Free Wake of the Perdido Star by Gene Hackman

shore. With the tide and all, I guess we just drifted out with the current.” He paused, reflecting. “They’ll report me dead at sea, won’t they? Maybe that will make my father smile.”
    Jack raised his brow at the last comment but said only: “What’s done is done. You can either go on with us or go over the side. If you feel like you won’t be missed, go over the side. If not, let’s carry on.”
    Jack took the soiled blanket and shook it vigorously over the rail. The wind caught it, snapping it like a sail. The brown wool stretched straight out from Jack’s hands, and freshly aired, he wrapped it around Paul’s shoulders. “If you feel like talking later, I can usually be found forward by the bowsprit—trying to be the first one to Cuba.”

4
    HABANA
    F IRST BLACK, THEN dark green and sandy white, Cuba appeared as a saddlelike hump on the horizon. It assumed different shapes during the course of the day as the Star beat toward it through turquoise waters, wrestling a contrary headwind. For the better part of a week there had been “nothing to see but the sea itself” ” as Jack had announced to the uncaring salt spray. Sea, and an occasional glimpse of low-lying sand and coral reef.
    The vessel was cautiously skirting what the sailors called the Floridas. Jack noticed the lookouts were particularly wary of hazards to starboard, or west of them as they continued on their southern course. Old Hansumbob told him the trick was to keep west of the northerly push of the Gulf Stream and yet stay far enough east to keep off the shallow cays.
    By evening, Cuba, off the port side of the ship, dominated Jack’s vision. His eyes were riveted on the tropical island, revealing itself in greater detail each time the ship’s bow leaned toward
shore. It struck Jack that the ship’s progress was rather like that of an inebriated man heading doggedly back to his favorite pub; tacking first to the left, then reversing his bearing and staggering to the right.
    Close up, Cuba was a painter’s canvas, dominated by bold, verdant strokes, yet spattered unevenly with warm reds and browns. Mountain peaks seemed to attract a halo of both white and ominously dark clouds. There were thick plumes of smoke as well and Jack caught the sharp scent of something being burnt in the fields—a sailor said it was the chaff from the harvest of sugarcane.
    A steady offshore breeze allowed them to tack unusually close to land as they made their way to the port of Habana. Palm trees swayed like dancers on the shore, and the light green waters of the shallows shimmered in rhythm with the trees. This same breeze made entry into the harbor difficult, but Jack enjoyed the wind’s recalcitrance: being forced to approach this new world with baby steps allowed him to absorb it completely.
    Finally, as night fell, they crept into the lee of the island and slipped into the harbor, dropping anchor in waters so calm that even Ethan and Pilar were able to climb on deck, beginning to breathe the fresh air of their new home. Jack noted the emergence of another figure who had been appearing with more frequency on deck during the last two days—a somewhat less bedraggled Paul Le Maire.
    Jack was pleased to see the young man but fought down the urge to approach him. Paul was obviously wrestling with demons that could only be faced on one’s own. Jack thought it best to grant him his solitude until he chose to leave it of his own will.
    Still, he cut an amusing figure. He wore a striped shirt several sizes too large, breeches so small that they had to be slit for proper leg room, and shoes. This last was surprising, since he had none when pulled aboard—then Jack remembered Martin. He had been wearing shoes; the crew must have seen fit to let the lad have them.

    Still self-absorbed, Paul claimed a perch opposite Jack on the starboard rail, out of the way of the men reefing