The Road to St. Claire

Tonie's good times

The Road to St. Claire

  Cap disappeared on occasion. One day he would just be…gone. During these times Ansell or Hai would magically show up to foster Tonie (she wondered if these men actually had gainful employment). When he reappeared he would usually have some GPS coordinates and a plan, then with plan in hand, he would gather the crew together and things would begin to happen. Metal detectors, sonar devices, radar dishes (and weapons); whatever was needed for the special locating requirements peculiar to the target. With equipment loaded aboard they would cast off early one morning (always during the new moon) from Jamaica’s eastern shore in Cap’s launch for the two day ride out; through the strait between the Cuban Island to the north and Haiti on the south and then further out to the derelict island of St. Claire, where they hid White Tiger.

  The island was south off the tip of the Inaquas, halfway between them and Ile de la Tortue, as one traveled north/south. It was inhabited by one lone old man who maintained the aircraft (he had been a DC-3 mechanic in the 50/60s), his two dogs, and the sharks that swam the coast, hoping to get a bite of him. Cap kept him in food and rum, in return the old man kept the plane airworthy while it languished between jobs in a huge, half buried Quonset type hanger on the islands sandy north end (Tiger’s wingspan was 95 feet). The Quonset was a perfect storm structure; hurricanes just blew right over it.       

  The old man spent his days tinkering with the plane, drinking his evening rum on the beach in a Lazy Boy lounge chair (with parasol), and patrolling the island’s coast twice a day on a quad runner with the dogs; often clad only in his thick, frosty mop of hair and a pair of camouflage cargo shorts (picture an old-age Race Bannon from Johnny Quest and one would have a close approximation to the image this man presented). The man’s preferred weapon while on patrol was a WWII era German MP40 submachine gun which he slung diagonally across his bare back with a sheep skin covered sling to protect his aged, well-tanned shoulder (one should never call the weapon a “schmeisser” in his presence if they knew what was good for them; he chose it because he liked the 30 round mag and the 9mm round it fired). In this way, he rode along, careful not to tire the dogs too quickly. Cap had found him (mysteriously, as always) rotting Stateside in a “retirement home” in good physical health but deteriorating quickly like so many elderly do when removed from productive life. He had been incarcerated prematurely by a poorly handled power of attorney and some vicious offspring; after a few visits he and Cap went on an outing and never returned. The man had bounced back miraculously and was living, perpetually tanned, in geriatric good health doing what he’d always done best. Because of that, he was fiercely loyal to Cap (and by extension, to Tonie). He had a cold look to his sharp, ancient blue eyes that hinted at a murderous disposition; the local boat riff-raff steered clear of the place. Cap knew the old man would most likely die there and so did he (which was just fine, thank you very much); it should also be noted that it was the old man, not Cap, who had taught Tonie to start the DC-3.

  Tonie loved the old man almost as much as she loved Cap and she ALWAYS loved the ride out to the island. They all did: emerald, translucent, sunlit swells covering a deep, deep blue beneath the launch; bright blue sky with high fluffy white clouds drifting by as they made wake with the breeze in their face and occasional spray from the ocean to cool them. Hai and Ansell always brought fishing gear; they’d spend the day sitting in the stern with their lawn chairs, trolling off the back of the boat as they cruised, talking politics and philosophy and occasionally mathematics. Hai got a kick out of listening to Ansell expounding on a particular theorem in a Jamaican accent and would encourage him to continue until
Ansell would catch on and change the subject in mock exasperation.

  They always had fresh fish to grill on the first night (thanks to the philosophers in the stern); whatever the ocean felt pleased to grace them with.  Later, with the stars glowing brightly, Tonie would hear Cap at the wheel, calling out constellations and planets to no one in particular; announcing their appearances like honored guests at a royal ball. Cap would also bring a sextant to practice his navigation, “GPS won’t be here forever”, he would say with a prophetic air.  Ansell and Hai would continue their discourses over their evening libations, their quiet conversations punctuated pleasantly by Caps celestial announcements. She would lay in the cabin smelling the scent of Cuban cigars wafting in from the men on the stern, curled up on a padded bench seat in the launch’s cabin with a belly full of fresh fish and grilled vegetables, drifting off to the hum of the motor and the gently rocking waves. The men would take watch in the night one by one, at the wheel, until the sun rose with its equatorial speed from the east to bless them with another day. Tonie childishly wished time would suspend when they were on the launch, forever keeping them upon a sea of perpetual camaraderie. Like all children, she was hyper-aware of life when it was at its best (unlike adults, who took such things for granted) and in her immaturity she clamored for it not to end.

  St. Claire was their destination now and Tonie could hardly wait to see the old man again and pamper the dogs (V-twin and Lugnut, both a mixed breed of Rottweiler apparently from the same litter). She looked forward to rides on the quad with Cap; her arms linked around his neck and her braids periodically obscuring his view; grinning ear to ear and throwing her head back in laughter. If this was a pirate’s life, then nothing but a pirate’s life would do for her.

Author's Note

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