too. Now a part of keeping the liquor flowing, she was old enough to know that liquor was often overused; it erupted in bar fights, left wives and children behind, and could even fell the strongest of men.
Except for the low hum of the engine, all was silent, and they flew over the thick, black sea, a small boat racing away from the rest of the world. Far from shore and at the appointed time, Dutch slowed down, and they listened. About ten minutes later they heard ships’ bells, and Rudy exclaimed, “Hot damn.”
Frieda peered through the fog as they drew closer to encounter one of the strangest scenes she’d ever witnessed. The ships—big black birds in the mist—were surrounded by hundreds of other boats of all sizes and designs, everything from slow old tubs to speedboats built just for running. They drifted about and fended off the others like goslings surrounding the mother goose, and Frieda was stunned to realize that the atmosphere was something akin to a party. Here was a flotilla of boats strung together to break the law and make money, and no one seemed to have a care in the world. A floating liquor establishment out in the middle of the dark ocean, like some kind of magical, mythical circus. It made Frieda think of pirates, mermaids, gods, and sirens of the sea. No one acted the slightest touched with doubt, even with jellyfish, like flowers, floating in the water about the boats and danger from the coast guard boats looming. Transactions were at hand, and the booze was in demand. She was stunned again to find they had to wait their turn. Now this was a story, a real story.
As they drew closer, she could see hand-lettered wooden signs hanging in the large boats’ rigging listing the prices and the types of liquor for sale. Champagne was thirty to forty dollars a case, depending on the label and quality, and whiskey and most others were thirty to fifty dollars, depending on the same things. Dutch pulled their boat closer as other boats loaded and left, while Rudy kept watch for the coast guard. Although the fog was still hugging the water, it seemed to be thinning. Frieda didn’t know how to feel about that; it made the return safer but also made them easier to find.
Dutch pulled up to the Canadian three-masted schooner named Eva Marie , where about fifteen other boats were conducting their business, their engines running and ready for immediate departure, their hulls thumping cheek to cheek around the big boat, all of them rolling and bumping and lowering cargo into their holds. The schooner was all burly men, gleaming faces, low lights flooding the deck, full of people and crates, and a sense of enthusiastic purpose. People worked quickly, determinedly, and zealously. She blinked several times. She could scarcely believe it. She had tried to imagine this moment ever since Dutch had hired her, but nothing she’d pictured had come close to this energy and the feel of this orderly chaos. These people had a burning fire in their bellies, and the scene felt as if it could at any moment combust into flames. She had no other way to describe it but to say that out here these people were alive. More alive than landlubbers. More alive than people playing it straight.
The crew of the big boat threw out lines, and Frieda helped Rudy put over the fenders. Dutch was deciding what label liquor he wanted, while some of the men got off their boats and scrambled aboard the Eva Marie to stay for a while. This close, Frieda could hear music and saw some couples—the men wearing striped blazers and Oxford baggies, the women wearing chemises and T-bar shoes—dancing on the deck, as though this were a party. Some people had obviously come out here just for the excitement, and she could understand why. The vitality was catching, and she wished she could scoop it up in her arms and carry it back with her. People seemed mesmerized, as if under a spell, and everything hinged on these incandescent moments. Men moved the
Except for the low hum of the engine, all was silent, and they flew over the thick, black sea, a small boat racing away from the rest of the world. Far from shore and at the appointed time, Dutch slowed down, and they listened. About ten minutes later they heard ships’ bells, and Rudy exclaimed, “Hot damn.”
Frieda peered through the fog as they drew closer to encounter one of the strangest scenes she’d ever witnessed. The ships—big black birds in the mist—were surrounded by hundreds of other boats of all sizes and designs, everything from slow old tubs to speedboats built just for running. They drifted about and fended off the others like goslings surrounding the mother goose, and Frieda was stunned to realize that the atmosphere was something akin to a party. Here was a flotilla of boats strung together to break the law and make money, and no one seemed to have a care in the world. A floating liquor establishment out in the middle of the dark ocean, like some kind of magical, mythical circus. It made Frieda think of pirates, mermaids, gods, and sirens of the sea. No one acted the slightest touched with doubt, even with jellyfish, like flowers, floating in the water about the boats and danger from the coast guard boats looming. Transactions were at hand, and the booze was in demand. She was stunned again to find they had to wait their turn. Now this was a story, a real story.
As they drew closer, she could see hand-lettered wooden signs hanging in the large boats’ rigging listing the prices and the types of liquor for sale. Champagne was thirty to forty dollars a case, depending on the label and quality, and whiskey and most others were thirty to fifty dollars, depending on the same things. Dutch pulled their boat closer as other boats loaded and left, while Rudy kept watch for the coast guard. Although the fog was still hugging the water, it seemed to be thinning. Frieda didn’t know how to feel about that; it made the return safer but also made them easier to find.
Dutch pulled up to the Canadian three-masted schooner named Eva Marie , where about fifteen other boats were conducting their business, their engines running and ready for immediate departure, their hulls thumping cheek to cheek around the big boat, all of them rolling and bumping and lowering cargo into their holds. The schooner was all burly men, gleaming faces, low lights flooding the deck, full of people and crates, and a sense of enthusiastic purpose. People worked quickly, determinedly, and zealously. She blinked several times. She could scarcely believe it. She had tried to imagine this moment ever since Dutch had hired her, but nothing she’d pictured had come close to this energy and the feel of this orderly chaos. These people had a burning fire in their bellies, and the scene felt as if it could at any moment combust into flames. She had no other way to describe it but to say that out here these people were alive. More alive than landlubbers. More alive than people playing it straight.
The crew of the big boat threw out lines, and Frieda helped Rudy put over the fenders. Dutch was deciding what label liquor he wanted, while some of the men got off their boats and scrambled aboard the Eva Marie to stay for a while. This close, Frieda could hear music and saw some couples—the men wearing striped blazers and Oxford baggies, the women wearing chemises and T-bar shoes—dancing on the deck, as though this were a party. Some people had obviously come out here just for the excitement, and she could understand why. The vitality was catching, and she wished she could scoop it up in her arms and carry it back with her. People seemed mesmerized, as if under a spell, and everything hinged on these incandescent moments. Men moved the
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