The Eleutheria bobbed off an uninhabited stretch of Yemen’s coastline. Captain Goncalves smoked his pipe while checking his watch. He had made this location fifty-five minutes ago. He had not gotten a return call. His instructions were clear: wait one hour for a response, and one hour only.
“Quite a night,” the mate said. In the calm of day, it was hard to believe he had come so close to murder and mutiny. It would be his secret to the grave.
“Aye.”
“I was certain that frigate would board us.”
“Aye.”
The mate paused to see if the captain would fill the void with explanation. Only silence.
“Why do you think the frigate pulled away at the last minute?”
More silence.
“How did you know?”
The captain continued to smoke his pipe, staring at the shoreline. Frustrated, the mate lit a cigarette and thought: Was the captain lucky or smart? He preferred lucky. Smart would make him too dangerous.
“Our hour’s up,” the captain finally said. “Something has gone wrong.”
“Can’t trust anyone these days.”
“Weigh anchor.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” the first mate said, yelling out the order so the crew could hear. “Weigh anchor!”
“Heading?”
“South by southwest,” the captain said. “To our next port of call.”
“Make for Mogadishu!” the first mate bellowed.
“Prepare for the worst. We will be traveling through pirate waters. But I’ll be holding on to this,” he said, clutching the key to the armory with a wise grin.
The contraband was his now, Goncalves thought. That was the law of the sea. He would sell it eventually, whatever it was. But he wasn’t in a hurry. It was a clear night and an ebbing tide, and Capt. Emanuel Goncalves felt as he always felt when the sea breeze was finally pushing him away from the shore and all its problems and back to where he belonged.
He felt free.