Chapter 4
The European Tour

July 1976

Their voyage on the Nuestra Señora afforded McGuire and Loomis a rise in status. Jason was deck officer and Willie became assistant to the shipwright,(2) who was Swiss or German, something like that. Otto Zimmerman demonstrated and explained carefully to his subordinate the techniques of timber repair, woodworking and sanding. The sailor watched intently, interjecting an occasional "ja," as if he understood what the fuck the old man was saying. It beat cleaning the engine room.

"And how is our new wright getting' on?" his partner asked. They hadn't seen each other much during this trip. As an officer, Jason had separate mess and quarters.

"Machst gut," Willie quoted the master carpenter. "That means I'm doin' okay." He lit a cigarette. "Not as good as bein' an officer, though. So, when do I get a cabin?"

"Always gettin' ahead of yourself. I've been at sea almost 30 years, kiddo."

"What about the first mate? He's kinda young."

"Castillo was in the navy, and he went to college." Willie kicked the rail sullenly. "Where did you get those foreign cigarettes?" Jason abruptly changed the subject.

"From Papadakis, the steward; won 'em in a card game." He flicked his ash. "Nobody on this damn tub speaks English, and the hold is fulla rats."

"Ah, well, we'll be in port soon, so never mind the rats; when we get to Africa, you'll be too busy lookin' out for spiders and scorpions. Now, don't be forgettin' to always shake out your socks before putting them on. One bite and—" He slid his finger across his throat.

"Willie versus the Spider Monsters!" the boy laughed, pitching his cigarette butt like a dart into the Atlantic.

They sailed into Kilkenny's port in the dead of night and immediately commenced unloading their cargo—chemicals of some sort, not to be spilled nor mishandled, regardless of the rodent-infested dock lit only by lantern and moonlight. The crew moved through the fog with quiet efficiency and an unspoken sense of uneasiness.

Ireland was cold and damp, even in summer. A chilly dawn broke over the fishing village's housetops as Willie and Jason cashed in their vouchers and headed for town in search of breakfast. Jason ordered them a country feast of eggs, bangers, fried tomato slices and baked beans, black pudding and brown bread, washed down with thick, strong coffee and clotted cream.

Now, Willie assumed they would stay in Ireland for a while, so Jason could visit his family and friends, catch up on old times and things like that, but the opposite was true. No sooner had they set foot on dry land than the old man moved them to Dublin and was making plans to be off. He made it clear, without explanation, they would not be dropping in on Mum and Da, nor any surviving members of his clan of siblings in County Cork. He contacted only a few acquaintances during their trek, and even then for the briefest of meetings.

I guess you just can't go home again, Willie figured, or maybe there was a warrant out for his arrest. Probably both.

The capital city looked like a war zone. Although the "troubles" were concentrated in the North, British soldiers patrolled the streets and evidence of IRA doings abounded.

The sailors were holed up in a pub where Willie was trying to fathom the sense of drinking black beer with lemon soda while the older man gripped his newspaper, scowling.

It related the story of an ongoing trial of several IRSP members,(3) some of whom Jason knew, arrested in connection with a mail train robbery. Although the authorities failed to produce a book of evidence against them, after interrogation in Garda Síochána (4) custody, all gave full confessions. He threw the paper to the floor near the storefront window.

"Guardians of the peace!" Jason scoffed. "And their persuasive methods. They signed those confessions from hospital beds, I'm sure." His partner shrugged, not understanding. "And it's their own damn fault. You always get rid of the weak link in the chain or he'll drag you down with him. You stick your neck out for no man, ya hear me?"

Willie ignored his companion's foul mood. If he hated his mother country so much, the boy didn't understand why they sailed to Ireland to begin with.

"Hey, Jason, can I see that?" He indicated the discarded newspaper.

"Since when do you read anything?" The Irishman threw back his whiskey in one swallow.

Willie strode over and bent to retrieve the paper. "Chill out. I just like to look at the comics. Do they have Bill Bailey and Lil Ab—?"

The explosion rocked Jason from his stool and shattered the window, showering his young partner with broken glass. He grabbed Willie up and into the nearest doorway and, after confirming there were no significant injuries, the pair headed down the back alley in the opposite direction of the oncoming police sirens.

That explosion, they learned later, was a diversionary tactic from a car bomb that assassinated the British ambassador a few miles south.

They couldn't exit the Emerald Isle fast enough for Jason. He booked them, at the first opportunity, aboard a ship bound for Vigo, in the north of Spain, and Willie voiced his disappointment. First, he had been denied the opportunity to enjoy a redhead who smelled of shamrocks in the spring, like his partner had promised and, second, he wanted to visit London.

"Over my dead body," was Jason's reaction. "What on earth for?"

"I heard they got some pretty rocks there; I wanna see the crown jewels."

"They're behind glass, Willie. You can't touch 'em or try 'em on. Besides, they're not at home. On a tour of the states, they are, for the Bicentennial."

"Bicen-what?"

"That's when somethin' is 200 years old. In this case, your country."

"Old as dirt."


Willie tossed fitfully in his berth. In the dream, he was fighting in a back alley, behind some bar. His opponent was a looming, dark figure with no face and superhuman strength who repeatedly jabbed him in the jaw. The kid slashed him with his switchblade, but no blood came forth. The demon smashed his face into a brick wall. Willie tried to elbow him in the gut but his head was locked in the crook of the phantom's arm. He bit down on the man's sleeve and chewed on the coat material, like he wanted to eat it. When he woke, the boy discovered he had been trying to stuff the pillow into his mouth.

After two agonizing days, they reached port and Jason found a dentist with whom he could communicate. That is to say, the dentist spoke a little English and Jason spoke a fair amount of Spanish.

Willie had four impacted wisdom teeth and needed surgery. While he was in there, the dentist could replace the kid's missing tooth with an implant. So, the piggybank was broken and Jason spent the next week in a hostel playing nursemaid to his young friend, who downed painkillers and dulce de leche laced with rum.

They left Spain, heading for Italy, and later Greece before embarking down the coast of Western Africa. Willie felt that he had been on so many ships, he couldn't tell them apart or remember what they were transporting. The ports looked alike, the bars and the women were alike—they came in different colors and wore different clothes, but they were the same women.


(2) Wright or carpenter is responsible for maintaining and repairing the ship's wood bearings, timber and lifeboats.
(3) Irish Republican Socialist Party
(4) Irish Police Force guards. Translation: Guard of the Peace of Ireland.