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Of course there was something wrong with her compass. She unshipped the gimbals by shaking it. A compass is affected by sudden acceleration and deceleration. THEY said it was an earthquake. A rapid movement of the earth’s crust. This rapid movement can be sideways or up and down. This up or down movement also lifts or lowers a column of water over the site of the slippage. The vertical movement or P wave is seventeen thousand, six hundred forty MILES an hour (4.9 miles a second.)
Throw a stone into a small body of water and see the ripples move out from the impact area.
Imagine the same effect from underneath. The rapid acceleration of the rising of the column of water could have lifted the stern very rapidly ... compressing the compass ... the same column of water moving away lowers the stern very rapidly ... releasing the compression and allowing the compass to ‘float.’ Any sideways movement of the compass housing while the compass is floating will move the compass off its bearings.
The Navy had to send over a Navigational instrumentation specialist to fix her compass. Sure they were suspicious ... but there was only her on the boat, the boat was spotless. While the inspection crew had tracked and disturbed everything, she spent the time the compass was being repaired cleaning, polishing and generally making a nuisance of herself.
The killer? There is an active fault line that runs east and west in the Caribbean Sea and the USGS reported an earthquake of a 4.1 magnitude an hour before the Evil Deed took place. They had to let her go.
Such is the Alphabet Soup that once on their radar you are always in the files.
Her compass fixed, she sailed to Panama, fueled, pumped and filled and headed back to the States. Later ... much later, she was asked why she was out there.
“Maveen O’Neil, inquiring minds want to know. Why were you in the middle of the Caribbean Sea?”
“Road Trip,” she said. Her husband, James, laughed.
“She still does it,” he said.
“Just takes off?”
“Ayup,” he said. “No rhyme or reason. The places we’ve been...”
“You go with?”
“Of course ... I mean ... look at her. You don’t think I’m going to let that out of sight?” He laughed again, “She gets hit on by high school seniors.”
She smiled.
The island:
The island was the collapsed core of a volcano. A few millions of years of erosion had left several hollow lava tubes and caverns, some of them accessible by sea. The planet, forever beset by climatic changes, had been in a short period, geologically speaking, of a semi static phase that coincided with the rise of man as a modifier and a statistician.
The modifier said, “Build this over here and excavate that over there,” while the statistician looked in his books and said, “This has always been so and can’t change.” Both never realizing that This Now wasn’t This Then and had only been This for a few thousand years.
The island was presently claimed by Nicaragua but had been, over the years, a pirate warren, a careening bay, a source of wild cattle, a watering place, a coaling station, a US Navy lookout and submarine detection station. Now it was a steamy island paradise and the home of one William Witt, a profane multilingual polyglot of uncertain antecedents and limited funds ... or so everyone thought.
“Dave?” said Mr. Witt
“William?” said the Colonel, as they met in a touristy bar.
Both of them said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and tried to beat each others shoulders off.
Rounds were bought. Remembrances and lies flowed as fast as the drinks. Two old friends met by chance ... or not. After the pleasantries had passed, and too many drinks had passed too, Good old Dave put a shoulder to Good old Bill’s stomach and, ascertaining Good old Bill’s direction, threw him over his shoulder and carried him to the designated hovel.
The hovel fronted one of those volcanic lava tubes and Dave carried Bill inside.
He lowered Bill off his shoulder and stood him on his feet, they shook hands.
“Been expecting you,” said sober Bill, “Let’s go look at what I have arranged.”
The lava tube led to one of those caverns. Bill threw a switch ... and there was light.
Morning was breaking before they were finished.
Bill said, “Russian Documents,” he passed out passports, visas, and worn wallets. “Ivanovich? You’re in charge, the rest of you are his field team. The Captain D leaves for Rama when you’re aboard, the boat is waiting for you. She doesn’t leave until she’s full. Don’t speak English on the ferry, Captain D is a brit expat but works for the Nic.”
Money, in the form of the Nicaraguan córdoba was supplied. Tickets were bought. Ferry was boarded. They conversed in Russian and severely accented Spanish with a multitude of confusion and incorrect pronunciation. Several of the men tried to pickup women ... but not American tourists ... there was a lot of laughter ... and it was good. The Policía Nacional laughed at and with them and no one suspected a thing.
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