Carlos hardly slept overnight and struggles to keep his mind on the job at hand. The sea chase and the fate of the fish are unimportant now compared with his son’s battle to survive. Still, he keeps his head, for the sake of his crew.
Through binoculars he sees the rope ladder strike the midship rails at the same place where the longlines are normally brought in over the side. Within minutes he sees the first of the South Africans, dressed in full riot gear, haul himself on board. One after the other the men climb on deck, clutching machine guns. It’s as though the fish that were landed one after the other in exactly this spot are finally fighting back—escaping their hooks and seeking revenge.
Memories of the military dictatorship that stained his youth until the age of ten come flooding back. Carlos relives his fear when friends’ parents were imprisoned, some even tortured or killed, for their political views. He later learned that Uruguay, in the mid-1970s, had more political prisoners per capita than any other nation in the world. He remembers what it felt like to be a young boy afraid that his own parents could be taken away. To be powerless.
He watches as four of the South Africans make their way to the stern of the boat where his crew are waiting, lined up and silent, like obedient children. The remaining three naval men make their way towards him.
He thinks again of Julia and the baby, and powerlessness takes on a new dimension. He pushes the thought away, but, like a searchlight, it seeks him out, until he is caught in its glare, stunned and shaking. He pulls the photographs of Julia and María off the wheelhouse wall and puts them into his pocket. If he thinks any more about his family now, he’ll be no good to anyone. He owes it to his crew to have his wits about him. As the South Africans reach the top of the wheelhouse stairs they raise their weapons and Carlos knows they will be quick to use them, given half a chance. If lives are lost, no one will ask if his crew deserved it. There is no such thing as a good pirate.
Manuel is standing on the bridge deck, and as the first South African approaches, Carlos sees the Spaniard hold out a conciliatory hand. The naval officer returns the handshake and sights the Uruguayan master through the wheelhouse windows. Carlos holds both his hands in the air to show that he is unarmed. The South African, instantly at ease, drops the weapon to his side. The men behind him follow suit with the precision of a school of fish changing direction. Carlos hears a booming Afrikaans accent and then a good-natured burst of laughter as the first man enters the wheelhouse, Manuel close behind. Manuel must have told a joke outside and delivered the punch line just before he opened the door, Carlos thinks, marvelling at the Spaniard’s cool-headedness.
Three fair-haired and ruddy-skinned naval men, who could be front-rowers in a rugby team, fill the room. Carlos eyes their bulletproof vests and helmets and wonders if he is a disappointment to them—not quite the villain they were expecting. He sees the men registering Manuel’s bandaged head and the bruise that’s forming around his eye.
‘I suppose this is checkmate,’ Carlos ventures in reasonable English.
One of the men in the boarding party steps forward. He removes a large black glove and extends his hand to meet Carlos’s. ‘Lieutenant Commander Jan de Ridder, Executive Officer.’ His eyes are the blue of warmer seas, Carlos notices, as he introduces himself. ‘So you speak English.’
‘Yes, but not as good as Manuel. I am Capitán Carlos Sánchez,’ Carlos announces as their hands meet. ‘Sorry to take you away from your regular…’ Carlos hesitates as he searches for the word, ‘duties. Or were you in the area?’ he says, continuing Manuel’s efforts to lighten the mood. To thaw the ice in the air.
‘It has been a relatively minor diversion,’ de Ridder answers with half a smile. ‘You certainly gave the Australians a run for their money.’
‘We had much to lose.’
‘Ja,’ de Ridder agrees. ‘You still do.’
Manuel steps forward, confident in his English after a lifetime of driving taxis for tourists in Spain when not out fishing. ‘That is what you get for being stupid, stubborn, Spanish-blooded fools!’ His comment gets another laugh from the South Africans. He seems to know what to say. ‘We crossed through the Australian Fishing Zone, and stopped to fix some engine trouble. All the fish on board were caught in international waters. Not there. Not in the Australian sea. It was a stupid—we can see now—but perfectly legal shortcut for us.’
Carlos is caught off-guard by Manuel’s fabrication and glares briefly in his direction. But the Spaniard continues talking, steering them deeper into trouble, magnifying their crime. Carlos wants to tell him to stop. One lie breeds another; everyone knows that.
But Manuel has taken the situation into his own hands, and Carlos hasn’t got the energy to argue. ‘When the Australians saw us in their sea, we knew it did not look good. In fact, it looked very bad,’ the Spaniard adds, a flicker in his eye.
The South Africans exchange good-humoured glances.
‘Who would believe our story?’ Manuel continues. ‘We have families back home, children. We could not afford to be wrongfully accused of illegal fishing. We do not have the money to pay the large fines. Have you any idea how poorly we are paid? We did what any self-respecting fisherman would do. We took a gamble and ran.’
Carlos tries to conceal his annoyance. Why is Manuel doing this? Is he trying to protect himself, fearing the consequences of being the Pescador’s new first mate? At any other time, Carlos would have corrected him, but he lets it go. Lets that single moment decide his future. Perhaps Manuel knows what he is doing. Perhaps this is the only way to get back to Julia. Right now, nothing else seems important.
‘The decision was not without its price though, let me tell you. We have lost three men,’ Manuel says gravely.
‘Ja, we heard. Our condolences,’ de Ridder replies, his face dropping with genuine feeling.
Carlos is momentarily confused by the South African knowing this, but then remembers the satellite call that he made to Uruguayan Fisheries just yesterday. It must have been intercepted, or the news relayed. ‘Well then, you will also know about our Russian crew member, Dmitri Ivanov. Our engineer,’ he says. ‘He took control of our vessel and cut our communications. We did not know the Australians were still pursuing us until two days ago.’
‘And where is this Russian now?’ the South African asks.
‘I shot him with his own weapon,’ Manuel says, regarding Carlos out of the corner of his eye. ‘We have him, I think you would say, “on ice”.’
One of the younger South Africans sniggers, but de Ridder glowers at him.
‘And you didn’t recover the other bodies?’ de Ridder looks searchingly at Carlos.
‘No. What do you want us to do now?’ Carlos can hear his own voice, but feels strangely removed from it. It’s as though he is watching the whole scene on television. Detached. Paralysed.
‘Just continue on your current course,’ de Ridder answers. ‘The Australian fisheries officer will be boarding later today to officially apprehend your vessel. An Australian master and crew, plus three of our men, will accompany you to Fremantle, Australia. The Australis will be the escort ship. Our vessel will resume former duties. Presumably you need more fuel to get you back to Australia?’
‘Yes,’ Carlos answers.
‘There is something else,’ Manuel says, holding out a hand in Carlos’s direction. ‘Our fishing master here has just had very bad news from home. His wife has delivered their baby early and the child is very ill.’
Carlos feels weak at the mention of his son. A dizzying surge of panic rises inside him.
‘Is there any way he could be escorted back to land on your ship?’ Manuel beseeches. ‘He could then get a flight home and answer any charges from there. It might be the only chance he has to see his little boy.’
‘Our sincerest condolences, Captain Sánchez,’ de Ridder says with what seems like true compassion. ‘But our boat won’t be in port for another month now. In any case, decisions like that rest with the Australians.’
Carlos feels his future slipping away from him. As if he is Eduardo overboard, unable to reach the life ring.
‘None of us will be the same after this trip,’ Manuel offers, patting the master’s back.
The South African addresses Carlos. ‘Would you be able to show us over the rest of the vessel now, Captain Sánchez?’
Carlos starts to walk to the wheelhouse door but Manuel stops him with a hand on his chest.
‘You stay here, Capitán,’ Manuel says. ‘I will go. But first I would like to tell the crew, in Spanish, what is happening. Unless any of your men speak Spanish?’
‘No, I don’t expect so. Go ahead,’ de Ridder answers, tipping his naval cap briefly at Carlos before signalling to the door and following Manuel on to the deck. One of the South Africans remains in the wheelhouse, his gun by his side.
Carlos watches the men leave and wonders how his crew will react to the revised plan and Manuel’s fabricated version of the truth. A light rain begins to fall from an almost cloudless sky, and several of the crew instinctively flick their wet-weather hoods over their dark hair as if expecting worse weather.
Through binoculars, Carlos sees Manuel addressing the crew. He also says something to the South Africans, one of whom—a brutish youngster—throws his head back in a guffaw. It’s the same man who sniggered so inappropriately in the wheelhouse moments earlier. One of the Peruvians appears to spit at his feet. Manuel steps forward and says something that seems to bring the discussion to a close. The crew are taken back inside and Manuel appears to be given permission to return to the wheelhouse.
‘What did you tell them there at the end?’ Carlos asks as the Spaniard enters the room.
‘That it’s not only guilty people who flee. Sometimes they run because they are being chased and have no other choice.’