Shock Wave(157)

Maeve adjusted hers over her eyes and tied the cord behind her head. "How clever, they really shut out sun."

"Damned clever, those Inuits," said Giordino peering through the eye slits. "Can you make the slits a tad wider? I feel like I'm staring through a crack under a door."

Pitt smiled and handed Giordino his Swiss army knife. "You, may customize your goggles to your personal taste."

"Speaking of taste," Maeve announced beside a small fire she had started with matches from Pitt's survival kit. "Come and get it. Tonight's menu is grilled mackerel with cockles I found buried in sand pockets below the tide line."

"Just when my stomach got used to eating fish raw," joked Giordino.

Maeve dished the steaming fish and cockles onto York's old plates. "Tomorrow night's fare, if there is a marksman in our little group, will be something on the wing."

"You want us to shoot defenseless little birds?" asked Giordino in mock horror.

"I counted at least twenty frigate birds, sitting on the rocks," she said, pointing to the north shore. "If you build a blind, they'll walk by close enough for you to hit them with your little popgun."

"Roasted bird sounds good to my shrinking stomach, I'll bring back tomorrow night's supper or you can hang me by the thumbs," Pitt promised.

"Can you pull any other tricks out of your hat besides the goggles?" asked Maeve whimsically.

Pitt lay back on the sand with his hands behind his head. "I'm glad you brought that up. After a strenuous afternoon of intense thought, I've arrived at the conclusion that we should move on to a more receptive climate."

Maeve gave" him a look of utter skepticism. "Move on?" She glanced at Giordino for moral support, but he gave her a you-never-learn look and continued nibbling on his mackerel. "We have two badly damaged boats that can't sail across a swimming pool. Just what do you suggest we use for our all-expenses-paid cruise to nowhere?"

"Elementary, my dear Fletcher," he said expansively. "We build a third boat."

"Build a boat," she said, her voice on the edged laughter.

Conversely, Giordino's expression was intense and serious. "You think there's a Chinaman's chance of repairing York's sailboat?"

"No. The hull is damaged beyond any possibility of repairing with our limited resources. York was an experienced sailor, and he obviously didn't see any way it could be refloated. But we can, however, utilize the upper deck."

"Why not make the best of it right here?" Maeve argued. "We're more resourceful than poor Rodney.

Our survival skills are far greater than his. We can catch enough fish and fowl to keep us going until a ship comes by."



"That's the problem," said Pitt. "We can't survive on what we can catch alone. If Rodney's missing teeth are any indication, he died from scurvy. A dietary lack of vitamin C and a dozen other nutrients I can think of weakened him until he could no longer function. At that stage of physical erosion, death was just around the corner. If a ship does eventually arrive and put a landing party on shore, they'll find four skeletons instead of one. I strongly believe it is in our best interests to make every effort to push on while we're still physically capable."

"Dirk is right," Giordino said to Maeve. "Our only chance at seeing city lights again is to leave the island."

"Build a boat?" demanded Maeve. "With what materials?"

She stood, firmly, gracefully, her arms and legs slim and tan, the flesh taut and young, her head cocked like a wary lynx. Pitt was as captivated as he had been when they were together on board the Ice Hunter.

"A flotation tube from our boat here, the upper works from York's boat there, throw in a few logs, and pretty soon you've got a vessel fit for an ocean voyage."

"This I have to see," said Maeve.

"As you wish," Pitt replied airily. He began drawing a diagram in the sand. "The idea is to connect our boat's buoyancy tubes under the deck cabin from York's boat. Then we fashion a pair of beech tree trunks into outriggers for stability and we've got ourselves a trimaran."

"Looks practical to me," Giordino agreed.

"We need over 130 square meters of sail," Pitt continued. "We have a mast and a rudder."

Giordino pointed over to the tent. "York's old Dacron sails are brittle and rotten with forty years of mildew. The first stiff breeze will crack and blow them into shreds."

"I've considered that," said Pitt. "The Polynesian mariners wove sails from palm fronds. I see no reason why we can't weave fully leafed branches from the beech trees to accomplish the same purpose.