Fugitives

I have found over fifty years of sailing around the world that fugitives of all sorts gravitate to boats as a way of hiding from authorities. I would know. I was a fugitive from myself yet not wanted by the law but so emotionally disconnected, my head put out a warrant for my heart. 

There is a beautiful disconnectedness about sailing. Ocean as far as the eye can see. I have met and been absolutely surprised by sailors I have discovered were fugitives from the law. 

I met Amos Hardy on the dock in Puerto Vallarta. I was coming into the slip from Cabo San Lucas after a rough, windy, and rainy couple of days across the mouth of the Gulf of California. I stood off in the bay while a squall roared through pushing the boat back out to sea. The squall lasted thirty minutes. The deck was washed of salt. The fresh tropical water spilled out of the gunnels. The tropical sun turned the whole place into a natural steam bath. I found the slip where I was going to stay for a couple of days. As I approached the slip, my mate, Alex stood ready with the lines. Fenders were down for a port too docking. That is when I saw Amos for the first time. He hustled off a 32-foot Bay Liner to catch our lines. He was dressed in a white business shirt, unbuttoned to the third button from the top. His shirt hung over his natural round belly. He was no athletic figure and never was. He was more pear shaped. He wore a pair of pink shorts and black loafers. This wasn’t the outfit you expect from someone on the dock catching lines. 

He caught the bow line and started to pull the line very hard. I yelled at him to just tie it off. He looked up at me puzzled. I could see he wasn’t comfortable with taking orders. He smiled a thin sort of smile. My mate stepped of onto the dock, my other mate, Joe, who was sleeping came up the companionway stretched and yawned, then hopped onto the dock taking the stern line with him. We kissed the dock oh so gently and Amos let out a cheer of “Well done Captain! I’m American!” 

I greeted him and thanked him for helping with the lines. He was nice. He asked where did I come from… Where was I going. He hoped I had a good trip down from the “USA.” You can always tell a new traveler, especially Americans they always seem ready to join other Americans, finding the foreign experience to taxing. Americans are not alone in this behavior. The English tend to flock. 

Amos invited us to his boat for a drink. We were happy to be on the dock after the rough ride. 

Amos spun us a story about his trip down the Baja. He drove his Bay Liner from Los Angeles. As he was telling his story, he ran his hands through his thinning hair. He was a stressed-out man trying to be cool. Alex told me later he felt sorry for Amos. He was way out of his element. I asked what did he think Amos’s element was? Corporate was the simple answer. 

Amos asked us all out to dinner. Alex begged out of the dinner claiming a headache. Joe who was just 20 years old didn’t want to hang out with his elders. I went with Amos to dinner. All through dinner he was searching out for threats. I could see he was wanting to confess something. Just before the main course of steak and potatoes he broke down and cried. 

He was an accountant for a school board. He stole money from the school board for years. He referred to the theft as salary compensation. He wasn’t getting paid enough and he had to support is family. His wife spent too much and the two kids needed a lot of dental work. He didn’t think anyone would notice. He added bills for a service company he owned but didn’t do anything for a little over a million dollars of false building. He claimed his was going to pay it all back. It got out of hand. His supervisor approved the payments over and over again without asking why. I asked him if he had any of the money left? He had this relatively new Bayliner he was hoping to sell but instead he drove away from the dock and kept going and here is where he landed.  

Anyone who has sailed the Baja coast knows there are not many places to get gas along the way. Those few gas stations are far enough apart that you need a bladder or barrels of fuel. Carrying gasoline on deck is a dangerous proposition. Diesel is okay, but gas that’s just crazy. 

Much to his credit figured he wouldn’t get far without doing something. At this point he was a fugitive. The Sherriff had gone to his door to arrest him. He dashed out the back door when he heard the knock. He was wearing his business suit and the shirt he had on. The shorts were own board. 

He drove down the 101 to the 405 and parked his car at the airport long stay lot. He took the bus back up to the marina. His biggest anxiety was that the sheriff’s harbor patrol would be alerted, and he would be nabbed. He arrived at his slip in the dark. He started his boat and left quietly passing under the watchful eye of the sheriff’s station. He headed South towards Mexico. He had his driver’s license and six hundred bucks in cash and his credit cards.  

This was the 80s and the instant reporting of your card was still delayed. Amos knew he need to use the cards before they were cancelled. He was desperate. He filled up in Ensenada. He was again lucky not to be caught or have his boat impounded. He used his driver’s license to fill up saying he got off course and had mechanical trouble. He didn’t know he was in Mexican waters and need fuel to go back to San Diego. This was a plausible excuse. He got his fuel. He made down to Turtle Bay. He arrived with fumes. The range at 10 knots is 346nm according to the brochure. Amos told me he was praying all the way. The next leg was to fuel in Mag Bay. Santa Maria is a little town where a few big sport fishing boats operate. I asked him if he had any charts? He didn’t he relied on a book he bought at the Ship’s Store the local chandlery. Sometimes ignorance is luck. 

He made it to Cabo San Lucas. He filled the boat and talked with a broker. The broker and ex-pat American told him he couldn’t sell his boat because it was wanted along with the owner the US law enforcement. The broker told Amos he would tell the harbor master if he doesn’t know already. He quietly advised Amos to get on his boat and go.  

Amos ran out of the office in a panic. He drove is boat in the direction of Puerto Vallarta. The boat ran out of fuel 50 nm from the coast. He drifted for a couple of days. He confessed to me and to God that he was wrong. He promised he would turn himself in and take his medicine. He swore on his knees looking up to the heavens on a boat tossing in the ocean couldn’t be a fugitive from justice. At that moment a Mexican fishing boat came by to see if he needed help. They towed him into Puerto Vallarta. His prayers were answered. Sort of…. The fisherman offered him a good price for the boat. 

He thought. Okay. He needed money right away. Half the value of the Bayliner was better than nothing at this point. 

When I sailed up and docked my boat, he was waiting for the fisherman to come back with the money. 

“Did you get the money?” I asked. 

“Yes.” He was smug about his affirmation. 

“That’s great, isn’t it?” I couldn’t tell but I supposed he didn’t get the money and he wasn’t even able to afford this dinner.  

Then he hit me with the bomb. “Can you take me with you?”

The wind blew through the open-air restaurant. The iguanas screamed. The screeching sound of reptiles faded with the onset of a thunderous squall. Amos looked so helpless. I could see in his eyes I was his last bit of luck if I would just say yes. 

It was a big ask. Amos didn’t know how risky taking a fugitive on board was for me and the owner of the yacht. Our side could and would lose everything. I would be jailed, and the boat impounded. 

I leaned over the table with soiled dishes, steak bones and chewed steak gristle. “Go home.” I whispered. “Be with your family.” “You are still young.” 

He was in tears. His big round sunburned cheeks glistened with tears of relief. He choked. He coughed. Gathering a deep breath with a wheeze he asked, “I’m not good at this fugitive life, am I?” 

I gave him money for plane ticket home and cab fare. I put him a cab and sent him off to face his consequences. I didn’t hear about Amos for twenty years. He was discovered running a dive charter business in small island in Polynesia. He never went to the airport. He married a beautiful woman who came to dive from New York. He was recognized by a school board member when one of their friends were showing them pictures of their dive vacation. 

Fugitives have narratives. Some fugitives are running from other powers and not the law. Teddy Rawlins is six foot three and solid as a rock. He looks more Sicilian than most Sicilians. He says he was Irish, English, and Bostonian as if Bostonian is a part of a genetic heritage. He wears a Boston Red Sox hat tilted back on his head. A black tuft of hair curls out from under the bill over his forehead. Deep set chocolate-colored eyes give him a sadness and vulnerability about his presence. Make no mistake he was anything but vulnerable. He was a predator. 

I was in a café in Antibes France drinking coffee and going through the Herald reading the American news. I was reading the box scores.

I learned to read box scores from my grandfather who was a sportswriter. I could recreate the game in my head. The Phillies are my team for better or worse. They lost last night to Pittsburg, 2 to 1. They lost the lead in the eighth because of a hit batter by a rookie reliever. The next batter hit a double driving in one run making it 1 to 1. With the pitcher batting, why was the starting pitch still pitching and batting no less? I found the box score from the day before where they played a double header both went into extra innings. He was the la