section7mfu | "The Something's Rotten in Block Island Affair"~ Chapter 7 for PicFic Tuesday 3/29/16

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 (part 1), Chapter 6 (part 2)

The Prompt:

As the four agents walked out to the green lawn in front of the hotel they were again accosted with the stench of dead fish, perhaps stronger than they’d smelled up to this point.

Mark pointed down to the water. “Good Lord will you look at that?”

The waves were washing up thousands of dead fish of every kind, there among them was the carcass of a small shark and even a young sea lion.” It wasn't a pretty sight seeing flocks of seaguls picking at the remains. The gulls had been having a field day all up and down the coast, to say the least.

“This is getting out of hand,” Napoleon said. “Come on, let’s get to the boat and see what we can find out.”

They got to their mopeds and headed over to the harbor, though it was close enough that they made it in no time at all. Still there was no time to waste as things were definitely getting worse.

They readied the Pursang and once the lines were cast off, Napoleon motored her out of the slip, surrounded by the fish carcasses.Their intention was to move slowly past the towboats moored here to see if they could spot anything like Madeleine had described to Illya.

"Here," Illya said," rub his on your skin. It will help with the stench." He offered a small vial to the others.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked.

"It is oil of wintergreen, rub it on your skin."

"Pure oil of wintergreen, mate?" Mark asked." Isn't that sort of toxic?"

"It has been safely diluted with coconut oil and is quite safe. I made it in my lab, to use for muscular pain."

"You must keep a pretty big supply on hand," Kitt chuckled.

"So that's what I smell on you sometimes," Solo laughed as well, "and here I thought it was an aftershave."

As they continued to motor along, they found nothing that met the description. There was nothing. The boats here were anything but dark blue...grey, green, white and one powder blue. None of them were carrying oil drums, or any discernable cargo for that matter.

Solo decided to pull aside one of the towboats, O’Toole’s Folly it was called; its port of call was Montauk, Long Island.”

“Morning,” Solo called to a man standing on deck.”You the Captian?”

“I am that, and who wants to know?”

“Name's Solo, my boat’s the Pursang out of Long Island. We were here to race but...well you know the story.”

“Yeah, that’s a shame. It’ll mean no business for me unless some fool like yourself decides to get stuck out on the water.”

“A fool I am not Skipper... been sailing all my life on Long Island Sound and the Atlantic. Could you tell me, is there a towboat here, dark blue, been doing some light hauling of say, oil drums?”

“Hauling oil drums? Not a bad idea to do some light hauling, helps pay the cost of fuel and other bills. But I ain’t seen anything like that, then again I just got here a few days ago. Came for the Regatta week, but now I’ll be heading home, see if I can find some business there.”

“Thanks Skipper. Fair weather to you.”

“And to you to Solo,” the man waved as the Pursang motored away.

They continued up along the coast, stopping at various points along the southern coast of the island. The anchored off Black Rock Point to take a break and eat some lunch. With their frequent stops, and moving under motor instead of by sail, it was taking longer to circumvent the island.

Napoleon looked out at the beach with his binoculars, shaking his head at the continued desolation of such a lovely island.

Black Rock Beach, below Mohegan Bluffs near the Southeast Lighthouse should have been filled with sun worshipers this time of year. He’d even heard tell of some nude sunbathing going on there, but now the beach was empty.

The surf there could run a bit high, so he anchored out a little farther, which freed them from most of the fish that covered the coast, drifting with the currents and inland.

There were only seagulls, terns and other birds flying everywhere; landing and picking at the fish that had washed up, covering the sand.

Illya came up from the galley, carrying a tray of sandwiches he’d made as the galley was still fully stocked with cold cuts and bread. They opted not to eat any of the salads, and those were left in the small refrigerator below.

Though the Pursang was farther away from the dead fish and, the men had become pretty oblivious to the smell that still wafted on the breeze thanks to the wintergreen; except when they bit into their sandwiches

Everything tasted like fish. At this point it didn’t matter, it was three in the afternoon and they were all hungry.

Napoleon wanted to make it round to New Harbor in the Great Salt Pond, and if they didn’t find anything there, they’d at least stop at the Coast Guard station on the way back out and speak to Captain Morton about their findings. Perhaps they could spare some time and help search for this mysterious boat...after all, searching is what they did.

Once leaving the Pond, they’d head up to Sandy Point and the North Lighthouse, after that they’d hug the coast in Rhode Island Sound, heading back down to their starting point in Old Harbor. By then they’d hoped to find that boat or at least some answers.

It was a mere 22 miles including the foray in the the Pond. Still it wasn’t for fun, it was a search and a tedious one at that.

Just as they were getting ready to get underway, the water became a bit rough as the wind had changed.

“Time to batten down the hatches boys, I think we’re in for a bit of a blow,” Napoleon said.

“Not yet, the sky is not indicating a storm, though the winds have definitely changed. Later today I think a storm will arrive,” Illya said, before he disappeared below deck, looking a little green. "The gulls are heading inland though, and that is a sure sign the storm is coming."

Napoleon looked to the skies. When on the water he'd gotten pretty good at figuring out the weather but when it came to predicting it the Russian had an uncanny and fairly accurate knack for doing so. It was something Illya said he’d learned from his paternal grandmother whom he called his Babushka.

As Illya climbed back up to the deck, he held his stomach. The rumblings were beginning even though he’d taken his dramamine hours ago; perhaps its potency was wearing off? It wasn’t helping that he’d had a liverwurst, coleslaw and onion sandwich for lunch.

Despite his nausea he help the others lash down everything in preparation for the storm.

Napoleon maintained the helm deciding it would be better to motor along the coast than to unfurl the sails. If he did that he’d have a battle fighting the winds in order to keep the Pursang right.

Nearly forty five minutes later the waters were becoming too rough, forcing Napoleon to seek shelter. He moved in a little closer to the shore off Barlow's Point, with a view of the cliffs called Rodman’s Hollow. It was the site of a an undeveloped glacial outwash basin on southwest part of the island. There were nature walks and things of that sort, but it was basically undisturbed, and a perfect place for anyone who wanted to commune with the flora and fauna.

Mark pulled out yellow rain slickers from a locker in the bench in the aft of the yacht. There were life jackets there as well, and each of them put those on as well just to be on the safe side.

“You promised me when we started this trip, we would not sink,” Illya shouted over the wind.

“And we won’t tovarisch. We’re anchored down and ready for a gale. Make sure everything in the galley is locked down; we don’t need any flying dishes or cutlery.”

“And you my friend?” I’ll be down shortly. I just want to make sure everything is shipshape above deck.”

The others went below as Napoleon assured them he wouldn’t be long; though they were helpful, he still felt more comfortable double checking everything they’d done was secure.

Block Island was essentially situated in open ocean and subject to potentially big ocean swells, strong currents and rapidly changing conditions.

Conditions could range from quite mild to very, very challenging. Even on a calm day, waves could often come out of nowhere and slam a boat, especially if it were in the wrong place at the wrong time and those aboard weren’t paying attention.

Napoleon knew what he was doing and his word to Illya about not sinking would be kept...at least he hope it would. He'd once told his partner he was afraid of being in the water having almost drowned as a child, and he crossed his fingers, calling on his Solo luck for everything to be fine.

Sailing helped him fight his fear, and he found it completely liberating to be out on his boat. Yes there was always the potential for it to founder or sink, but he forced himself not to think of that. He wasn't going to let his fear conquer him.

As Illya had predicted, the storm finally hit; sending down a torrent of wind driven rain. It was lashing Solo across the face and once he was satisfied with everything, he finally went down below, closing the cabin door behind himself and securing it.

“Hang on boys it’s going to get a bit rough.” He’d turned the wheel all the way to the windward side, locking it and the tiller was lashed in place, essentially putting the Pursang in park.

The boat was already changing attitude with the pounding of the waves lessening as it slowly moved and drifted to a more smooth and comfortable ride at about 45˚ off the wind.

Still, he was sure it wasn’t going to be exactly a comfy ride for his partner, know his propensity to being seasick.

The motion down below was constant, rocking to and fro in the heavy waves but Napoleon was confident she’d ride out whatever Mother Nature was going to throw at them.

It finally got to the Russian and he ducked into the head to vomit, out of the view of his companions.

After emptying his stomach he had the dry heaves for a few minutes. The only thing left he could bring up was stomach bile, and he did so.

Finally Illya emerged, looking like death warmed over, and he collapsed on one of the bunks with a moan.

“I swear this is worse than THRUSH torture.”

“Here mate,”Kitt said,”have a beer. Always works for me.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Illya moaned. ”Napoleon you will pay dearly for shanghaiing me, blackmail or not!” He rolled over on the bunk, curling up into a ball.

The noise of the waves and the wind driven rain were loud, but not enough for Napoleon to hear the chirping of his communicator.

“Solo here.”

“Yes. What is your status?” It was Mr. Waverly.

“In my yacht riding out a storm off Block Island sir. Why may I ask?”

“It has come to my attention that some of my agents, while on holiday, have been making inquiries and use of the lab facilities in our Rhode Island office. Would you care to elaborate Mr. Solo?”