Captain Gringo had been right about the Armenian, but a little surprised by the arrangement. The boat was a pea-green whaler with a lug sail the same drab color. The Chinese who owned her smuggled on the side and while the coast was seldom patrolled by Costa Rican customs agents, the Chinese didn’t believe in taking chances. The little boat tended to fade into the scenery.
The second precaution the Oriental man of adventure took was avoiding adventure by having other people sail his boat. As they slipped out of fishing port under cover of darkness, Captain Gringo was under the impression that “Ching” who sat at the tiller, was a Chinese youth of nineteen or twenty. Ching wore a straw sombrero and what looked like black pajamas. The boat’s owner spoke such terrible Spanish that the exact relationship was a bit vague. Ching was either the older man’s offspring or servant. Most of the discussion had been about money.
Ching followed directions, but didn’t answer as they caught an onshore breeze and coasted east, a quarter-mile offshore. The American had borrowed an ancient brass spyglass from the Armenian, who seemed to sell everything. So he told the youth at the tiller, “Let’s move further out. I can see pretty good from the horizon line.”
Ching said, “You haven’t done much night sailing, señor. With a full moon, our sail would stand out more against the skyline than it does at this distance.”
The American was surprised by the clear bright tone of the other’s voice. He nodded from his seat near the stepped mast and said, “You’re the skipper.” Then he noticed the young Chinese was lowering the sail part way and said, “I know this sounds dumb, but what are you doing? We’re slowing down, just as we caught a nice breeze.”
Ching said, “I know. Look over there at the waves breaking on the rocks.”
The American trained his spyglass on the base of a point they were passing and saw the water line was glowing greenly as the phosphorescent tropic waters broke and mixed with air. He nodded and said, “Right. You don’t mean to leave a wake they can see from up on the cliffs. I can see you know your job, kid.”
Ching didn’t answer. The American shrugged and scanned the shoreline as they ghosted on. The phosphorescent organisms in the tepid seawater were an added bonus. Any place the waves weren’t breaking against the shore would leave a dark gap. He asked Ching how deep the water was in these parts and Ching said, “It’s shoal a quarter-mile out.”
“By the sulfur mine, too?”
“Of course. I’ve sailed these waters since I arrived from Canton years ago.”
“I can see you’re an ancient mariner. But how do those Dutchmen ship their product off a shallow shore, Ching? Have you ever watched them?”
Ching nodded and said, “Certainly. You can see it from the village. A three-island freighter comes by every few weeks to stand offshore about a kilometer. The people from the mine row out to it in shallow draft lighters. They haul the cargo nets aboard out there.”
“Shit. I had such a nifty notion, too.”
“Are you ready to turn back, señor?”
“No, as long as we’re out here, we may as well see it through. There could still be a channel nobody’s talking about for now.”
“Señor, I told you I know these waters. Before the mining people came and fenced off all that land, I used to dive for abalone just below the cliffs they built on. I would have noticed any channel deep enough for an ocean-going ship to approach the shore.”
“Unless they’ve dredged one in the meantime. Keep going. We’ve got a nice onshore breeze and if it fails I’ll row us back.”
Ching said, “The breeze toward Monte Purgatorio never fails, day or night. There is an updraft over the crater. The sea breezes always sweep in and up the mountain. It makes for simple sailing, and was the reason they first built the fishing village out here on the point.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “You can see that rising smoke plume for miles out to sea, too. Doesn’t the idea of an active volcano right on top of you make you nervous, Ching?”
Ching shrugged and said, “Monte Purgatorio is not always active. When I arrived here, six or seven years ago, it had been quiet for some time. The older people in the village say it has never really erupted seriously since anyone has lived here. It is dangerous to go near the top, but the village is protected by old lava ridges. The sulfur mine is over there, on that higher cliff.”
Captain Gringo saw the lamplights in the windows even before he zeroed in on the complex with his spyglass. Thanks to the moonlight, he had a good view, but he failed to find anything worth the trip. The buildings he’d seen from the other side seemed to be living quarters. A sort of bowl had been quarried at a lower level on the seaward side of the cliffs, but the mine tipple and machinery stood on a shelf a good forty feet above the breaking water. There was a wooden staircase and an inclined railway running down to a pocket beach below the mine. The luminous wavelets washing over the black sand told him Ching had been right about the water being shoal. He saw the black hulks of lighters hauled up on the beach. He swore softly and said, “Okay, they’re Dutchmen, shipping sulfur, and it was too obvious anyway.”
“Can we go back now?” asked Ching.
Captain Gringo said, “No. As long as we’re bobbing around out here, we may as well make a cruise of it. I want to see the south shore of the point.”
Ching hove to and luffed them west, but said, “There is nothing to be seen over there, señor. Nobody even fishes there.”
He insisted, “Stand further out as we round the village, kid. I’ve heard there’s no trail by land. I want to check the base of the cliffs.”
Ching swore in Cantonese and forgot to warn Captain Gringo when the sail swung across on the new tack. Fortunately, there’s no solid boom on a lug sail, but getting slapped across the jowls with canvas can annoy anyone. So Captain Gringo said, “That’s one I owe you, Punk!” Then he said, “Look, kid, I’d rather be ashore getting screwed and tattooed, too, but I paid your old man for the use of this tub, so let’s not get snotty about it, huh?”
Ching said, “Wo Fang is not my father. He’s my master. You’d never see him risking his neck off those sea cliffs to the south!”
Captain Gringo said, “That’s between the two of you. If you’re too dumb to know slavery’s been outlawed in Costa Rica, don’t take it out on me!”
Ching said, “You are right. I apologize. I will tell you before I tack, next time.”
Mollified, Captain Gringo relaxed and more to kill time than because he wanted to know, he asked, “How’d you get to be Wo Fang’s slave, Ching?”
Ching said, “There was a famine in our province and many parents had to sell their children. Wo Fang had been here and, as you see, he has become a rich merchant on this shore. He bought me from the slaver my parents sold me to. The rest you know.”
“The hell you say. Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s illegal to keep slaves over here?”
“Some of the people in the village laugh at me for being Wo Fang’s slave. They do not understand my people and their ways.”
“Neither do I! What’s to stop you from just taking a hike? Wo Fang has no hold over you under Costa Rican law.”
Ching sighed and said, “We are not Costa Ricans. We are Cantonese. If I ran away from Wo Fang, my parents would have to return the money they got for me, and they are very poor.”
“For God’s sake, what do you care about people who’d sell their own kids?”
“Don’t you love your parents, señor?”
“Well, sure, but they never sold me during a famine!”
“Do you have many famines in your country, señor?’
“Hmm, I’m beginning to get the picture and, what the hell, it’s your way of looking at life, not mine. I guess it’s all right if you’re treated all right by the old man.”
Ching didn’t answer. He knew it was none of his business and that he couldn’t help, but curiosity got the better of the bemused American and he asked, “Well, does Wo Fang treat you right or doesn’t he?”
Ching shrugged and said, “I am treated well for a slave. I don’t think he would let me take you down the south cliffs if I meant more to him.”
They’d passed the lights of the village and the dark lighthouse on the end of Punta Purgatorio, now, and the swells were stronger as they quartered in from the southwest. Captain Gringo pointed to the lighthouse and asked about it. Ching said it had been built by the Spanish in the days of their empire, The Costa Rican government had never seen fit to bother with manning it. People either knew where the point was or they didn’t. People who didn’t know the local waters were expected to have sense enough to avoid them. Greystoke’s notions about devious German plans made a certain sense when you considered that the highland politicians in San Jose were the landlubbers of Central America. They simply didn’t take much interest in the coastlines.
Captain Gringo suddenly got a bootful of green water as it sloshed over the sides near the bow. Ching said, “I didn’t do that on purpose. There is always a nasty ground swell on this side of the point.”
The little boat reeled sickeningly between swells as the American said, “That’s for damn sure! Where’s all this crazy water coming from?”
“The South Pacific. There is not a thing to break a wave between here and the equator. Are you ready to turn back?”
Captain Gringo stared shoreward at the black mass of the point’s sea cliffs, under the brooding menace of soaring Monte Purgatorio. He shook his head and said, “Swing in along the cliffs. I’m looking for gaps in the breaker lines.”
The shoreward breeze was from the opposite side, now, so he shifted his seat and braced himself to study the shoreline. The electric green foam splashed harder on this side and while there were small pocket beaches here and there, it seemed a dangerous shore to approach in any vessel, including their little whaler. He said, “You mentioned nobody fishing on this side, Ching? Any reason?”
Ching swore softly and asked, “Can’t you see the reason? This is a quiet night. You should see those cliffs when the wind is from the south!”
“I was talking about the bottom. You said you’ve done some diving. Have you ever tried for abalone over here?”‘
“Of course not. In the first place, there’s no place to anchor. The bottom is deep, rocky, and swept by vicious currents.”
“What’s the second place?”
“There are no fish. The pounding surf tears rock and pumice from those cliffs and the water is roiled and murky. Fish have too much sense to stand off such a wild surf. They are not like some people I know!”
He grinned and said, “Just set us down to where the point joins the mainland and we can tack well out before we head back to the village.”
Ching sighed and swung the tiller. Then there was the sound of cracking wood and the boat heeled wildly. Captain Gringo gasped, “What’s wrong?” and Ching yelled back, “The tiller rod broke! I can’t steer!”
“Well, for Chrissake drop the sail!” yelled Captain Gringo. Then, not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the foot of the sail, whipped out his pocket knife, and started sawing on a hard wet line as the sail clawed them across the black water toward the blacker rocks.
The line parted with a loud twang and the sail flapped wildly as it spilled its breeze. But they were in the breakers, now, and Ching yelled, “Jump! We’re going over!”
The boat suddenly rose skyward on a long curling breaker of ghostly green light and Captain Gringo dove over the seaward side as the whaler rolled like a chip in a millrace. As the Pacific closed over him he was glad he’d left his hat, gun and jacket at the village. His clothes and boots were trying to drag him to the bottom as it was.
Captain Gringo floundered to the surface, spitting and cursing, in time to receive another breaker in the face. There was no time to worry about shucking his boots as he fought to stay more or less afloat. The breaking surf seemed to be trying to sweep him out to sea or toss him on the rocks at the same time. He ducked under where it seemed quieter and started swimming underwater toward the shore. It would have made more sense to swim out beyond the breakers and make some sensible plans, but Ching was yelling in Cantonese and seemed to be in trouble, so, as the damned kid was further in, Captain Gringo followed.
Something made of wood bumped his head as he came up for air and called out to Ching. He heard a gargled answer and spotted the young Chinese shoreward. He yelled, “Hang on and tread water!” but Ching answered in Cantonese and was going under again when Captain Gringo got there.
He grabbed Ching as a wave lifted them both high and then he spotted a break in the cliffs just ahead. He spat brine and said “We’re in luck! There’s sand ahead!”
Ching didn’t answer. Captain Gringo shifted his grip to get the other’s head above water, and then he blinked in surprise but kept swimming. Ching had a damned nice pair of tits, but this was hardly the time to worry about that!