The Double-Cross In Paradise; Episode 16, The Crew Takes A Break

This is episode sixteen in the sixth novel of The Trace Troy Adventure Series. It is titled The Double-Cross in Paradise. Here are the links to  The Double-Cross In Paradise: paperback, Kindle. 

The Crew Takes A Break

Trace and the crew docked for three days at Port Vila. Their cargo was offloaded, and then The Tramp Islander’s hull was filled with outgoing cargo. Each day it rained, but late in the day, so it did not interfere with the offloading and loading work. 

On the fourth morning, they sailed to Makers, then to a long string of islands. Each has its own unique appeal, yet the same languid and smooth tropical ambiance of a melodic life pacing with the sway of palms and gentle rolling waves.  

Two months passed quickly. The cargo varied. At times, they took on a few passengers, nothing like the brood they brought from Suva to Port Vila.

The smaller island inhabitants extended friendly greetings to The Tramp Islander’s sails, crew, and the cargo delivered. However, such greetings appeared well-rehearsed and commonplace. 

The crew lived the idyllic life of South Sea adventurers. It was the type of life Trace thought would greet him from the time he first touched down in Fiji. Trace and Sage seemed to grow into the lifestyle. They spoke less and less about Texas and ranching. Likewise with Paul and Tom. The conversations revolved around their work and subjects, and events related to sailing and islands. It was almost as if life did not exist before the South Seas. Of course, for Makani, the South Seas were all he knew.

Paul and Tom transformed into rugged and strong deckhands. Gone was the vacant, disturbingly placid, and frail look from the time Trace first saw them. 

The Tramp Islander clung tightly to the dock in Port Vila. A small load of cargo had been offloaded. And for the first time since arriving in the Vanuatu Islands, nothing waited on the docks for them, and nothing was scheduled. 

Trace called the crew to the pilothouse.

Trace sat in the pilot’s chair, Sage sat at the chart desk, Makani stood in the companionway, and Paul and Tom sat on the bench.

Trace handed everybody an envelope. 

“There’s five hundred dollars in each,” Trace said. “It’s a bonus. It’s been a good two months for The Tramp Islander. We’ve made all our deliveries on time, and no cargo has been damaged. Other than blisters, scrapes, bruises, bumps, and sore muscles, there have been no injuries. That is remarkable.”

Makani raised his hand.

“What?” Trace said.

“I had diarrhea,” Makani grinned.

Everyone chuckled.

“You’re the cook,” Trace retorted jokingly. “That’s on you.”

Everyone thanked Trace.

“Everybody take three days,” Trace said. “It would be good if you stayed on board at night. But that’s up to each of you. It’s just my recommendation and opinion. No offense, Tom or Paul, you’re Americans and still a little green. I wouldn’t be a good captain or friend if I didn’t say something.”

Paul cleared his throat. “No offense, Makani, but I’d like to have another meal besides what comes out of a galley.”

“No hurt,” Makani said. “That  what I do too.”

“I haven’t had a steak in years,” Tom said. “There has to be some place in Port Vila that has a fat, juicy steak.”

“Man,” Sage said, “I haven’t felt homesick in months. Just the mention of steak makes me weep. A ribeye on a wire grill cooked over mesquite, I’d trade all the pearls in the South Seas for one.”

“What are you going to do?” Paul said to Trace.

“Nothing,” Trace grinned, “I divided all the bonus money between you guys—there’s nothing left for me.”

“That’s a load of BS,” Sage said. 

“BS is all I could contribute from Texas,” Trace said.

“Why don’t you guys take a week or so?” Paul said to Trace and Sage. “Go back to Texas for a couple of days and get it all out of your system.”

“If I go, I ain’t comin’ back,” Sage said.

“You know,” Trace said, “for now, this is home. I’ll know when my time is up, and I’ll leave with everything done I want to do and have no regrets.”

“Times two,” Sage said. “I got more South Seas’ sunsets yet to fill my memories.”

Paul and Tom stood.

Paul said, “Tom and I have been talking about getting some ice cream. It’s been a while.”

“Watch how much you drink,” Trace warned. “The local police might arrest you for drunk and disorderly. Then they steal your money.”

Sage spoke up. “Take only what you’ll need.”

“Paul and I don’t drink,” Tom said. “That was a prerequisite before joining the cult—no booze.”

“Ah,” Trace said, “we’re treating you guys like ya just fell from the back of the turnip truck. Go have a good time.”

“You want to come with us, Sage and Makani?” Paul asked.

“Me not go,” Makani said. “I got things to do. Then have fun.”

“You guys go on you’re own,” Sage said. “I’d be a third wheel.”

“Tell ya what,” Paul said, “Tom and I will see if we can find a ribeye. Mesquite is probably out of the question.”

“Tell you what,” Sage said, “if ya can’t find a ribeye, just bring me a cow. In every cow there’s a ribeye just waiting to be discovered.”

The Double-Cross in Paradise: Episode 15, Farewell To The Poopy Faces

This is episode fifteen in the sixth novel of The Trace Troy Adventure Series. It is titled The Double-Cross in Paradise. Here are the links to  The Double-Cross In Paradise: paperback, Kindle. 

Farewell To The Poopy Faces 

Just past 3:00 AM, three miles from Port Vila, Trace called Paul’s and Tom’s cabins. “Let’s get shaken.”

From the pilothouse, Trace saw them pop up from the forward companionway. 

Trace lifted the mic from its hook. “Lower the sails.”

Trace watched them. He grinned and thought, ‘I remember the first time they lowered sails. ‘Like a calf taking its first steps.’

“Now look at them,’ he thought. ‘They’re seaman of the first rank.’

As soon as they began strapping the sails to the boom, Trace started the engine. It sputtered and settled into a steady hum.

He called the harbormaster. He gave directions to a dock. 

Port Vila’s harbor could be tricky during the night. The water lay calm, and the currents mild. 

Port Vila was on Mele Bay on the southwest part of Efate Island. In the Bay, there are two options to arrive at Port Vila’s waterfront docks: a small southern passage to the south of a bay island named Ifira. It was a little more than three hundred feet across. Trace chose the much larger northern route around Ifira Island, the safest way. 

Trace eased The Tramp Islander alongside a pier at the shipping area of Port Vila. Trace reversed the engine to slow The Tramp Islander to a crawl. Paul and Tom tossed the lines. They jumped ashore and tied the lines.

Paul and Tom reported the pilothouse, and Trace told them to get some sleep. Trace fell asleep on the bench.

Only Sage awoke for the crew’s breakfast. 

Trace climbed below during the passengers’ breakfast. Makani poured him a coffee, and he leaned into the mess. “We’re at Port Vila. You have an hour to debark.” He reached over Patterson’s shoulder and grabbed a muffin from a plate on the table.

“Hey,” Patterson said, “that’s the last one, and that’s from the passengers’ table.”

“My obligation to you and your friends ended as soon as Tom put the gangplank in place. That was just before 4:00 AM. Last night I foolishly decided to allow you to sleep out the night and provide a free breakfast. And what do you do? Complain about a bran muffin. I should have tossed your derrières ashore three hours ago.”

Erin stood. “This hasn’t exactly been a pleasant experience for us, ya know.”

“I want 10 dollars from each of you for this morning's breakfast,” Trace said.

“Pound sand,” Patterson said.

“Put your forks down, get up from the table, and get off the boat,” Trace said, taking a vicious bite from the muffin.

“We’ll pack and leave, but we won’t pay a penny more,” Margot said.

“I’m holding your baggage until I get my money,” Trace said.

“You can’t do that,” Zoey said.

“I can and I will,” Trace said. 

“What are you going to do, manhandle us?” Margot said. 

“You or any one of your crew better not lift a hand to any of us,” Erin said.

“All I have to do is lift a finger,” Trace held out his index finger. “All I have to do is dial the harbormaster. It’s marine law. I can confiscate goods until I’m paid.”

Patterson reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. He opened it and fetched two twenty-dollar bills. He tossed it on the table. He stood. “There you go.” He motioned with his arm to Erin, Margot, and Zoey. “Let’s get off The Bounty.”   

No more than five minutes passed before all passengers filed from The Tramp Islander.

Trace and Sage stood on deck watching them saunter away.

“I wonder if they’ll hurl one last insult?” Sage said.

“I can guarantee it,” Trace said.

Zoey turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “I hope you get lost at sea and sink.”

“Wow, that hurts,” Sage said to Trace, sarcastically. 

“Yeah, what a sharp tongue,” Trace clicked his cheek. “That will stick with us a long time.”

“I got a good one for ‘em,” Sage said and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Please don’t,” Trace said, “Don’t sink to their level.

“Poopy face, poopy face, poopy, face poopy face!” Sage called out.

Trace grinned and cocked his head. “On second thought, that was brilliant.”

“An oldie but a goody,” Sage said. “And one for which there is no comeback. By the way, can we really confiscate their baggage?”

“I don’t know,” Trace shrugged.

The Double-Cross In Paradise; Episode 14. Night Talk

This is episode fourteen in the sixth novel of The Trace Troy Adventure Series. It is titled The Double-Cross in Paradise. Here are the links to  The Double-Cross In Paradise: paperback, Kindle. 

Night Talk 

An hour into Trace’s time at the wheel, storm clouds gathered from the southwest. He flipped on the weather channel to the shortwave. The report indicated heavy rain with ten to twelve knot winds.

“Not enough to worry about,’ Trace thought, ‘but enough to keep everybody off deck. With that bunch cooped up below, Sage may get his wish without even trying.’

Trace grabbed the ship’s mic. “Attention, everybody. We will be having heavy rains and moderate winds. I suggest going on deck and taking in some fresh air before it comes.” He hung up the mic.

In a matter of minutes, everyone appeared on deck. 

Trace grabbed the mic. “This will be nothing like yesterday. Also, we will make Port Vila in about ten hours. This will be your last night on board.”

The four passengers shouted jubilantly. They danced and waved their arms. 

Trace pressed the mic. “You can walk the rest of the way if you like.”

Trace hung the mic and thought, ‘That’s no way to treat paying passengers.’

Trace grabbed the mic. “Hey, I’m only kidding. I’d at least give you a raft and a paddle.”

‘There,’ he thought, ‘I’ve cleared my conscience—kind of.” 

The rain came in a sudden burst and lasted for three hours. It settled into a light rain for another hour and tapered to a sprinkle. 

Later, Paul handled the pilothouse from 10:00 PM until 2:00 AM. Trace returned at 1:45 AM.

“Hey, Paul,” Trace said through a muffled yawn, “looks like lights on the starboard bow.”

“I got an AM radio signal not long ago,” Paul said. 

“Port Vila?” Trace asked.

“An English-speaking station,” Paul said, steering and looking beyond to bow. “Aussie accent.”

“Music?” Trace inquired.

“Rock,” Paul said. 

“Let me take a look at our position,” Trace said, looking over Paul’s shoulder.

He sat at the chart desk. He flipped on the light over the desk, and ran his index finger from one side and the other from the top until they met at the control panel’s reading. He laid a ruler on the chart and measured to Port Vila.

“Fifteen miles,” Trace said. “Two hours. You can catch an hour and a half or so of sleep before the sails are dropped.”

Paul slid from the pilot’s chair. “It’s all yours. If it’s okay with you, I’ll stick around for a few minutes to wind down.”

Trace sat in the pilot’s seat. He adjusted the height down. He scanned the instrument panel. 

Paul sat on the bench. “Everything okay?”

“Just the way I left it,” Trace said. “So, how are you liking the sea?”

“It’s nothing I’d choose as a vocation, but it’s good work. I’m really enjoying it. I like The Tramp Islander. I like the crew. The passengers—not so much. What about you?”

“I’m a rancher,” Trace said, turning to face Paul. “That’s where I’m going to end up. I didn’t want my life the be ranching and that’s all. I chose the sea for a while. As my dad did when he was my age. I worked on the Bering for a year. Crabbing during crab season and one season of fishing. I took some of my money and went to a merchant marine school. I got to know some cargo captains when I was on the Bering. I contacted a couple and took the best job for me.”

“And what was the best job?”

“A small cargo ship named The Blue Mist. The crew was promised that after a year on the Bering, they would be going to the South Seas. I spent two years on the Bering.”

“They lied to you?”

“No, it’s just part of the business. The captain and owner was promised by his broker, and the broker backed out of his promise. And I’m sure the broker had every intention of The Blue Mist going to the South Seas. You can’t send an empty boat five thousand miles.”

“How’d you get here?”

“I took a vacation—and stayed. I won The Tramp Islander in a card game. I couldn’t leave.”

“Is that where my dad comes in?”

“Yeah. And I really think that from our first meeting, we had sort of a liking for each other. However, he was on one side of the law and I was on the other.”

“My dad really respects you. He said you can never hate a man doing the right thing, even if it’s the wrong thing for you.”

“I take you as a good man. You had to have been raised by a good mother. And your mother must have loved your father very much. She, as a good person, must have seen the good in your dad.”

“She did. Dad didn’t start out being a shady character. It all seemed to find him. Mom said he is a genius.”

“Morality and genius don’t always end up in the same brain.”

“It was Dad’s upbringing. His dad was a small-time crook. From all accounts, a real evil sort. Cared for nothing but himself. His mother left him with his dad to raise.”

The waves passed by, and the lights from Port Vila shone brighter.

“I’ve really messed up, haven’t I?” Paul said. He waited for Trace to reply.

“How do you figure?” Trace turned to Paul.

“The island and the bizarre religion, following a cult; that’s not rational thinking. I’m afraid that will be a pattern for my life.”

“Youth is full of indiscretions.”

“It was more than an indiscretion. I can’t call it that. To call it that makes it seem acceptable. Do you have any idea what it was like to face my father? He’s a man who sees through people. His life revolves around taking advantage of weak-minded people and exploiting them. And there I was, the very epitome of what he preyed upon. I must have looked like a fool to him.”

“I have no idea what the total amount is for your dad getting you off that island, but I know it’s well north of one hundred thousand. Yeah, you got hornswoggled, but who’s sitting in a crummy cell on the island of Fiji? I don’t know how much your dad had squirreled away, but he may have spent every last dime he had to get you away from that island. Waldo Franks, doesn’t place a bet unless the odds are heavily in his favor.” 

“In my life, I’ve never been so confused about things,” Paul hung his head.

“Well, hold tight on the reins and tighten up your butt cheeks, life is ahead of you and a lot more confusion.”

“My dad said time at sea with you would help me.”

“I don’t know about the ‘me’ part, but there is something about the sea. It can cleanse a man, if he allows it. You face storms that test your will, like the one we just went through. You can stare for days and endless waves and sky and think this is all there is. And that allows you to arrange your own little universe. On a clear night, you can stare into the vast heavens and wonder and figure out how little you are. And you realize the universe you arranged in your mind can only function if it is in harmony with the universe that is real.”

“My dad’s universe, the casino, is based on chance. The universe is not.”

“In a casino, you can tip the scales, fudge the odds, but not the universe.” Trace smiled. He reached over and flicked Paul on the knee. “Get some sleep.”

Paul stood and placed one foot on the companionway steps. “See you in a while. Thanks.”

The Double-Cross In Paradise; Episode 13, We’re All Looking For Something

This is episode thirteen in the sixth novel of The Trace Troy Adventure Series. It is titled The Double-Cross in Paradise. Here are the links to  The Double-Cross InmParadise: paperback, Kindle. 

We’re All Looking For Something 

Eight hours later, Trace stepped from his cabin. He stretched and yawned. 

He stuck his head into the galley.

“Hey, Boss,” Makani said, “you sleep good?”

“Yeah,” Trace said. “And I’m hungry as a bear.”

“You sit, I bring,” Makani said.

“Nah,” Trace said, “I’ll go up and relieve Sage. Bring me something up there.”

“Aye, aye, Boss,” Makani said.

Trace plodded up the companionway steps, still trying to shake away the sleep.

Sage sat behind the wheel. “Good morning sunshine!” Sage said, feigning cheerfulness. 

“Ah, take a dip,” Trace half-grinned.

“Sleep good?” Sage asked.

“Too good,” Trace said. “I fell in my bunk and woke up eight hours later. It was like the snap of a finger.”

“You ready to take over?” Sage asked.

“Yeah,” Trace said, “but I’m going to walk out on deck and limber up, get some fresh air in my lungs.”

“Take as long as you like,” Sage said, “I’m pretty fresh. I stayed in the pilothouse, but Paul and Tom had two hours each at the wheel.”

“That’s good,” Trace said, stepping out the back door. He leaned back inside. “Makani is going to bring something for me to eat, and set it on the chart desk.”

Trace exercised on the foredeck for about fifteen minutes and returned to the pilothouse.

“Feel better?” Sage asked.

“Yeah,” Trace said, “well kinda.”

“Go below and get some more rest,” Sage said.

“I’ll feel the same,” Trace said. “Take off, I’ve got it from here on.”

Sage motioned toward the chart desk. “Sit and eat. Take over when you’re done eating.”

“You're a true Texan,” Trace said, and sat at the chart desk, and began eating. The meal was made up of hashed brown potatoes, sausage links, fried eggs, toast, and coffee.

“I got to hand it to Makani,” Trace said, food bulging his cheek. “He can fix anything. This tastes just like back home. You know the place, the diner just before you get to town.”

“Best breakfast in Texas,” Sage agreed. “They make everything right.”

Trace shoveled another bite of food into his mouth. “Makani told me our passengers have complained about the food.”

“That’s because they don’t know what real food tastes like,” Sage said. “I bet they was raised on McDonald’s, dinners out of a can, and frozen meals.”

“They are a bit pampered,” Trace said. “I’ve had my share of those things, but anybody can toss something into a microwave.” Trace pointed his fork at the food on his plate. “There’s love in this food. Some machine a thousand miles away didn’t cook it, and portion-controlled it into a cardboard tray, froze it, and shipped it. I know everything on the plate came from maybe a thousand or more miles away, but that guy below cooked it to perfection. He doesn’t have to. He’s got enough money to buy his own place and have other people do it for him.”

“Yep,” Sage said, “and we could be in that diner outside of town eating breakfast. So, why are we here?”

“Because we can be,” Trace said. “And it makes me wonder, how different are we than those spoiled brats below? Maybe we’re all looking for the same thing.”

“What is that?” Sage asked.

“You ever go into a room looking for something?” Trace said. “But you got a lot of things on your mind. You’re not trying to think of two things at one time; you’re not trying to solve two problems at one time. You’re in the room. You look around. And don’t know what you’re looking for. Well, it’s no wonder. You got a lot going on upstairs.” He tapped his temple. “We came here to clear our minds.”

“But have we?” Sage said. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” Trace said. “On the surface, I’ve had one thing after another happen to me, to you, the crew, this boat; but we have a lot of downtime, time to think. We get behind this wheel and let the wind do the rest. There’s hours of nothingness. But they’re not really nothingness. We think, figure, and plan. Most importantly, we look inside. And try to figure out who we are, and where we are going. We want to move with purpose, and in order to move with purpose, we have to discover what our purpose is.”

“You know me,” Sage said. “And when you wrote me about this life, and a chance to be with you on The Tramp Islander, you were telling me something. You were inviting me on a journey. You were my scout. You went out, and found it, and invited me along. At first, I thought this was your journey, and you needed a first mate whom you knew and trusted. But it was more, at least to me. Sometimes I stand on the pulpit and let the sea air cleanse me. There’s nothing better. Do you really think those idiots below are like us in this way? “Do you think those idiots below are thinking about those things?”

Trace grinned with a stash of food bulging his cheek. “No, not really. It’s just something to say they’ve done it. Last night, they were crapping their drawers and praying to be anywhere but here.”

“Heard that you was about to toss one of ‘em in his cabin, and lock it,” Sage said. “And Tom was not so nice either; he was about to toss the same guy in the hold and lock it. Well, anyway, they’re nothing like us. That’s it, I’m tired of unburdening my soul.”

“Have you figured out how far to Vanuatu?” Trace asked.

“Ten hours,” Sage said, rubbing the back of his head.

“That will put us in port in the middle of the night.” 

“Do we kick ‘em off the boat then?”

“I’ll tell ya what,” Trace said, “if we get any more crap from them, I'll wake them in the middle of the night and toss them and their baggage on the dock. We only agreed to sail them to Port Vila. There’s nothing said about giving them quarters while we’re there.” 

Trace scraped the last bit of food from his plate together with his fork and a piece of toast. He shoved it in his mouth. “I hope it doesn’t come to that—and on second thought, why not?”

“You know how you can tell when your food is good?” Sage said.

“I suppose there’s all kinds of ways,” Trace said. “What do you have in mind?”

“When a guy shoves the food into the side of his mouth to talk, it means the food tastes too good to swallow for only a salient comment.”

Sage stood. “The helm is all yours.”

Trace sipped the last from his coffee and placed the cup on the tray with the empty plate. His mouth pressed a tight smile. “Take this and shove it—some place.”

Sage grabbed the tray. “I’m getting some sleep. But before I do, I’m going to see if I can provoke Patterson to the point that we toss him on the dock in the middle of the night.”