T
hat night, as Billy stood in the mess serving line, he sensed the crew’s mood was one of tried, cheerful satisfaction. What little he could understand of their talk suggested this was the last set in this part of the Pacific, and the next port of call was Samoa to unload. He turned to Rocha and asked, “How long will we be in Samoa?”
“Maybe three days. Then it’s the long haul to Puntarenas, Costa Rica…that’s home port. We’ll fish out of there until we’re full and get paid off.”
“Then what?”
“We ship out again.”
Billy slid his tray along the serving line and waved away some sort of stew the cook’s helper offered. He feared what the dark chunks of meat might be and followed Rocha to a table. He noticed that the fishermen on either side lowered their eyes when he looked at them. He had no appetite and could only nibble at a roll. Rocha said quietly, “Not like surfin’ out there, is it, bro?”
“You weren’t looking too happy either, dude.”
Rocha turned away to stare at his plate.
The old fisherman from the net sat beside Billy and refused to look at him. He broke bread into his stew and spooned in the mixture. Billy turned to him and asked, “Is it always that way…in the net and on deck?”
The man didn’t answer, but continued eating with obvious pleasure. Billy tried again. “Can’t some of them be saved?”
The fisherman clanged down his spoon. With a look of annoyance he said loudly, “They’re dumb creatures, don’t you know that? And didn’t God put them porpoises in the sea to catch? And look at us, we’re eating the captain’s Portuguese stew tonight. You should try it. Good for the stomach.”
With an amused, self-satisfied chortle, he lifted the soup plate with both hands and sucked down the remaining sauce.
Billy’s stomach tightened. He needed fresh air. As he stood to leave the table he was conscious that everyone was aware of what had happened, but no one would look at him.
The crew’s pattern of rejection—the silent treatment—continued as
Lucky Dragon
sailed for Samoa. The mate was even gruffer as he ordered Billy to chip rust and brush red lead primer on the corroding steel. The night before they were scheduled to dock, Billy took his paints on deck and attempted a quick watercolor of a flaming orange-red sunset. Instead of painting the sun, he found the brush moving across the paper, creating flowing images of leaping dolphins. He knew enough about his own inner conflicts to realize he was expressing the pain of his conscience. He dabbed on more paint and added a net to the foreground so the dolphins were jumping over the barrier.
As he worked in the blue wash that represented the sea, he felt someone beside him. Billy looked up and saw Arnold. The pilot stared accusingly at Billy. “You have to face it. They don’t jump out.”
“And the captain won’t give ’em a chance to get out.”
“What you did was not smart, Billy. Gandara saw you dive into the net. He doesn’t like that. And you know why?”
“Tell me, Arnold. I really want to know. And I want to understand why I’ve become the ship’s pariah!”
“Because you have a conscience, you made them feel guilty. Deep down, unconsciously, they know it isn’t right. So you brought guilt aboard…and they’re going to shut you up for it, or worse….”
“Like the king’s messenger.”
“It’s a war out here.”
“And you like war. That’s what you did…shot people up from your chopper…best years of your life, right?”
Billy saw the pain on the pilot’s face; an anguish his mask of denial couldn’t hide. Arnold turned away to escape Billy’s accusation.
“Hey, Arnold. I’m sorry.”
He stopped to stare at Billy and said, “It’s the only war I’ve got, Billy. And I’ll tell you something about war. If you want to survive, you follow orders and keep your mouth shut.”
Billy wanted to mouth back at Arnold. He forced himself to shut up and thought, Yeah, my dad did that and look what it got him.
Arnold walked away leaving Billy staring down at the dolphins he had painted. The blue wash had run across the paper covering the outline of the net. He ripped the sheet off the block and, with rapid, driven brushstrokes, began painting again.
He was consumed by trying to depict the free, wondrous dolphins that swam in a jumble through his mind and painted on until darkness.
When the mate wasn’t after him, and he could find an hour behind a bulkhead out of the wind, Billy painted and sketched dolphins in every possible configuration—ramming a shark, playing with their young, dying in the net, feeding—and in the one he now worked on, with wings and actually flying across the sea.
Where the sun beat warm and nobody watched him, Billy gave his total concentration to the brush, pigments, and paper. He had a sense the dolphins were in control of his brush. Then a shadow fell across the paper and Billy looked up to see the captain studying his work.
“They don’t fly, young man. And they won’t jump the net.”
Gandara’s voice sharpened and he added, “I’ll tell you only once: no more heroics. There are sharks in the net, as you saw. Stay in the skiff and do your job.”
“American skippers saved them,” Billy countered.
Billy saw the captain control his anger. Then Gandara sat on the deck beside him and continued talking as if he were a teacher. “You are young, so I will explain, once. Man has been placed on this earth as master of all the creatures that fly and walk and swim…that is God’s way. And what God has provided, I will take as is my right.”
“There has got to be more respect.”
He lifted a hand to stop Billy. “On my vessel, the captain is God, and God gives and takes. While on board, you are my servant. Remember that, Billy, as you draw your little pictures.”
He stood and walked off. Billy’s hand holding the paintbrush was shaking. His thought about jumping ship until he heard the mate’s bellow. “You, the artist. Come over here. I have work for a brush expert.”
Santos led him along the upper deck railing that was capped with freshly sanded mahogany. The mate pointed to a plastic container of spar varnish that sat in a bucket of ice, and an expensive pig-bristle paintbrush. “Lay that varnish on like glass. And quickly. It has to be dry by tomorrow.”
“Sure, I’ll do my best.”
“Your very best,” he threatened.
“My very best, but chilled varnish takes longer to set up, even in this sun.”
“Are you talking back to me?”
He shook his head and ran a finger along the wood, checking for dust. The sanding job was perfect, and he started flowing a smooth, bubble-free coat on the railing.
As Billy worked, he noticed that most of the crew were on deck polishing brass, painting, mopping, and making
Lucky Dragon
glisten. They joked and talked about shore leave, but no one would look at him. He moved the varnish brush skillfully, taking pride in the glistening sheen. He saw Rocha dragging a heavy steel mop bucket and swabbing the deck. As they drew close, Billy said quietly, “Just one question, dude. What’s all this cleanup for?”
As Rocha was about to answer, the mate approached and Rocha mopped on to escape. Billy watched Santos pause by the railing a few feet from him and bend over, eyeing the fresh varnish. He sighted down the rail, looking for imperfections, and then ran a finger along the wet surface. Billy couldn’t believe the mate would ruin his careful work and shouted, “Hey, Santos. That was perfect!”
The mate shoved his bulk against Billy and wiped the varnish on his finger across the younger man’s cheek. “Do it over again,
niño
. And do it right.”
“What is it with you? You’ve been on my back all week!”
Without warning, the mate backhanded Billy across the face and sent him reeling along the wet railing. Santos followed him, his eyes goading Billy to strike back. “Not so perfect now,
niño
. Do it again!”
All the anger and frustration that had been building within Billy erupted, and he screamed, “Go to hell, asshole!”
Santos’s fist lashed out. Billy pulled back just in time, and the blow grazed his head. The impact still had enough power to knock him to the deck. Santos kicked at his face. Billy rolled aside and leaped to his feet faster than the mate expected. He hit back and his fist smashed into Santos’s nose. Cartilage splintered and blood spurted from his nostrils. The mate roared like a wounded bull, pulled off his wide leather belt, and lashed Billy. The heavy buckle caught him on the shoulder, opening up a flap of skin. Billy ducked the next blow. Looking for any kind of weapon to drive the mate off, he seized Rocha’s mop bucket. As the buckle whipped at his face, Billy hurled the caustic slop at the mate and turned to run. Before Billy could escape, Santos grabbed him and wrapped the belt around his fist like a pair of brass knuckles. As he cocked his arm to strike, Billy did the only thing he could, and jammed a knee deep into the mate’s groin.
Deep numbing pain swept through Santos’s body and he grew red in the face. The mate was tough, fought through it, and drew his knife. “For that, you’re going to die,
niño
.”
“Not yet, Santos,” the captain said as he put a hand on the mate’s arm to restrain his thrust.
The mate backed off like an obedient dog and slipped the knife back into its sheath. Billy retreated and heard Gandara order, “Clean up this mess,
niño
. And you, Santos, make the ship ready to dock.”
The captain walked off. Billy snatched the brush and varnish container off the deck and began repairing the mate’s damage. He was conscious of the crew watching him. The mate gave him a killing scowl and said, “Do it over, and do it right.”
“Anything you say, Mr. Santos.”
Taking a chance, Billy turned his back on the mate and began laying on the varnish. After a moment he turned. Santos was gone. He almost fainted from relief.
Deep in the ship’s refrigerated fish hold, Billy, Rocha, and half a dozen crewmen worked in the numbing chill, wrapping lines around tuna tail fins, connecting the frozen fish into clusters of fives. On the deck, a stevedore watched for the team leader’s signal to raise the load. Then the bundles of fish were attached to a cable and the winch operator pulled them out to be loaded on a waiting Universal Brands cannery flatbed truck. The crew had been in the freezer for two hours and, despite gloves, sweaters, and parkas, the men were freezing cold. A voice called down, “Okay, shift’s over. Come on up and thaw out.”
The searing, eye-burning Samoan sunshine warmed Billy faster than a hot shower, and in minutes he was sweating. He peeled off his shirt and let the tropic ultraviolet rays bombard his body. He watched several members of the crew walk down the gangplank for shore leave. He wanted to go with them, wanted to call the surf camp manager and beg for his job back. Enough of this, he thought. I’ve had it. I’m jumping ship tonight.
Billy watched the frozen tuna thump onto the cannery trucks and saw the captain talking with a young man wearing a white sport shirt and jeans. They were standing by a Toyota Land Cruiser with a Universal Brands logo on the door. He recognized the symbol from countless cans and containers he had seen stacked on supermarket shelves. Into his mind came the inane jingle of old television commercials touting Tommy Tuna the dancing fish that leaped out of a net into a white-bread sandwich to be devoured by happy, towheaded children. Billy turned away and walked for the shower thinking, I’m out of here tonight.
His surfboard. That was the problem. He couldn’t slide down a dock line holding it, or dump it over the side because it might drift away in the dark. He had to carry it off. “Maybe they’ll all be drunk and won’t notice. I’ll have to chance it.”
He entered Arnold’s cabin, began stuffing clothes into his backpack, and had second thoughts about bailing out. His mind chattered on, saying he’d run too often and maybe he should stay aboard until Central America. There were surf camps along the west coast of Costa Rica. Maybe he could find a job. If only he hadn’t left the boat to ride those Bombora killer waves.
The door to the cabin opened silently and Arnold stepped inside. He reached for a bottle of vodka and then noticed Billy packing his gear. The pilot poured a drink into a water tumbler. As the bottle clinked on the shelf, Billy jumped with a start and spun. The pilot said accusingly, “Going surfing?”
“I can’t stomach what goes on here.”
Arnold sipped at the vodka and replied, “Stick it out, Billy. Maybe you’ll grow up and get over your illusions.”
“What are you running from?”
“Bad things, Billy. But you get over it….”
“With the help of a bottle.”
Arnold looked at the glass in his hand and said, “Life’s simple. I eat my eggs, follow orders, and fly that rusting chopper. Do your work, Billy, and it’ll save you a lot of heartburn.”
“I’m getting off, Arnold, before they kill me.”
“And run for the rest of your life.”
Billy started for the door, turned and said angrily, “Like you?”
Arnold lifted his glass in a peace offering and said, “Touché, Billy.”
“See you, Arnold.”
“Good luck, kid.”
On deck all was quiet. No one stood by the gangplank, and the dock below was deserted. Billy had been standing in a companionway for the past ten minutes watching and listening. Now was the time. Carrying his surfboard and pack, he stepped on deck and moved silently for the walkway. As he reached the ramp a hand shot out of the darkness and gripped his throat.
Billy fought the choking fingers and looked over his shoulder to see Santos grinning at him. Then another hand went around his neck and Billy found himself being lifted off the deck. Hanging in the mate’s grasp, he fought for air that wouldn’t flow. He dangled, kicking his legs, and felt the life going out of him. Santos shook him like a cat killing a rat. “One thing you do not do to our captain, is jump his ship. If you try it again, I’ll feed you to the sharks…and to God I make my vow.”
Billy felt himself falling. He hit the deck hard and lay crumpled, gasping for breath. He watched Santos walk off. He tried to shout his rage at the mate, but he couldn’t utter a sound.
Billy was beginning to hate varnishing, though his skill was impressive. By the last day in port, he had worked his way along the railing and up to the bridge. In an hour he would finish the trim around the wheelhouse windows, and Santos would give him another dirty job. He wiped the sanded wood with a dust cloth and began flowing on a smooth, even coat. Off to the side he watched the captain talking with the young cannery buyer, who carried two large, bulging briefcases. They were close enough so Billy could hear their conversation, and he slowed his brushstrokes to keep within listening distance.