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After deploying both the chin and back straps on his hat, Nigel found the safety belt and buckled up as Joe tore out of the parking area. Devi hadn't even mounted up yet, but she leapt into the driver's seat, Monty scrambling in beside her, and the chase was on. The vehicles bounced along storm-damaged roads to the narrow dirt tracks separating the salt pans to the south of town. Devi leaned back in her seat, comfortable as a racecar driver as she turned her buggy down another track, steadily gaining on them.
Joe glanced aside, then gripped his yoke and punched it harder. They spun out around corners, then into a straightaway where Devi drifted across the sandy stretch to take the lead. Certainly no way to capture a monologue now, but the footage would be excellent. Joe had a flair for the dramatic, as when he'd simply taken off with Nigel. Perhaps he could be talked into doing some other work? As the crew were between projects, he might appreciate the extra funds, not to mention relief from the boredom of downtime.
In order to reach Malarimmo, they had to skirt the lagoon where the gray whales birthed in the winter, the site of the proposed new salt facility. To Nigel's eye, the place had plenty of salt development already. If anything, a little more investment in tourist infrastructure could preserve the habitat and bring income to the locals, rather than sending it offshore to some vast corporation with tentacles wrapped around the world and poised to strangle it.
The ride settled into swift routine, with the odd wild turn to avoid mesquite and ocotillo entanglements, and a final swoop up the dunes, then down again, sand churning in the wake of the broad tires as the ocean came back into view. The rough headlands dropped down to a series of sandy coves, visible now, but to be devoured by the ocean again during the next high tide.
These arcs of beach at Malarimmo collected a bounty from the ocean, but not the sort of bounty one preferred. A Styrofoam cooler, broken, stuck from the sand as they hit the beach proper, accompanied by strings of fishing buoys from a broken net tossed among the seaweed. Jessica's vehicle pulled ahead again, and a flock of shorebirds launched ahead of them. Dozens of sharp wings turning in unison to sweep backward toward Nigel's own ride, where the camera could capture it all. Magnificent!
The two other buggies rumbled after them. Pity about the gas engines. Nigel made a note to have the show donate funds to the conservation alliance as a carbon offset. He wondered if anyone considered establishing a tidally-powered plug-in recreation center, where vehicles like this could be driven by green power. When Nigel settled down—if ever—he should look into such things. In the meantime...
Devi drove toward them at a more sedate pace, swinging the buggy around to be sure Monty didn't appear on the reel. His upraised hand clutched the frame as if he needed the security. Having driven with Devi under a variety of circumstances now, Nigel could relate. "Big open space, with a view of the island and not much trash," she called. "What do you think?"
"Good eye!"
They still had at least an hour before the sun would reach an interesting phase. Plenty of time to gather driftwood, if any, pick up some of the litter, and perhaps locate a few more appealing bits of jetsam to splice into the episode later or use as backdrops. The vehicles converged, and Devi and Joe got to work prepping the seating area as Gator and his crew unloaded their supplies for the picnic well above the tide line.
Nigel had to ensure he respected the men's privacy, but still captured the scene. Hence, he required enough distance not to pick up voices, and perhaps some sort of framing device. Taking up the tripod and a smaller, less sophisticated camera dedicated to scenery, he paced a little away from the bonfire preparations. Toward the south end of their cove, the high ground narrowed to a spine of rock thrusting past the beach into the water. At the near end, the protected rocks gave space for clumps of mesquite brush that would, in turn, defend the camera from gusty winds and indicated the area remained well above the tide line. Tides after a storm like that could range more widely than the norm.
Nigel clambered down among the bushes and set up his tripod, choosing an angle that placed the rocky spine in the lower left part of the image and the bonfire area in the lower right, spanning the beach low down with the ocean and sky above. The distant mass of the island provided some interest to the horizon. He checked his alignment. The setting sun should cast some lovely golden waves upon the beach as the tide rolled back in again in a few hours, but the brush growing nearby meant this spot stayed well above the tideline. The camera had a long-life battery and extra large memory, ready for a full day's recording, or a full night in this case. Dusk to dawn, with a bonfire in between. Should be lovely!
This done, Nigel returned to the others, bringing a few more things from the buggy.
Leaving Flick to play with a lighter and some starter bricks, Gator said, "Let's get some firewood. Maybe we find that pirate ship?" He nudged Nigel with an elbow.
Apparently, they were friends now. Perhaps Nigel laid it on a little thick with the hero monologue, but then, Gator had not been the intended audience. "If we do find the wreck, I don't suggest we burn it. The historical interest alone makes it valuable." He recalled Hortensia's story of the fire lit on the deck, and the evidence there'd been a fire there before. An explosion in the powder magazine could account for both scorch marks, and the ship's disappearance. "If anything, the wreck's likely to be south of here, given the original assault took place near Cabo San Lucas, but I'm game for a gander."
"Sounds like you're a believer." They started down the strand, Gator able to match Nigel's usual long stride. He'd consider filming possibilities as they moved, then come round to it with his cameras rolling. From the corner of his eye, Nigel saw Devi in motion as well, inviting Monty along with a tilt of her head. Was Monty the excuse for Devi to cover Nigel—or was it now the other way turned? Joe scrounged along the tide line not far away.
Hefting a likely-looking stick into his arms, Nigel explained, "The story can be traced to official shipping records. We know the ship is real, we know what she was carrying when she vanished. The only question is where. There's no sign it made port anywhere after the raid, no reports of sightings. It's a reasonable supposition that it's close to Baja."
Gator pounced on a bottle sticking out of the sand, but it proved to be missing its base, and he dropped it again in favor of a smooth piece of wood. "This stuff'll be wet, but we can always douse it with lighter fluid to get it going." He added another stick to his load.
From his line not far off, Joe called out, "Nigel? You know a lot of things—you ever think it's weird that ships are all feminine?"
"Ancient maritime traditions die hard. According to some, this particular tradition harks back to the Roman navy, with 'navis,' their word for 'ship' and the very source of the term 'navy', taking a female article, thus being referred to in the feminine. Others hold that goddesses were meant to protect the vessels, or even that they've always been called 'she' because men love them." Nigel's own protector-goddess followed behind, ready to rise to his defense. A duty he prayed would remain unnecessary.
"Cool."
"I've always been more of a truck guy myself," Gator said. "'Til my girlfriend drove off with my last one."
"Your luck with boats seems little better," Nigel ventured. Joe stifled a laugh, his shoulders hunching to contain his amusement.
"Got that right!" Gator prodded a mound of seaweed with his foot, then found another stick. "How about you? Got anybody waiting for your back home?"
Nigel offered a rueful smile. "I have neither love nor home."
With a sidelong glance, Gator said, "Sounds pretty lonely when you put it that way."
"It can be." He took up another stick and used it as his pointer, taking in the horizon, the island, the shore and the people picking their way along it. "The world is my home, and her people, my love. The world is feminine, too, of course. For many reasons. She is our mother and protector, the ship on which we travel the sea of stars." He should jot that down for a monologue.
"Whatever you say." Gator focused on the firewood.
The crew in general, and Gator most of all, shifted in Nigel's perception from harmless rough-and-tumble types, prone to the temptations of masculine bravado such as daring the sea and losing their vessel, to something more like a cult of war, a close-knit group bonded over dangerous deeds not harmless at all. No evidence suggested any of this save for his own observations of such clans around the world. Devi's attempt to fit in with them might be no more than her own masquerade to glimpse inside of theirs. Or a revelation of her own true plumage.
The gathering party had nearly reached the spine of rocks that jutted into the water, and Nigel pictured the angle of view, with small human figures crossing the beach. When he sped up the time lapse, the effect would amuse, and he could perhaps add a silly soundtrack with distant, high-pitched voices to match the pace of the people. His own hat should be distinctive among them.
"Looks like we've got plenty. Should get back there before Flick looks for something else to light up."
Friendly, casual Gator. Nigel chuckled, as he seemed obliged to do.
"I'm gonna check out the ridge," Joe said. "Let you know if I spot that ship!" He tucked his firewood under his arm and clambered up the rib of stone that jutted into the water. The golden light picked out his figure beautifully, reminding Nigel he had other work to do. He followed Gator back toward the site. Devi and Monty, too, carried armloads of wood, creating a fine heap of fuel for Flick's little blaze.
"Jessica?" Nigel inquired. "How are you at walking backward?"
"I'm a pro." She unfurled the blanket in her arms, pinning it down with a rock, then took up the stabilized camera. "Back to the beachcombing?"
"This time, for posterity, as it were. The light's perfect, and I'd like to catch some footage."
They headed north this time. A broken wooden hull, someone's lost fishing boat, emerged from the sand not far away, its skeletal frame showing worm-eaten edges and a few remaining chips of paint. Chatting with the camera from time to time, Nigel strolled the harder part of the shingle, shoes off, pants rolled up (viewers preferred this look over shorts by a margin of three to two).
A smooth sheen of green caught his eye, and Nigel pounced. "Closer, closer! Look." He swept sand from the orb with both hands, clearing a decaying rope knot work that enclosed a pale green globe. "Japanese fishing floats like these are prized among collectors and beach decor aficionados both, but they've become extremely rare in this era of plastic and Styrofoam. You, dear viewers, have brought me luck! Thank you." He lifted it from the sand, holding it to capture the light. "Look for this beauty to appear on the Rogue Adventures silent auction website, with any proceeds going to support the local conservation alliance."
In the next moment, Nigel hit the sand as a gunshot shattered the ocean's calm.