KILLERS ABOARD!

My wife, Pamela, and I had visited many of our favorite spots in Desolation Sound and then had explored some new territory to the north. Anchoring, tying to buoys, visiting marinas, eating clams, salmon, and oysters - just the kind of vacation we needed from our confining office jobs.

It was 7:00 in the morning when we headed our 36-foot diesel trawler out of Welcome Pass and onto the Strait of Georgia. The wind was calm at Merry Island and the report was for 14 knots on the side at Entrance Island. We looked forward to a relatively easy crossing. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The sun was already hot on our skin, but the light breeze coming off the windshield on the bridge took the sting out of it.

Pamela mixed a couple of screwdrivers and brought them up to the bridge. I looked at her carefully. Her blond hair moved gracefully at her deep brown shoulders as the breeze caught it. She was lovely. It was hard to believe that we had been married 25 years.

About two hours later we passed Entrance Island. The wind had subsided to a calming eight and the sea was rippled. We put into Nanaimo Yacht Basin without having taken even a splash of salt on her. Once we were tied to the dock, we took a stroll up town, buying provisions, ending at a sandwich shop for a light lunch. We spent the afternoon as quiet as possible because of the heat in the basin. About 5:00 in the evening the wind, which usually subsides at that time, picked up to a good clip of maybe 20 to 25 knots. The flag at the top Post Office building was standing straight out pointing southeast. We figured we might be in for a three-day blow. None-the-less, the wind brought some welcome relief from the heat. Pamela was listening to the news on the radio while preparing a nice plate of snacks to go with our cocktails.

"Did you hear that, dear?"

My mind recoilded from that state of contemplation well known to husbands on vacation. Wives, in a similar situation, can read a book all day without being expected to record every sound within earshot. But, a husband who contemplates the ends of his toes must not indulge himself in such a loass of alertness.

"Of course Pamela. Very interesting!"

"Walter Cronkite broke a tooth on an olive pit that Barbara Walters put in his pimiento sandwich." I laid out on the table to see what she thought of the idea.

"Don't be silly. the Canadian news is on the radio."

"You didn't hear a word the newscaster said." I was caught and she knew it. To make the best of a bad situation I decided to make light of it.

"The New Democratic Party invited the Socreds for dinner and served roast Prime Minister Trudeaux," I tried again.

"Well, if you're not interested," Pamela mused, "but I should think that you wuold be. Four convicted killers have escaped today from a prison near Victoria. They're armed with knives and are dangerous."

"Well, that does it," I thought to myself. No joking about this. Not with Pamela. She could spend half the night worrying about our anchor slipping or wake up dreaming that a boat was running into us or haunt me all day about a strange noise she heard in the engine. What could she do with this?

"Down girl! In the first place, Victoria is a hundred or so miles from here. Secondly, they don't give prsoners cars when they escape because the prison budget is short in capital outlay this yar. The Prime Minister is complaining about too much rolling stock. No, it's out of the question. Third, why would four self-respecting escaped murderers head for the pleasure boat moorage at Nanaimo? They probably aren't even wearing boat shoes, a sure give-away to their identity. No one would let them aboard. You know how you worry about shoes scatching our teak wood decks."

"They're fugitives on an island. Ferries and airplanes are easy to check out. Pleasure boats come and go without anyone thinking a thing of it," countered Pamela.

"You go more sun today than I thought. But just in case, why don't you check our supply of old boat shoes? I imagine they wear about the same size as I wear. i don't suppose they'd agree to going around in stocking feet, would they?"

"You are impossible!" she declared.

Trouble was that what she had said made too much sense. It was an unlikely prospect, but not impossible, as I had first thought. I shuddered at the idea and went about making martinis. A little extra dry for the occasion!"

As the sun went down we had dinner on the bridge. Pamela, always the chef par excellence, had prepared prime rib, baked potatoes, and baby limas - my favorite meal.

The subject of escaped murderers was not mentioned again. Pamela was no doubt mildly perturbed about my refusal to take her fears seriously. I thought that if nothing was said, she might forget it - maybe!

By 10:00 in the evening, the customary conversation and laughter on the docks was quieting noticeably, and we were both beginning to yawn. The Nor'wester was still blowing, but unlike most night winds, it was quite warm. The cabins below were stifling. We decided to leave even the doors and hatches open, at least for awhile. We both retired to the aft cabin and double bunk.

Night sounds on the docks are all readily identifiable by the perennial boater: the tugging of lines as the wind blows the boat off the dock; the creaking, scraping, rubbing of floats on pilings and on each other as the wind or water moves the floats and the tide rises and falls; the whistle of the wind in the rigging of the sail boats combined with steady clang, clang, clang of a sailor's rigging that's too loose. There's also occasional muffled laughter and the footfalls of the wayward returning home. These sounds are all friendly and familiar.

"Silly to be so on edge," I thought to myself. "Just fall asleep and forget it."

There was a soft hum and splash as the automatic bilge pump turned on for a few seconds. The gentle steady rocking of the boat was putting me to sleep.

I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state when I felt the boat make a stange unpatterned movement. Something or someone had interupted the normal roll of the boat. My body involuntarily stiffened. Pamela, beside me, had apparently not felt it. She was breathing normally, quietly. She was asleep.

I was about ready to dismiss my misgivings when it happened again. The boat gave a decided lurch. There was no mistaking it. Someone - a pretty heavy person, had stepped aboard from the dock.

"What do I do now?" I thought. Call out? How silly. What do I do if someone answers me? I don't own a gun. I always figured it was safter that way. I'd probably shoot myself accidentally. All the knives are in the galley. I'd be no match for a guy with a weapon anyway.

While I was having this fascinating conversation with myself about guns, knives, and the art of self defense, the boat made two more lurches similar to the first two.

Two plus two equals four. Four equals killers! The hair on my head and what I have left on my chest, stood straight up. I was just plain scared.

Then it happened. A voice low and almost whispering came clearly through the companionway.

"Okay down there. Now let's get up nice and easy and quietly. We're going to take a little trip and if anything goes wrong, somebody gets a quick, watery grave. Now answer slow and answer now!"

Well, it wasn't Walter Cronkite! I could tell that. I clamped a hand over Pamela's mouth.

"Okay. I hear you. Just don't get excited," I whispered. Pamela bit my hand. "Shhh!" I told her. "You let me handle this."

I climbed carefully over Pamela and stood up. It was still hot but her skin was chilled. I could feel her tremble.

"You stay here." I whispered staccato-style in her ear. I'd keep her down here in the cabin out of their way. That was my first miscalculation.

"I mean everyone up here in the main cabin, now!" came a voice again. He meant business. I reached for Pamela's hand. She rose and followed me out of the cabin.

"No sounds or I start cutting with this!"

A hand shot out of the darkness from the direction of the whisperer's voice and toward me. There was no mistaking the glint of moonlight on the blade. It was a knife all right, and a good-sized one, perhaps 10 or 12 inches long.

"Me and my friends have shut the windows nice and quiet-like so we wouldn't wake up the neighborhood. Now ain't that thoughtful of us?"

"Very," I replied.

"Quiet! I'm doing the talking." Whisperer replied. "Me and my friends here have just graduated unceremoniously from a hallowed institution and we're ready for our debut in the world."

I looked around the cabin. There were four of them all right. Three pretty big guys and a short one who was doing the talking. I couldn't see their faces well enough to get more than a quick impression of them. I didn't like what I saw. They looked hard as nails.

They weren't wearing the traditional prison stripes. In the half darkness I believed them to be wearing Levi pants and shirts.

Suddenly something hit the side of my face, hard. It was the back of the short guy's hand. It hurt. "You ain't listening careful like to me." he said.

"A failing of a mind trained by Pamela," I thought.

"You're going to start this boat and take us to a spot we got planned on the mainland - up the coast from Vancouver."

"May I say something?" I inquired.

"If it's about the trip, all right."

"Have you fellows heard of piracy?"

"Look, Long John Silver, maybe you ain't got the idea yet. We four is convicted murderers. We've escaped. They don't hang anybody in Canada no more, so what are they going to do to us if we do away with you two? Give us life? We got several life sentences already. So, the way we look at it, we either stay outside or we go back. do you follow me?"

"All the way to Hong Kong," I replied. "But what about your shoes?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. It's a bad joke. But this place you want to go is across the Georgia Strait. It's blowing 25 knots out there. I'm not taking this boat out in that mess."

This time I saw the back of his hand coming. I involuntarily ducked. Then I froze. That sharp pressure on my throat was unmistakable. The blade of that long knife was resting, no, pushing against the side of my throat.

"Fuel. We'll need fuel." It was Pamela's voice. She hadn't said a word until now. The knife blade slowly withdrew and I began to breathe again. I was glad enough to have the knife moved, but what was she talking about? We had taken on a load of diesel in Campbell River. We didn't need fuel.

Then it occurred to me that she wasn't just making ridiculous conversation. She was trying to set up a situation where we could get word to the police about these murderers.

"Pamela, you darling," I thought, "I should listen to you more often."

"We're wasting time, Joe." It was one of the big guys talking. "Either you people deliver us where we want to go by day break or you're dead. It's that simple. Now, let's get going."

"Okay, okay," I agreed with him. "But we've got to put on some clothes and shoes. I'll start her up. Then, you've got to let us get dressed while she warms up."

"We don't gotta let you do anything." It was Joe, the short one again. "So, okay, one at a time you do what you have to do. If there's any trouble the other one gets it! Then we ask questions."

"Someone has to disconnect the power cord and untie the lines." I suggested. Joe commissioned one of his friends to do the job. I turned on the running lights.

I walked over to the controls, turned the key, pushed the throttle all the way forward and pressed the starter button. She started easily. I wasn't sure if that was what I wanted or not. I eased the throttle back to 800 rpms. The engine was purring nicely. The alarm system stopped buzzing as the oil pressure rose to a healthy point. Pamela had gone below to dress.

When Pamela returned I took my turn. "This is a tough spot we're in." I counseled myself. Maybe, just maybe, we can deliver them where they want to go. But then what? Why should they leave us alive to tell about it? I couldn't find a good reason. That left me feeling uncomfortable. I had to try to get us out of this. But how? It had to be done without upsetting my friend Eversharp or he'd slice one of both of us up for hors-d' oeuvre.

I returned to the main cabin. "Say, you fellows wouldn't mind wearing these, would you?" I held out four pairs of boat shoes I had found in the locker below. "Pamela gets awfully angry when people wear street shoes on the boat. It scratches the teak decks. Besides, you might slip and fall overboard in the rough seas that we're in for." I added the latter as an afterthought based upon my not wanting to feel the back of a hand or the knife blade again.

I set down the shoes. We were free of the dock and drifting. I stepped up to the wheel and put her in gear. We cleared the boat ahead of us and I started up the channel between Newcastle Island and Nanaimo Harbor. There was only one fuel dock that I thought might be open that time of night to service fishing boats and tugs.

"When we pull into the fuel dock you'll have to let me handle things. You just don't drive in and say 'fill her up' in a boat."

"I'm going to stay right beside you every minute," the short guy volunteered. Just looking at him gave me chills up my spine.

I eased the Sea Bounty into the fuel dock and shut her down as the attendant made the lines fast.

"Diesel number two," I said.

"This hose right here," the attendant responded. He was tall and thin with a heavy short beard and greasy overalls. I wondered how smart he was. All of our lives may depend upon his alertness.

I poured diesel into the starboard tank. It started making gurgling sounds like it was getting full. I released the valve just in time as the foaming oil rose in the fill pipe and nearly spilled over.

"You should put water on the deck first," the attendant commented. "That way if you spill any it floats on top. Shame to stain those nice teak decks."

"Now what did he have to say that for? Pamela will have a fit," I thought. Out loud I said quickly "Didn't spill a drop, old chap. Besides look at the shoes my crew insists upon wearing. Teak's soft. Scratches easily, you know. That's worse on the decks than a little diesel oil!"

That remark earned me a scowl and grunted warning from Joe, the Knife. "It was well worth it," I pondered. Later, Gasman with the beard will put it together with another message I plan to give him. If only he can read. I'm not sure. It's our only chance to get help though. I handed the attendant a credit card. He disappeared into a small shack on the dock.

"One more crack like that and I start cuttin'!"

"Well, I did ask you guys to put on some boat shoes. After all, I still am the captain of this vessel!"

Gaspump reappeared with the charge slip. "Sign here," he commanded.

I took the form and pen from him, found the line with the "X" and wrote KILLERS ABOARD. I handed it back to him.

"I don't know which copy is mine," I ventured, thinking that he might look closely to find out. No such luck. He tore a copy out without pausing and handed it to me. "Throw it away for me, will you? I never save them anyway."

"But we need it for our records dear," came Pamela's voice from the cabin. I could have killer her. If Eversharp got a look at that slip he would kill me!

I grabbed the slip from the attendant's hand, crumbled it up and threw it overboard in one motion. "As I say, Joe, I'm captain of this vessel, but Pamela doesn't always recognize my credentials." I waited for what seemed like a whole night for some reaction. None was forthcoming. Apparently none our friends had grasped the significance of that charge slip.

Then it came. Like a bolt of lightning. Just what I had dreaded.

"Hey," the attendant was saying "something's wrong with this charge slip."

"Oh, I'm sure if you'll just look at it carefully you'll find it's all in order," I barked.

"No mister, it ain't. First place this credit card's in a woman's name. Says right here, 'Mrs. Pamela Owens.'"

"Oh, is that all?" My knees tried to cave in under me. "She's my wife. Right here below. Manages all our finances. Bank doesn't trust me. I've always been a spendthrift." "What a fool I'd been," I thought. Gave him Pamela's card by mistake. I'll just have to try to bluff my way out of it."

"Ought to be signed by her. Company rules," argued the attendant.

"Oh, that's a lot of work for you to make out another one. It's perfectly good. I'm sure you'll find the signature is in order if you examine it.

"'Nother thing. The card expired August 10th. It's after midnight so it's August 11th. Card's no good today."

"Imagine," I thought, "a fuel dock attendant who reads charge slips with a magnifying glass and has a grasp of the calendar that would put the ancient Romans to shame, but he can't read KILLERS ABOARD!"

"You'll have to give me a good credit card or pay cash," the attendant continued his monologue. "Boss is very careful about such things."

"Gaspump, you're brilliant. You must give me the names of your writers. I haven't heard such original material in years," I said through my teeth. "Here, 25 gallons at 75 cents, that's about $18.50. Here's twenty. Keep the change."

"Thanks. I'll just tear up this invoice and throw it away." He did. Right before my eyes. He tore the charge slip into four pieces and tossed them into a nearby trash can. My heart sank right down to my toes.

As we cleared Departure Bay, the sea worsened considerably. The wind was out of the Northwest at 30, maybe 35 knots. The seas were eight to ten feet with white foam blowing off the tops. I wasn't sure whether I was trembling from the prospect of being murdered by the four killers aboard or by the sea breaking my lovely yacht into splinters around my head.

And Pamela. Poor Pamela. The very sight of a three-foot chop has been known to send her into hysterics. Once, crossing this strait, I had to sing to her all the way to keep her from panicking. With a voice like mine, she had to be scared to be soothed by it!

On this crossing, Pamela offered not so much as a whimper. I wasn't sure whether she was in a trance or ahd passed away quietly from fright. She just sat there glassy-eyed and quiet.

When I brought the ship around to a heading for Welcome Pass, we were in the trough. The Sea Bounty rolled severely causing both men and loose objects to be catapulted about the cabin.

"Get that stuff secured before it goes through the windows," I shouted. "And use the grab rails. I don't need a 200-pound man on top of me when I'm trying to keep us from being broached on one of these waves."

How bad was it? It was bad. I'd never been in anything like it before and I knew that if I survived I never wanted to be in anything like it again. The only thing about it was that our killers didn't like it either. Obviously, they'd never been in any real seas before. They were bracing themselves, stiff-legged, and getting the worst of it. The one closest to me was looking pale and a little green.

We continued like that for what must have been hours. My feet were becoming numb from trying to hold onto the deck. My hands ached from holding the wheel. My mind was tired and blurring noticeably.

As the eastern sky lightened, the wind eased a bit. I could see Merry Island just off our starboard bow.

Something else was off our bow - a gray silhouette with a large red stripe. An RCMP boat! My brain swung to alertness. Maybe that guy at the gas dock wasn't so dumb after all. Maybe he was just trying to throw the crooks off while he got the message all the time. Maybe he called the RCMP and maybe...

I looked about the cabin. Everyone was asleep. The murderers had collapsed wherever they could and Pamela's head was down on the table. Dear Pamela. I resolved to pay more attention to her in the future.

I slid the cabin door open carefully and quietly. The RCMP boat was only yards away. I opened my mouth to yell, but it was as if I had cotton in it. The fright of the night must have drained my body of water. I tried to call again, louder this time. I couldn't form the words. My tongue wouldn't work. My teeth were sealed shut. All I could do was to moan. "What is the matter with me?" I thought.

Someone was poking me in the ribs. "Probably Eversharp with his knife again, I mused." But it wasn't the knife man, it was Pamela! "You must have been having a terrible nightmare," she said. "You've been tossing and turning for hours and just now you were moaning as if your life depended upon it."

It was hard for me to believe, but there I was in bed beside Pamela. The whole affair had never happened. I had dreamed it all.

"Pamela," I said, "would you mind closing the outside doors and hatches and locking them. I feel a bit chilly."

"Why, I did that hours ago, dear. After all, there are four killers on the loose, you know."

"Yes, I do know! By the way, how many pairs of spare shoes do we have aboard?"

"At 2:00 in the morning, you're worried about shoes!"

"Never know when we might have strangers aboard," I said. "And, what about our credit cards, are they current?"

"What's the matter with you, Dear?"

"I'll tell you all about it sometime Pamela. "I think it all has to do with an undigested bit of hors-d'oeuvre or something."

"You're not making much sense."

"What do you say, Pamela, that when we're on vacation we agree not to listen to the news at all. I mean, don't we get enough of all that the rest of the year?"

"Well, as I've always said..."

"I must remember to listen to Pamela more in the future," I thought to myself. "After all, toes are only good for so much contemplating and then what have you? A hang nail. Now what good is a hang nail to anyone?"