Expatriates: A Novel of the Coming Global Collapse

26 SHIPSHAPE

On four more occasions, they spotted the lights of small boats in the distance. After determining their courses, they would steer away and bring the engine to full throttle. This brought Tiburon up to twelve knots, which was a respectable speed. It wouldn’t outrun many boats, but it could outrun some.

They assumed that Palau was already in the hands of the Indonesians, so they avoided making landfall there. Far on the westward horizon, they could see smoke rising from fires in East Timor. Apparently the Indonesians were mopping up the last of the resistance there.

Rhiannon was suffering less often from seasickness, but the frequent bouts of diarrhea had taken their toll. She started their voyage weighing 135 pounds, but she was down to around 120 pounds—they had no way to be sure. Peter had never seen her look so slim, even when they had first met.

Not wanting to attract a lot of attention from customs and immigration officials—since neither Joseph nor his grandfather had passports—they set their course toward Wyndham, a small town 275 kilometers southwest of Darwin.

As Peter was piloting, Tatang Navarro sat next to the wheel. “I don’t want us to get deported. You know, we can wait and come in at night to drop you off, and then I can take Tiburon back out into deep water and scuttle her if we have to,” Tatang suggested.

Jeffords shook his head, and said reassuringly, “I really doubt that will be necessary. Just pray that we’ll be well received by the immigration authorities.”

Their fuel was running low. The good news was that, after burning most of Tiburon’s fuel and after having consumed nearly all their drinking water, the boat was now five thousand pounds lighter than when they left Samar and sitting much higher in the water. They were now making ten knots at three-quarter throttle instead of the seven to eight knots that they had averaged for the first half of the voyage. It had been thirty-two days since they left Quinapondan.

Tatang left Peter at the wheel while he went to repack his gear. He first snatched his laundry off the clothesline and then went below. There, he disassembled his M1 Garand rifle and wrapped the three components in his spare blue jeans, tucking them in his large duffel bag along with the flare gun and all of the remaining .30-06 ammunition and the flares. He had Joseph stow his Ruger .22, ammo, and magazines in a similar way.

As Tatang took the wheel again, he said to Peter, “Joey and I just hid the guns in our luggage. I sure hope we don’t have to go through any customs tae ng bull.”

Jeffords shook his head. “Probably not. That’s one reason we picked such a small port.”

Rhiannon cleared the rest of the clothes from the line and started to spruce up the boat. The realization that they would soon be under public gaze spurred her to do some long-neglected cleaning—even scrubbing the spot on the foredeck where Joseph usually cleaned the fish.

As they entered the bay, Rhiannon poured the very last of the palm oil and the last quart of corn oil into the main fuel tank. It looked less than a quarter full. She said resignedly, “After this, that’s all she wrote.” They also had less than one gallon of water and enough food to last perhaps two more days—just a few dried fish and a couple of cups of dried rice that was starting to go green. The propane for their cookstove had run out two days before.

Commenting on their scant fuel and food, Peter said, “Is that cutting it close, or what? Thank you, Lord!” Looking at the chart and comparing it to the GPS readings, Joseph said, “We should be at the port of Wyndham in less than two hours, Lord willing.”

Tatang throttled back to five knots and they picked their way into the inland waters. The waterway was broad and sheltered, but unfamiliar. They consulted the chart, GPS, and depth finder frequently as they worked their way toward the Cambridge Gulf, and then south along to Wyndham. Much of the shoreline was flanked with mud flats and salt ponds. The portions of the shore with vegetation were dotted with oddly shaped boab trees.

“How’s the fuel, exactly?” Tatang asked.

Rhiannon uncapped the tank and lowered the bamboo dipstick with practiced precision. Pulling it up, it showed less than an inch of coconut oil clinging to the end. She said, “Not a lot—maybe three or four gallons—but we don’t have far to go now. If for some reason we have to divert to Darwin, there is no way we could make it there without refueling. It’s all or nothing now.”

Peter Jeffords attributed the timing of the food, fuel, and water supplies to Divine Providence. During the last few hours of their journey, he and Rhiannon hummed and sang the church chorus Jehovah Jireh several times. Tatang and Joseph weren’t familiar with it, so they taught them the words:

Peter generally liked older Baptist hymns, preferring them to most modern praise choruses. He found the latter largely vain and repetitious. As he often put it, “Most praise choruses have a shortage of good doctrine and a surplus of personal pronouns.” But “Jehovah Jireh” was one chorus that he did like, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind in the last few hours of their voyage.

Finally, the sleepy port of Wyndham came into view. The town had less than seven hundred residents and most of them lived inland in the new development of Wyndham East—also known as Wyndham Three Mile—rather than in Old Wyndham. As they pulled up to the town’s looping commercial pier, it was just after three P.M. local time. The elevated pier had a paved roadway with several cranes dotted along it and a fuel terminal tower at the south end. There was an empty barge tied up at the center of the pier. Just two yachts were tied up, both at the north end. Nine others—small coastal yachts—were anchored offshore, strung out to the south. Jeffords assumed that their owners were using free anchorage. A row of pallets with shining zinc ingots stood near the center of the pier, being readied for shipment.

The sight of their large distinctive outrigger boat caused a bit of a stir. Tatang expertly maneuvered Tiburon to nose her into the pier, just beyond the prow of one of the yachts. Because of the projecting carags, the boat was limited to docking at either the fore or aft.

As Joseph tossed up a mooring line, an aboriginal man on the pier shouted to them, “Where have you lot come from?”

“Samar Island, in the Philippines,” Peter replied. “There’s a world of Muslim jihad hurt going on up there.”

“Yeah, so we’ve heard. You must be a Yank.”

Peter answered. “Yes, I’m from New Hampshire. My wife is originally from Western Canada. We’re missionaries.”

Another man from the crowd asked, “Is it true the Indonesians are invading the Philippines?”

“I haven’t seen that firsthand, but they are definitely using the ILF guerillas as their surrogates. One thing is for certain: The ILF guerillas are killing every Christian they can find in the Philippines.”

The crowd was growing on the north end of the pier, gawking at Tiburon and listening attentively. About half of them were aboriginal dockworkers and fuel terminal workers.

Peter announced to the crowd, “I’m here to warn you, folks. In less than a year, or perhaps less than that, you can expect to see the Indonesian Navy in these waters, planning an invasion.” This sparked a loud murmur in the crowd.

Peter and Rhiannon felt nervous to have the crowd gazing at them, but their anxiety was overshadowed by immense relief to be in port and among English-speaking people. At last they were safe.