AN HOUR LATER, with the sun coming up, we were passing Roche’s Point Light, at the entrance to Cork Harbour. The wind had come up even more with the dawn, and we were motoring dead into a forty-knot southeasterly. Seas were breaking over the bar at the harbor entrance and Mark bore away to take them at an angle. Once past the bar, he still had to bear away to keep from motoring into the seaway that had been whipped up by the increasing wind.
I had been half-dozing in the cockpit during our trip down the harbor, but now the motion had me awake. “Okay,” I shouted over the wind, “what’s the plan? Where the hell are we going?”
Mark laughed. “We’re going just far enough out to sea to keep from making a liar out of Mulcahy—that’s to the three-mile limit—and then we’re going to come back and hide the boat in Cork Harbour.
“Hide it? Where? It’s a pretty busy place, you know. Aren’t you worried about somebody spotting her?”
“No, not where I have in mind. You want to take the helm for a while?”
I relieved Mark and he sat down heavily in the cockpit, rubbing his knee.
“Sure, I just landed wrong when I jumped. The bad one took all the weight. It’ll be okay in a day or two.”
I had my hands too full with the yacht to worry about Mark’s knee. There is a certain rhythm to a sailboat, even going to windward in heavy weather, because the wind against the sails keeps her pressed. Not so under power with no sails. The boat pitches and rolls, and the lack of a rhythm to anticipate makes it very tiring just to be aboard, let alone to steer. For two hours I tacked back and forth, making distance to the south, motoring for the imaginary line that bordered Irish waters, the crossing of which would satisfy Mark’s sense of the proper thing to do with regard to Mulcahy. I would have said the hell with it and hidden the boat immediately, but not Mark. He had promised the man to get it out of the country. The size of the seas and the direction of the wind caused us to make slow progress; three miles was coming hard.
Mark spelled me and said, “We’ll give it another hour just to be sure, then turn and run for Cork. Take a look below; I think there may be some chocolate bars in the chart table.”
I worked my way to the main hatch and started down the companionway ladder into the dark cabin. I stepped off the last rung and found myself in water up to the knee. “Jesus, Mark,” I shouted out the hatch. We’re taking serious water down here; you better cut the engine and start pumping while I see if I can find where it’s coming in.”
I heard the engine die to an idle and felt the change in the boat’s motion as she came beam on to the seas; she rolled a bit, but was a lot more comfortable. I knew I had installed the seacocks properly, so there was only one place where that much water could have come in: the through-hull fitting for the galley sink drain, where I had hammered in a softwood plug. It should have held, but in her wild launching the yacht had struck the water hard on that side, and that must have loosened it. The plug must have been completely out by this time. I tried to get into the locker under the sink and discovered that, incredibly, a small, wooden crate had jammed itself into the opening. It would’t budge when I tried to pull it free, and I began to feel about for something to pry or smash it with.
Mark stuck his head through the hatch. “Hey, there’s no handle for the pump up here. It must be below somewhere; see if you can find it or a substitute, will you?”
Wonderful. Here I was in the pitch dark cabin of a rolling yacht, on my hands and knees in eighteen inches of water, and he wanted me to find a pump handle among the tangle of gear and boxes. I waded forward and began feeling my way through what was there. There was a steel toolbox somewhere in the vicinity of the chart table; I had put it there myself, but if it was still there, it was underwater and had probably spilled its contents into the bilges. After ten minutes of groping, while water continued to pour into the boat, I found it. I got it onto the chart table seat, yanked it open, and found a large screwdriver and a mallet. Using both tools, I tore at the box wedged in the galley locker until it splintered and came free. I handed up the screwdriver to Mark.
“This is close as you’re going to get to a pump handle; I hope it works.” I dove back below and began feeling for the through-hull fitting. It was easy to find, as a stream of water was gushing through it. Finding the plug was not as easy. I went to the chart table and, thank God, found a flashlight and, in the tool box, another plug and some sealant that would work underwater. Five extremely awkward minutes later I had the new plug pounded into place, and water stopped coming into the yacht. Using the flashlight I was able to find a bucket. There is an old saying that there is no better pump than a frightened man with a bucket, and, believe me, it is true. In an hour’s time the cabin was, if not dry, then only damp. I climbed wearily into the cockpit.
“Now listen,” I said, or rather, panted. “I say we’ve made three miles out, have you got that?”
He nodded, resignedly. “And if we’re ever questioned as to why we returned to Cork Harbour, we can say we were driven back by severe weather and difficult conditions.”
“No fucking joke,” I said. “Now, let’s point north and see how fast the tub will run before the wind under power.”
We made Roche’s Point in less than an hour and crept into the harbor in heavy fog. It could hardly have suited our purpose better. Mark at the helm, we followed the shoreline east, away from the boatyard, and came to East Ferry and the waterside pub, Dirty Murphy’s, keeping on the other side of the channel to avoid notice.
“Along here someplace will be good,” Mark said a few minutes later. “There are some deep pools back in the trees along this shore.”
He was right. In another couple of minutes he turned into a narrow cleft between the trees that opened into a neat little pool, not much longer than the yacht, and nearly round. I swam ashore with lines, and we tied up to trees, holding the yacht neatly in the center of the pool. Mark measured the depth with a makeshift leadline and announced that there would still be ample water, even at low tide. Then we went below, made room for ourselves among the boxes and gear and slept, unwilling to think about what we would do next.