hours. Despite the time and his own exhaustion he had guided me with kind words to my front porch, up the three steps, and to my bed inside. His hard won common sense never left me. Only time will tell if I was wise enough to heed it.

Dark-eyed, dark hair, and most important, Angelina’s generous heart reached out to all. I thought how my dear lady had been such a free spirit. Although knowing each other intimately since meeting in a sun-filled park in Cartejena in our twenties, we had not come together in fidelity in a day-to-day pact until we approached our late thirties.

Yet, whether her presence was real or an apparition of what was hopefully to come in another life, she had pulled my soul from the sharks many times and given of herself helping to find me safe harbor. Even in death Angelina radiated as a bright beacon. Interwoven through my life for so very long, she had steered me and others to reach beyond ourselves. Her mother and father had named her well. They were also a part of the promise.

CHAPTER 2

A PROMISE TO KEEP

The Gulf of Mexico stretched in all directions around me, and a steady north wind flicked its power with ease upon a green, foam-streaked sea. I always made it a habit as a schooner’s captain to make hay while the sun shines, so to say, and catch the wind while I could. I held the great wheel, maintaining course and thought how I was now closer in my lifetime to being a pirate than ever before. And yet, Angelina had called me by that name all along.

Stan, you are my very own pirate, she had crooned to me after our loving.

Was that what she had seen in me? I pondered the thought but decided against it. Her idealistic motives to do well in the world demanded heroes, not pirates. She had been the hero. I was only a University of Indiana dropout who had learned to sail and well, I might add, among other things.

My mind came back to the moment. Large waves demanded my attention. They seethed over the starboard hull and then the gunnels, blowing frothy, salty spray forward and into the rigging. Their direction and slight decline foretold tomorrow’s lessening weather if all went well. The bright sheen of rivulets dripping water from the lower sails added to the stormy theatrics. Cascades of foaming salt water raced across the polished teak deck. Towards the west my wooden lady broad reached with stubborn elegance. Cuba lay only fifty miles to the south.

A lonely but desirable euphoria pumped through me. My graceful Marie, today at her extremes of speed and endurance, sailed on in a fervored mood. I seldom pushed her so hard. Her limits I understood. Intimate knowledge of her strengths and weaknesses had been acquired during my thirty years before her two tall masts, the first ten under the Chanaults’ wise guidance.

While raucous waters surged by on either side of Marie, I thought how the minor storm would roll on through. I knew tomorrow the seas would be tamer. However, for now, the more than moderate airs pushed the solid vessel beneath me, allowing her to flaunt her traditional, provocative lines to anyone with an eye for such things. Aloft, I felt more than heard the harmonic action of innumerable lengths of cordage caught before a constant, punishing wind. The force sent a steady hum first through the teak decking, then into the soles of my bare feet. Finally, it passed through every bone of my body with a pleasure defying comparison.

This evening, I thought her in her glory, performing as only a century-old Essex Maine schooner could. Past experience whispered old Walter Chanault’s wisdom in my ear, Arrogant flirtations with this rough sea could only bring certain ruin, but Carlos Barossa’s thoughts also rang true. Uncertainty breeds fear. A captain’s indecision seals his fate. Two weeks ago I had lost a lady of flesh and blood and today held forlornly and desperately to a substitute. She bucked and heaved under me as I maintained course, my hand on her great wooden wheel. Below me at my feet I felt her urn of ashes.

Forcefully, I pushed my thoughts toward what lay before me. Moral complications of my task strained even my hardened heart strings. The end justifying the means came to mind. At least one clandestine pursuit lay hidden by this outwardly appearing though far from innocent Caribbean cruise. I forced away brewing negative reflections that quietly proclaimed the possibilities of things going wrong. I reminded myself that we were on our regular mission of mercy. Angelina asked it of me. Yet, there was another.

She had demanded it. Her pained withering words hours before death had sealed the promise. For her I would do anything, literally anything, even though her once beautiful and animated body now consisted of no more than the gray granules nestled in the ginger jar below me.

Hoping to conjure a needed distraction to my troubles, I tried to stand taller, hands clasped and confidently guiding the wheel. This narrow-beamed, two-masted ship at my command today and for so many years in the past bested the surrounding seas with nearly full sail out. I ordered the main sails winched tighter and pushed her still harder.

On this boundary between the southern Gulf and the northern edge of the Caribbean Sea, Marie danced over the waves with wild abandon. There was no doubt in my mind how this embrace of the sea and my troubles was etching its way deeper for later remembrance. With good luck this fine ship would remain my mistress and I her master beyond this day.

CHAPTER 3

AN INTRODUCTION

At one hundred and twenty-five-feet and displacing just more than ninety-eight tons, Marie heeled over to port revealing her smooth, unfettered skin and continued her push towards the Yucatan Channel at almost fifteen knots. The westernmost point of Cuba lay ahead. I would deal with the minor blow’s fury for now, but knew that mañana, sailing would be in quieter waters. In the night while I slept my first mate would turn the grand wooden lady to the east-southeast and tuck in tight around Cape San Antonio.

You will wake me in a few hours, I had asked my first mate, soon after we come about? She had nodded in clear acknowledgement, understanding my need to know and her own need to sleep after completing a grueling shift from midnight to four in the morning.

My calculations and the always more accurate ones of the first mate put Marie well round the largest island in the Greater Antilles after sunrise tomorrow. The small storm would have blown itself out, and if all went well the crystalline waters near Grand Cayman would be churning white solely from my vintage schooner’s wake.

With a good nap under my belt and back alone at the helm, I steered almost due east through the remainder of the night. Later with a nearly empty and less than steaming cup of coffee in my hand, I wished dawn was not still an hour away. To stay alert I let my thoughts brew and kept an eye to the compass.

I pondered how this was a charter cruise or had started out that way. Only during the last few days before we sailed had it changed. Now, it had become so much more. Where I stood at the wheel I apologized to my vieja amiga for putting her in such danger and also selling her time to the highest bidder. prostituting her costly but beautiful lines, she faithfully was doing a good deed but also filling my wallet if all this week went well.

Thinking of filling things, I thought of my stomach and the bacon I had preempted to fry in a cast iron skillet below. Judging first the lessening wind aloft in my two main sails, I tied off the wheel and hustled below. My obsession for bacon in any form was well known to my friends. Soon the fragrant, smoky aroma surrounded my sleeping ship and hopefully before long more than a smell would be filling my belly.

After throwing together two BLT’s on whole toasted wheat I was again at the helm. My hunger initially satisfied, I battled again with my waffling morals and rationalized how my ship needed her upkeep as any beauty might. Varnish, paint, a clean hull, sails, and the innumerable sheets and lines that kept her strong and free-spirited proved that beauty was not cheap, nor honor. I thought for the thousandth time of Angelina, my steady guidepost for the latter, who was no more. Again, I patted the cremation urn at my feet.

I pondered how having guests aboard made our passage appear untainted, which was far from its secretive intent. Satisfying my vow to Angelina depended on my rather indiscreet talents, my crew which included old friends and family, and this rather splendid old wooden lady who carried us so swiftly and quietly to places we had no business going. The last bite of the first sandwich went down and I reached for the second. I turned on the radar for a minute to see who was out there, checked my bearings on the hooded compass with a flashlight, and proceeded to change course ever so slightly to the east southeast.

To divert my thoughts and present pain I recalled our past mutual history. Marie, an old charmer, was well built on the Maine coast at one of the fifteen Essex shipyards in 1904, and refitted thereafter every twenty-five years or so. Her last owner, Walter Chanault, had named her after his wife. It was considered ill luck to not rename a boat when a new owner/captain took command. However, Marie would always be Marie to me.

The old, gray-chested mariner, Walt Chanault, had taken me under his wing. It seemed not so long ago. Yet, in reality, the three decades were there before me, staring back with smiling eyes and few regrets. Ten years of sailing under Walt, a seasoned windjammer captain, annealed my ship-board skills and christened my education with the stars, the sextant, trigonometry, and foremost, the weather.

Walt could read the upcoming message in the clouds and the wind like a headline on Sunday’s Key West Herald. He could also waylay a freebooter, who desired his ship, his daughter, or his wealthy passengers’ wallets. He saw to the demise of any who dared to board and to his delight I, too, although unexpected, had this talent. Yet, for me dealing the devil his due was not a skill acquired on board his marvelous schooner, Marie.

A wooden ship is a small place, and it was not much later that Walt and his wife discovered my sleeping secrets vented by sweating screams of terror. Walt reassured me that the nightmares would fade with time. He also related how it had taken him ten years after his war in the South pacific not to fear sleep. Then, with his wife’s hand in his as he sat on my bed, he spoke as their eyes met, A good woman helped me.

Dawn now faced me and I continued my solitary duty. However, below deck the bustling noise of people waking up cheered me. My mouth forced a tiny, somber smile as I raced forward in time to the present and the rough seas before me. I nodded to an early riser who stepped near, giving reassurance where none was needed. She remained at an arm’s length, standing steady, loyal like my ship, ready to competently take the wheel if I asked. This strong-hearted woman had grown up on this wooden deck. I glanced again at her half naked form in t-shirt and cutoffs, still lean after all these years. Her short, brown hair swept to the side as each gust from the northwest struck her face. She briefly threw me