David watched them for a while, taking in the fresh air and sunshine. He started to relax as he admired the little craft and its air of adventure. The middle jetty of the marina was double the length of the international causeway, with rows of yachts stretching along both sides. To the north was a shorter jetty and then the other embankment where more boats were stored on dry land, in cradles or on boat trailers, waiting for their weekend owners to pay them some attention.
David let himself through the security gate and greeted the guard sitting in his booth; then he went down the ramp towards the walk-on and the first of the boats.
They started small, ski boats and day cruisers and other fishing boats. As he walked further along the floating causeway the vessels became bigger. They had names such as Endless Summer, African Queen and Lazy Spirit. They were blue and white, spotlessly maintained, their sails folded away under matching navy covers. David imagined he could smell the money that floated in this marina.
There were very few people about. Faint music was coming from a large catamaran on his left, and a little further along a middle-aged couple in swimming costumes was hosing down the deck of their yacht. David greeted them and continued down the causeway until he could go no further.
Sea Scout was waiting for him at the very end. She was larger than he had imagined. In fact she was huge. She looked in good condition, her hull a pristine white, her name painted in crisp royal blue on her bow. But that’s where his expertise ended. He couldn’t tell that her sails were badly furled on the booms and inadequately tied down. He couldn’t tell that her fenders were barely holding her away from the rough abrasions of the jetty.
He walked along her length toward the stern, which jutted out into the water, and searched for a place to climb aboard. Her boarding steps were lying on the jetty in front of him, half in and half out of the water. He was about to bend down to lift them up when someone called out behind him.
“Mr Roth?” A darkly suntanned man in his mid-thirties strode up. “Need help with that?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, the man stepped around David and effortlessly hauled the boarding steps from between Sea Scout and the jetty. He fitted the steps to the side of the yacht before turning and extending a large, calloused hand towards David. “Bobby Baumann,” came the introduction.
David shook his hand. “David Roth,” he greeted.
“This is quite a boat you’ve got here.” Baumann gestured with his free hand. “Impressive,” he added. David released the firm handshake but was interrupted before he could explain the details of ownership. “Pity about those two you got to sail her from Richards Bay. They don’t know a boat from a boat race.”
“Pity,” David echoed.
“Well, that’s what you get when you employ amateurs,” Baumann replied over his shoulder as be climbed up the boarding steps. He kicked at a loosely tangled pile of hosepipe and ropes which should have been neatly coiled on the deck as if to confirm his statement; then he lowered himself fluidly into the wheelhouse. David followed more carefully.
Sea Scout’s upper deck consisted of the foredeck with its shorter foremast midway along, and a long, elegant bow ending in a slightly raised bowsprit. The cockpit was situated three-quarters of the way along the deck, the rear section ending in a raised poop deck. The wheelhouse was deeply set with its cockpit well protected from the elements. It had a broad Perspex-enclosed instrument panel consisting of a rev counter, oil pressure gauge, temperature gauge and generator charge indicator. There were several other instruments along the cabin top: a throttle, a wind indicator, a compass, a rudder indicator, bow-thruster toggles and GPS. There was also a large old-fashioned wheel that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an ancient man-of-war.
The forward companionway to the right of the wheel was locked. At the rear of the wheelhouse a second companionway led aft, just right of the main mast that towered far above. It, too, was locked.
“You got the spare keys?” Baumann asked with his hand out.
David fished in his pocket for the spare set of keys Julian had couriered down to him and handed them over.
“You should have these locks changed. The two idiots who delivered her still have the originals.”
David nodded.
“You got the list?” Baumann asked.
David fished again to find the list.
Baumann scanned the page. “Let’s inspect the engine room first, shall we?”
He unlocked the aft companionway, took the wooden splash board out of its housing and slid the polycarbonate cover back. They both recoiled in disgust.
“Bloody hell!” Baumann swore.
“Damn!” David echoed. “What’s that smell?”
“The heads.”
“The what?”
“Toilets.”
David grimaced as Baumann started down into the darkness. He was reluctant to enter, the stench holding him back.
“You coming?” Baumann called from below.
David sighed and started down. The saloon, when he had carefully negotiated the steep, narrow steps and accustomed his eyes to the gloom, was a mess. Empty beer bottles and tins covered the large central table of the once stately saloon, along with dirty plates, coffee mugs, broken glasses and cutlery. The stained and sandy upholstery was strewn with litter and torn magazines. The swift escape of cockroaches darting beneath the debris drew David’s attention to the floor. The caulked teak footsole was smeared with spilt beer and dried beans that had leaked from a can rolling back and forth across the wood. Overhead, the cream-padded ceiling was splattered with red tomato sauce. Or what David hoped was tomato sauce.
“Access to the engine room is through here,” Baumann beckoned.
David stared at the spilt coffee and sugar in the recessed work area beside the steps and then ducked through the narrow passageway that led to the galley and the forward cabins. Baumann was already past the mess that had been left in the small kitchen area. The inside of the built-in microwave was splattered with crusty sauce, and the sink was full of dishes, cardboard wrapping and uneaten food. More broken glasses and plates jutted from the debris. The smell from the heads got worse.
David tried to breathe shallowly as he followed Baumann into the navigation alcove. The forward-companionway steps led down to the chart table, and David wished Baumann had unlocked that hatch as well to help alleviate the stench. The passage stretched forward into darkness and, while Baumann took away the steps beneath the forward companionway and wrestled with the engine-room hatch, David investigated the gloomy passageway. On his left was the main cabin, boasting a double bunk with cleverly fitted recesses for storage and cupboards in every conceivable nook and cranny. The cabin was a mess, and so too was the en suite bathroom.
David backed out and went to the next cabin. It also had a built-in double bunk, but was smaller, messier and had no en suite. The forecabin had three bunks fitted along the hull, each bunk with a small space for storage against the bulkhead. The crew quarters were full of litter and debris.
David backtracked, opening a small door on the right that turned out to be another storage locker. The next door was the crew bathroom. The heads.
He reeled back as he caught the full blast of the reek that flooded out. He caught a glimpse of the toilet overflowing with urine, faeces and vomit before he shut the door and backed away. He leant back against the wood panelling and tried not to breathe.
“Bad hey?” Baumann shouted to him from inside the engine room.