A Five Year Plan

Chapter Thirteen

Jack Jellicoe, master of the Grand Duke, stood on the bridge wing and surveyed the scene below him with mounting distaste. It was bad enough that he was obliged to transport these expensive toys across the Atlantic — if they’d bought proper yachts with sails in the first place they might have made the crossing unaided. It was bad enough that he had to have contact with their overpaid and underqualified captains — most of them didn’t know a fart from a fo’c’sle. It was bad enough to learn that some of the obscenely rich bastards who owned the floating Tupperware now being sailed onto his ship would be coming along on the voyage. But to be told by his own shipping agent that their owners, captains and crews were to be allowed free access to their vessels during the voyage was more than the tall Englishman could stomach.

‘Let me get this straight, Mister Sedeno,’ he said crisply, addressing the smaller, bespectacled man standing beside him. ‘You expect me to sail across the Atlantic, one of the most hazardous oceans in the world, to safely deliver $50 million worth of waterproof caravans and motor homes, not to mention their Forbes Five Hundred owners, while at the same time permitting these same flat-footed cretins to clamber about my ship in all weathers without any of them falling overboard and drowning themselves?’

‘Come on, Jack,’ Sedeno said wearily. ‘That’s all bullshit. We both know that it won’t be particularly hazardous. Going via the Canary Islands is not a route in which you’ll encounter all weathers, as you say.’

Jellicoe stared off to starboard as if searching the dockside for a better argument. ‘Well, what about the ship’s insurers? What do they have to say about it?’

‘We are only responsible for each vessel. Not for the supernumeraries who come aboard them. They have made their own personal insurance arrangements.’

Jellicoe thought for a moment, his long bony jaw quivering as he racked his brain for yet one more objection.

‘Batteries,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Ships’ batteries.’

‘What about them?’

‘Only this: that if they go on board their yachts, where will they get their power? Eh?’ A small grin of satisfaction appeared on his lean bearded face. ‘Tell me that, if you can? Without running engines their batteries will be flat in no time. And I’d like to see the multi-millionaire who can do without his microwave lobster dinner and the TV to watch while he’s stuffing it down his neck.’

Sedeno shrugged.

‘Many of them have solar power panels, while others need only run their engines in neutral to charge up their batteries. This can be organized in rotation, so as to minimize any fire risk. No, this is not a problem.’

Jellicoe twitched visibly. ‘Next thing you’ll be asking me to organize a game of quoits on deck. I’m the master of a cargo ship, not a cruise captain. What am I supposed to do with them? I’ve enough to do with the running of this ship without the effort of being nice.’

‘Jack, Jack, surely that’s not much of an effort,’ argued Sedeno.

One of the other two officers who were on the bridge laughed out loud and Jellicoe looked around angrily. Like himself they were dressed in the tropical uniform of the British Merchant Navy — white shoes, white socks, white shorts, white shirts with epaulettes, and white cap.

‘Something amusing you, Two-O?’ he asked his second officer.

‘No sir.’

‘Then get on with your work. I shall of course expect visual bearings for position before we leave port. Not the radar range and bearings. There’ll be none of that kind of slackness on this ship, d’you hear?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And Three-O? I shall want you to execute a full stowaway search before we sail. On every one of those picnic trays called yachts.’

‘There are seventeen of them, sir,’ protested the ship’s third officer.

‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Three, that a stowaway search is normal shipping practice on leaving port. I shall want a signature to that effect from every supernumo yacht captain.’

‘Someone looking for me?’

The voice belonged to a tall, blonde Amazon of a woman dressed in a pink Ralph Lauren shirt and shorts. Jellicoe wheeled around fiercely. Like cats and alcohol, women were never allowed on Jellicoe’s bridge.

She said, ‘I’m Rachel Dana, captain of the Jade.’

‘Are you indeed?’

Jellicoe caught Sedeno’s eye and stretched his face into a smile.

Rachel pointed to the largest yacht, nearest the bridge.

Jellicoe followed the line of her well-muscled, tanned forearm and a long pink fingernail.

‘Very handsome,’ he allowed.

‘Isn’t she just? She was built in 1992 to ABS Al and AMS Classification.’

Jellicoe tried to look impressed although he hadn’t the faintest idea of what any of this meant.

She said, ‘Normally we run with a crew of about ten, but for the purposes of this voyage, we’re down to just three.’

‘Really? And how do the, urn, how do the men find having a woman as ship’s captain?’

‘You noticed that, huh?’ Rachel shook her head. ‘There are no male crew on the Jade. Just us girls. We’re an entirely female crew. You might call it the owner’s little conceit. Like Charlie’s Angels.’

‘Outside the pages of Homer, I never heard of such a thing,’ Jellicoe said brusquely. ‘Well, well.’

‘Anyway, I thought I’d better come and introduce myself. And I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying just now. Is there a problem?’

‘Jack?’ said Sedeno. ‘Is there a problem?’

Jellicoe said nothing.

‘If you still object to all these supernumeraries, I can always sign the way bills myself,’ Sedeno added.

‘Did I say I had a problem with them? I was merely doing what any responsible captain would do under the circumstances. I was voicing all the potential safety concerns.’

‘Supernumeraries, eh?’ said Rachel. ‘That’s what you call us passengers, right?’

Jellicoe found himself both attracted to and irritated by the woman in pink. Women aboard a merchant ship were always a distraction. Especially when they were good-looking women like this one. He saw that his officers had already noticed the outline of Rachel Dana’s nipples on her cotton polo shirt. Not to mention the large and thrusting breasts.

‘That’s right,’ said Sedeno. ‘You see, we can’t call you passengers because that would mean we’d have to conform to a different set of shipping regulations. We’d have to do things like have a doctor aboard, instead of making do with the ship’s carpenter.’ He laughed at his own little joke. ‘So we call you supernumeraries. Or supernumos, for short.’ His grin widened as he smoothly added a compliment. ‘It looks like we got the super part right, if you’re anything to go by, Captain Dana.’

‘Will you be joining us on the voyage?’ she asked coolly.

‘I’m afraid not. Business here in Fort Lauderdale prevents me.’ Sedeno extended a hairy hand and said, ‘Felipe Sedeno, ma’am, at your service. I’m the shipping agent. And this is the ship’s master, Captain Jellicoe.’

‘Pleased to meet you. This is such a fascinating ship you have here, Captain.’

‘Is it?’ Jellicoe advanced to the window of the bridge, towing Rachel Dana in his wake, and stared gloomily down at the sculpted, almost sensuous flowing shape of the Jade. ‘It’s not much more than a glorified car ferry. No different from all the other ro-ro freighters that come and go in this port.’

‘Ro-ro?’

‘Merchant shipping term. Cargo that can be rolled on and rolled off. I suppose we’re rather more flo-flo, if you follow me. Anyway, beauty’s not our strong suit. We leave that kind of thing to our customers.’

Mistaking Jellicoe’s baleful gaze as admiration of her ship, Rachel Dana asked him if he would like to see round the Jade. ‘Thank you, but some other time,’ he said. ‘I have business on deck.’ Jellicoe turned to the second officer. ‘Where’s the chief?’

The second officer pointed outside.

‘Supervising the cargo loading,’ he said in a where-else-would-he-be? tone.

Jellicoe replaced his cap.

‘You have the bridge, Mister Niven. I’ll be on deck.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll find us much less formal on the Jade,’ she said.

‘Oh, we’re not so very formal, you know.’ Jellicoe glanced warily in the direction of his two officers as if defying their contradiction.

‘Well, I’d better be getting along myself,’ announced Captain Dana, and she followed Jellicoe out of the bridge and onto the narrow walkway that led along the twenty-foot-high dock wall that was the Grand Duke’s starboard side.

Under the watchful eye of a short, balding officer wearing the same tropical gear as Jellicoe, an assortment of stevedores and yachts’ crewmen were drawing an 80-foot luxury sport-fisher toward the stern of the Jade by means of two pairs of headlines that were attached to the sport-fisher’s bows.

‘Watch that bleedin’ bow pulpit,’ roared the chief in a broad cockney accent. ‘You’ll have it through her arse. D’you hear?’ He averted his eyes as the pulpit stopped a couple of inches short of the Jade’s stern. ‘Dozy bugger,’ he muttered and then sighed wearily as he saw Jellicoe advancing on him with Captain Dana following on behind.

The chief said, ‘It’s all right. Everything’s under control. No damage done.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Dana. ‘I’d hate to get this voyage started with a lawsuit against your company for negligent cargo handling.’

Jellicoe looked around and shook his head. Already she was confirming his worst fears for the crossing.

The chief laughed wryly and jerked a grimy thumb at one of the port stevedores. ‘Might help if some of these dozy buggers could speak English. This bloody city gets more like Havana every time we dock.’

‘Don’t tell us,’ said Rachel, climbing onto the Jade’s coachroof where a sunpad big enough for half a dozen sunbathers was located. ‘Tell that bastard Castro.’

When she had gone, the chief frowned and said, ‘What’s up with her?’

Jellicoe sighed loudly. ‘Just get on with it, Bert,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in my cabin.’

‘All right for some,’ grumbled the chief, then scowled at the stevedore standing on the sport-fisher’s deck, an orange fender the size of an armchair lying uselessly at his feet.

‘Hoi you,’ yelled Bert. ‘Are you going to sit on that bloody fender or put it over the side like you’re supposed to?’

The man looked up at Bert, and said in Spanish, ‘No comprendo. Más despacio, por favor.^,

‘You what?’

A bare-chested Dave Delano came quickly out of the wheelhouse, slid down the roof onto the deck, and, while the stevedore was still debating the purpose of the fender and the meaning of the chiefs words, picked it off the deck and lowered it over the starboard side.

Bert waved and said, ‘Bit more. OK that’s enough. Tie it off.’

Dave wiped his forehead, and said, ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No bother,’ said Bert. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Your bloody stomach, that’s what’s up.’

Dave glanced at his own stomach and said, ‘What about it?’

‘Just look at it,’ grinned Bert. ‘It’s like a bloody washboard. Look at mine.’ He jerked his chin down at the large belly straining at the waistband of his white shorts. ‘It’s like having an extra limb wrapped around you in case of an emergency.’ He laughed and slapped his belly hard with the flat of his hand. ‘A lot of beer went into that. Here, I ’spose you’ve got one of them abdomenizers, have you? What a country this is for people worrying about their bellies. What goes in them, and what they look like. Every time I turn on the TV there’s some bastard trying to sell you a flat stomach. Well, I don’t ’spose I’ll ever have one of those again. Certainly not like yours, mate, abdomenizer or not.’

Dave grinned. ‘I don’t have an abdomenizer,’ he said.

‘Well, how d’you do it, then? I mean, get the old six-pack stomach?’

‘You have to be able to isolate the muscles when you exercise them,’ said Dave. He might have added that the best way to do that was to isolate the man at the same time. Like maybe keep him in prison for five years. Homestead was full of guys with torsos that looked like they’d been drawn in an anatomy class.

Both men looked around as one of the pink ladies from the Jade came up on deck and walked off toward the bow of the ship. Generously hipped, she looked even more Amazonian than her captain. Bert grinned wolfishly and said, ‘It’s not bellies with women, is it? It’s their bottoms they worry about. Not that there’s anything wrong with her butt. But for all I know, the buttockizer already exists. To give women smaller butts.’

As the Amazon finally disappeared, Dave shook his head and said, ‘Now why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’

Bert laughed. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘who’d want to do that, eh?’

Dave and Al watched as a diver came up from under the Juarista, having made sure that she was safely secured to the special support welded to the floating dock floor. Lashed tightly to the dock wall and carefully fendered against the boats to starboard and to stern, it was a snug fit and the boat looked as immovable as if she’d been mounted on a trailer and parked on a hard deck.

‘Naturally you brought scuba gear,’ Al said sceptically.

‘Naturally.’

Al frowned, surprised at the apparent extent of Dave’s efficiency. He said, ‘Just don’t expect me to go down. Takin’ a bath’s the only time I go in the water.’

Dave sniffed the air loudly. He said, ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

‘Wiseguy. I suppose you noticed how boxed in we are here. I thought you said we were going to try and be at the back of the boat so as we could make a clean getaway?’

‘You go where that man and his clipboard tell you. A computer figures out all the positions according to the length and breadth of your hull. It would have looked kind of odd, us going up against the computer. Don’t you think?’

Al said nothing.

Dave said coolly, ‘It’s like I told you already. When we’re ready to rumble we’ll just steal the boat that’s nearest to the stern of the ship. That’s what we call the back of the boat. You know, if you’re going to pretend to be a boat captain it would help if you get a handle on the way we talk about this shit.’

‘The only thing that’s going to get a handle on it is your fuckin’ head, wiseguy.’

‘Relax will you, Al? The only thing’s not under control round here is your temper. Take my word for it. We’re cool.’

‘I sure hope so. Tony don’t appreciate hearing about the unexpected. I gotta tell him anything that happens out of the ordinary.’

Dave shook his head. ‘Forget it, Al. It’s radio silence from now on. Like we’re in a submarine with Clark Gable, and some Japs are trying to get a sonar fix to drop a depth charge on our ass. You give Tony the broadcast news on our progress and I guarantee there are sixteen other boats in this man’s navy who will pick it up on their radios. The same goes for your cellular phone.’ Dave tossed him a quarter. ‘You want to tell Tony something? Then I suggest you go ashore now before we set sail and use a pay phone. Because on this ship, it’s silent running. Understand?’

Al glared at him.

Dave said, ‘Look, I’ve got this all figured out. All the angles are in our control. About the only thing that can go wrong here is that you’ll fuck it up with this "Tony don’t appreciate" routine. What’s got to happen here is that you and I have to get along and trust each other so that when the time comes to make the score, we’re working as a team.’ Dave shrugged. ‘And if the unexpected does happen, we’ll improvise. Flexibility is the key to our success here. Steady can go to random at any time. From our side, you and me Al, we’re covered. Outside of that we’ve got the sea, we’ve got the weather, and we’ve got other people, all of which adds up to quite a lot that’s random. We have to appreciate that and be ready for it. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Now why don’t you and I do something constructive? Like maybe take a little stroll around and acquaint ourselves with the layout of this oceangoing marina?’

‘Good idea.’

‘And try to look a little more user friendly and less like an argument for genetic engineering. Got our story straight?’

‘I think so. You’re some financial hotshot, right?’

‘Right.’

‘And a big motor-racing enthusiast. So we’re on our way to Monte Carlo, for the Grand Prix they got down there. After which we’re heading to Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, where you’ve rented a house for the summer. Got some business associates from London coming down to join you there. Maybe take in another couple of races while you’re in Europe, depending on how the business goes.’

‘OK, what kind of financial hot shot?’ asked Dave.

‘Commodities. But I’m supposed to be a little vague about this, right?’

‘Right. If anyone asks you just say it’s some kind of metal, maybe copper, and leave it at that. They won’t expect you to know any more.’

Dave moved toward the gangway and then turned back. He said, ‘One more thing. The Coast Guard and Customs people will board us when we’re ready to sail. So just so as I know, where’d you stash the Alamo?’

‘They got enough to worry about what’s comin’ into Miami without giving much of a fuck what’s going out.’

‘True. But I’d still like to know.’

‘It’s in the fish-box. Under a shitload of ice. And you can take it from me. Improvisation won’t ever come into it. Gunwise, we are covered against every eventuality. Steady. Random. Whatever the world may throw at us.’

Dave had never told Tony or Al the names of the boats that would be carrying the money. It was understood that this was Dave’s best guarantee of trust between himself and Tony. And even now, as Dave and Al picked their way along the starboard side of the ship toward the smokestacks in the stern, Al saw him give no sign which of the boats now loaded and lashed within the high walls of the Grand Duke’s extraordinary hull were carrying cash bound for Russia and the purchase of a whole bank.

‘Ya see ’em?’ asked Al. ‘The boats? Our boats?’

‘All three. Just like I said.’

‘Yeah? Which ones? Where are they?’

‘When we’re at sea, I’ll tell you. But not before.’

Al laughed bitterly. ‘ "Get along and trust each other," he said. Like fuck.’

‘You wouldn’t want me to make those guys feel self-conscious, now would you? Pointing them out like some kind of tourist attraction? "Hey look, there are the boats that we’re going to rip off." ’ Dave tut-tutted and shook his head. ‘I bet they’re nervous enough as it is. Besides, these are heavy guys, Al. They’ve probably got a fish-box just like ours. Let ’em relax, think they’re on a summer cruise. Better for us, better for them.’

They turned as a white boat with an angled red racing stripe came alongside the Duke. It was flying the Stars and Stripes in contrast to the ship’s British Red Ensign.

‘Customs?’

‘Uh-uh,’ said Dave. ‘Coast Guard. We must be getting ready to leave port.’ Dave glanced at his watch. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and it had taken the best part of a day to float the Duke’s peculiar cargo on board. A couple of seconds later they heard an announcement over the ship’s tannoy in the unmistakable voice of the chief officer.

‘Crew to close all hatches and stow all gear.’

Al smacked his lips.

‘I’m goin’ back to the boat to make myself a sandwich. Want one?’

‘No thanks. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I’m going to the stern. To take a look at our getaway boat. See what we’ve drawn in the lottery.’

But Dave had another mission in mind. Of necessity he had lied to Al, to reassure him. Al was enough of a pain in the ass already without alarming him any further. But now he wanted to reassure himself that the last information he had received from Einstein Gergiev had been correct and that the boats were indeed on board the Duke. He already knew that none of them was on the starboard side. So he waited until Al was out of sight before walking round to the port side of the ship, all the time turning over in his mind the names of the three boats he was looking for like a mantra. His heart gave a leap as he spotted the first boat; then the second; and then the third. Just like he’d been told. He could hardly believe it, but the three boats carrying the money were in a line along the Duke’s port wall. And, like the Duke, they were all flying the Red Ensign which meant that they were registered in the British Commonwealth — somewhere like Bermuda, Antigua, Gibraltar or the British Virgin Islands. There was a 100-foot raised pilothouse, cockpit motor yacht called the Beagle; a 70-foot Burger Cruiser called the Claudia Cardinale; and a 112-foot triple-decker custom Hatteras called Baby Doc.

Everything was just as he’d been told.

Dave still couldn’t get over the last boat. Even back in Miami, when he’d been given the three names, he had thought Baby Doc was hardly a name to have on a boat you were likely to sail anywhere near Haiti. After years of dictatorship by the Duvalier family — Papa Doc and then his son, Baby — the locals would probably have torched it on the quayside.

None of the crewmen of the three boats looked particularly Russian. Not that Dave had expected them to. They did look very tough, of that there was no doubt. One guy sunbathing on the roof of the Beagle was built like a wrestler, while a black guy tying off a length of rope aboard the Claudia Cardinale had arms that were the size of Dave’s legs. More than ever, Dave realized that the success of his plan depended on the element of surprise and not much else. Halfway across the Atlantic, he hoped the opposition would be less on its guard than they looked now. Even with the Customs and Coast Guard around he was pretty sure that one of the guys on the Baby Doc was carrying a gun underneath his shirt. Dave didn’t much care for the idea of a firefight with these characters. Guns had never been his thing. He preferred to shoot with his mouth.

‘Go to stations,’ the voice on the tannoy ordered.

Dave thought that was probably a good idea, before any of them noticed him watching.

Back at the Juarista Dave could just about see Al through the smoked glass of the galley window. He stepped onto the flybridge and found himself almost face to face with a girl on the bridge of the ship to port of him. She looked around thirty, with shoulder-length brown hair that belonged in an expensive shampoo commercial, and eyes that made the sky look as gray as the aircraft carrier moored outside the port’s main turning basin. Stretched out on a big white leather sofa on the back of the bridge, she was the kind of woman Dave had met many times lying on the bunk in his cell in Homestead, but had only ever seen in the glossy magazines.

‘Hi there,’ he said affably, expecting she’d be too snooty to reply.

‘Hi.’

She didn’t say any more than that, but her eyes stayed on him, as if they didn’t mind what they saw.

Dave looked quickly up and down her boat and then nodded appreciatively. She was probably married to some company chief executive old enough to be her father.

He said, ‘Nice-looking boat. Fast too, I’d say.’

‘She rides as flat as a railroad car,’ said Kate.

‘The Carrera, huh?’ he said, reading the name on the side of the bridge. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got the car to match.’

Kate smiled.

‘I’ve never liked Porsche very much,’ she said. ‘I think they’re too clinical. If it was up to me I’d have something British. Like a Jaguar XJS. I prefer something a little more luxurious for my money.’

‘I never could tell.’

‘You seem pretty comfortable there yourself,’ said Kate. ‘And I’ll bet your boat’s faster than mine. Looks like it has plenty of range for long-distance fishing expeditions too. Why don’t you come aboard and have a beer and tell me about her?’

She knew cars. She knew boats. And she was friendly. Already Dave was impressed. ‘I sure can’t think of a reason not to,’ he said.

As he climbed onto the Carrera he caught a brief glimpse of two men sitting inside the salon watching TV, then he stepped up onto the bridge. The woman got up from the leather sofa and smiled pleasantly.

She said, ‘Kate Parmenter,’ using her married name for what she hoped would be the very last time.

Dave shook her hand while noting that there was no ring on the other one. That was good. The kind of women who married older, rich guys usually made sure they got a good rock out of it. So maybe she wasn’t married after all. He said, ‘David Dulanotov.’

‘Like in The X Files?

‘No, that’s David Duchovny.’

‘Well, pleased to meet you anyway, David.’ Kate wondered if he was crew. Mostly the guys who owned boats like the Juarista were pink, fat and balding, like her soon-to-be ex-husband Howard. The sportiest thing about Howard had been his Rolex submariner. But this guy, David, with his hard body and easy smile looked too fit to be spending much time behind the kind of desk that made enough money to buy a two, maybe three million dollar sport-fisher.

‘And to meet you, Kate.’

‘Your boat?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She said, ‘The Juarista. An unusual name. What does it mean?’

‘The Juaristas were Mexican revolutionaries,’ explained Dave. ‘They tried to free their country from the French-supported Emperor Maximilian.’

Kate looked sheepish. ‘I didn’t even know the French had been involved in Mexico.’

‘Mexico, Algeria, Vietnam. Every lousy cause.’

She went forward to fetch a couple of cold Coronas from the flybridge refrigerator. ‘I must say, you don’t look like someone who’d be interested in revolution.’

‘Me?’ Dave shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve got a lot of Russian blood. But actually I’m more interested in movies than commies. Most of what I know about the Juaristas comes from a movie called Vera Cruz. Gary Cooper and Burt Lancaster. 1954.’

‘That’s a little before my time.’

‘Mine too. But it’s still a good movie.’ Dave took the bottle she offered and drank some cold beer. ‘Is that your crew watching TV?’

‘I’m the captain, not the owner. He’s one of the guys watching the football game on TV. You’re not a sports fan?’

‘Oh sure, but I can watch a game any time. It’s not every day you set sail on a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.’ For a moment Dave stared off the port side and then added, ‘I feel I’m about to suffer a sea change, into something rich and strange.’

Kate smiled. ‘Is that poetry?’

Dave, who reckoned becoming something rich was at least a strong possibility, supplied the complete quotation and said, ‘It’s Shakespeare. The Tempest.’

Kate raised her bottle, ‘Here’s to one not finding us.’

‘Is that at all likely?’

‘Not really. Not at this time of year. But sailing in the tropics, you never can tell.’

They fell silent for a minute or two as if immediately comfortable with each other, enough just to sit there and watch the Grand Duke’s crew make ready to leave the mooring. Occasionally, Kate would glance to the stern of the ship where Rocky Envigado’s boat, the Britannia, was now loaded and lashed. She was feeling a little more relaxed. The Britannia had been the very last boat to float into the Duke and, for an hour or so, it had seemed that she and her two colleagues might have found themselves setting sail without the target of their surveillance.

A tugboat tooted to port, lines were thrown off the quayside, a klaxon sounded, and Kate and Dave felt a low rumble on the starboard side as bow and stern thrusters began to turn over. There were now only two lines connecting them to land and seeing these slacken, men on the wharf lifted the eye of each rope clear of the bit and then dropped it into the rainbow streaked water.

‘All gone and all clear,’ someone shouted.

Having checked the whereabouts of Rocky’s boat, Kate watched David out of the corner of her eye as he watched the thrusters push the ship gently away. Maximum points for quoting Shakespeare. And he was right, there was something rich and strange about a voyage like this one. Maximum points too, for not being interested in football. What did a game matter when there was the leaving of America by ship to contemplate? She had begun to believe that men like David Dulanotov simply didn’t exist. Romantic men, who were content to sit in silence instead of trying to talk their way into your pants. Looking at his big brown eyes fixed on the distant horizon, she wondered what other surprises the voyage might have in store for her and how many of them might include this handsome man.