chartplotter showed the location of the boat, and overlaid on that was radar data. The sonar indicated a depth under the keel of several hundred feet. The speed was fifteen knots, the heading two hundred seventy degrees. The vessel seemed to be riding well, at least to his inexperienced feel.
So far so good.
A moment later Amy reappeared. “Taking the helm.”
“Already?”
“You don’t waste time eating on a boat. I noticed you didn’t cook anything for yourself.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll take another espresso,” she said. “Before you do the dishes.”
Gideon swallowed his annoyance. Was this really the way they did things on a boat? Maybe he was just being sensitive. No matter, he was going to follow orders and remain pleasant. He went below and reached for some more coffee beans.
“On deck,” came a sharp voice from the intercom.
He came up. Amy pointed west. A low, dark line lay on the left-hand horizon.
“That’s the South American mainland,” she said. “As we go west we’re going to graze the coastline of the upper Guajira Peninsula of Colombia. My idea is to cruise along the shore—as the Greeks would have done, and the Irish after them—looking for whatever the Devil’s vomit might be. In the early days of sailing, before the compass, sailors kept within sight of shore whenever possible. So the vomit should be found along this coastline.”
“Looking for vomit. Great. Knock yourself out. By the way, what’s the next clue after that—number eight?”
Amy brought it up on her navigational computer. The picture showed nothing more than a flat line, rising into a second, sharp line, which pointed in turn toward a rounded line. The clue read: aquilonius .
“ Aquilonius ?” Gideon asked. “What does that mean?”
“‘Northerly.’ But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
The water had turned a dirty greenish brown. As the coastline loomed closer into view, he left the dishes half done and brought out the binoculars. A distant line of surf appeared in the glass: a long brown beach with a sea of sand dunes behind.
“That is one desolate coast,” he murmured.
“It’s one of the worst coastlines of the entire Caribbean—treacherous as anything. The offshore sandbars shift continuously.”
“I see a wreck. A big one.” His binoculars focused on the remains of what appeared to have been an enormous container ship, skeletonized and broken.
“According to the charts, that’s El Karina . There are wrecks all along this coast.”
“We’d better be careful.”
“The Turquesa draws only three feet and the hull is made of Kevlar. We’re not in much danger.”
Gideon said nothing. The queasiness was returning in force.
They moved into a course parallel to the coast, and Amy slowed to five knots. She kept clue seven displayed on her nav-computer.
“By the way,” Gideon said, “when I was looking at the weather just now it noted there’s a low pressure system developing east of the Cape Verde Islands. The long-term forecast says it might develop into a storm heading into the Caribbean.”
“This time of year, there’s always a low pressure system developing in that area. The vast majority of hurricanes trend north. Very few brush the coastline of Colombia.”
“Just thought you should know…Captain.”
She nodded. “Keep a sharp lookout for something that might resemble an inverted U—a cave, rock formation, anything.”
The coastline was low and featureless, but as they moved along it began to grow rockier, with headlands and black volcanic sea stacks rising up among the sandy wastes. The wind picked up, blowing hard from shore, carrying with it veils of orange sand that stained the water. The air smelled of dust, and as the sun rose the heat became intense. They continued creeping along at five knots, about five hundred yards offshore.
“These swells are bad,” Gideon said, trying to ignore his nausea. The slow speed made the motion
So far so good.
A moment later Amy reappeared. “Taking the helm.”
“Already?”
“You don’t waste time eating on a boat. I noticed you didn’t cook anything for yourself.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll take another espresso,” she said. “Before you do the dishes.”
Gideon swallowed his annoyance. Was this really the way they did things on a boat? Maybe he was just being sensitive. No matter, he was going to follow orders and remain pleasant. He went below and reached for some more coffee beans.
“On deck,” came a sharp voice from the intercom.
He came up. Amy pointed west. A low, dark line lay on the left-hand horizon.
“That’s the South American mainland,” she said. “As we go west we’re going to graze the coastline of the upper Guajira Peninsula of Colombia. My idea is to cruise along the shore—as the Greeks would have done, and the Irish after them—looking for whatever the Devil’s vomit might be. In the early days of sailing, before the compass, sailors kept within sight of shore whenever possible. So the vomit should be found along this coastline.”
“Looking for vomit. Great. Knock yourself out. By the way, what’s the next clue after that—number eight?”
Amy brought it up on her navigational computer. The picture showed nothing more than a flat line, rising into a second, sharp line, which pointed in turn toward a rounded line. The clue read: aquilonius .
“ Aquilonius ?” Gideon asked. “What does that mean?”
“‘Northerly.’ But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
The water had turned a dirty greenish brown. As the coastline loomed closer into view, he left the dishes half done and brought out the binoculars. A distant line of surf appeared in the glass: a long brown beach with a sea of sand dunes behind.
“That is one desolate coast,” he murmured.
“It’s one of the worst coastlines of the entire Caribbean—treacherous as anything. The offshore sandbars shift continuously.”
“I see a wreck. A big one.” His binoculars focused on the remains of what appeared to have been an enormous container ship, skeletonized and broken.
“According to the charts, that’s El Karina . There are wrecks all along this coast.”
“We’d better be careful.”
“The Turquesa draws only three feet and the hull is made of Kevlar. We’re not in much danger.”
Gideon said nothing. The queasiness was returning in force.
They moved into a course parallel to the coast, and Amy slowed to five knots. She kept clue seven displayed on her nav-computer.
“By the way,” Gideon said, “when I was looking at the weather just now it noted there’s a low pressure system developing east of the Cape Verde Islands. The long-term forecast says it might develop into a storm heading into the Caribbean.”
“This time of year, there’s always a low pressure system developing in that area. The vast majority of hurricanes trend north. Very few brush the coastline of Colombia.”
“Just thought you should know…Captain.”
She nodded. “Keep a sharp lookout for something that might resemble an inverted U—a cave, rock formation, anything.”
The coastline was low and featureless, but as they moved along it began to grow rockier, with headlands and black volcanic sea stacks rising up among the sandy wastes. The wind picked up, blowing hard from shore, carrying with it veils of orange sand that stained the water. The air smelled of dust, and as the sun rose the heat became intense. They continued creeping along at five knots, about five hundred yards offshore.
“These swells are bad,” Gideon said, trying to ignore his nausea. The slow speed made the motion
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