Suspense. And the producer of CBS Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master
of mystery and adventure, William N. Robeson.
Twenty-nine and a half hours ago, off San Pedro light, 41 sleek ocean-going yachts crossed
the starting line on the 21st Trans-Pacific Honolulu Race. Tonight, this great blue water
sports event is the scene of our story of suspense, written by Sam Pierce, a man who
should know his subject, for he is not only the official news correspondent of the race,
but a member of the crew of the schooner Queen Mad. To all the contenders of the Trans-Pacific,
our best wishes for good luck and good sailing, and our fervent hope that nothing happens
to them as frightful as Mr. Pierce has imagined in his story.
And now, blood is thicker, spouting Mr. Everett Sloan, a tale well calculated to keep you
in suspense.
It's a simple enough plan as plans go. There's a girl, Vanessa Evans. She's young, very pretty,
built like you dream, and you dream some jaunty dreams, and most important, she's loaded
with money, left to her by her papa, who also left her oil wells, cattle ranches, and a
70-foot ocean racing schooner, which Vanessa sails with magnificent skill. The plan? Why
to marry Vanessa and her money and her yacht. You've sailed with her every weekend for the
last two months, and now she's invited you to crew on the Honolulu race. And although
your yachting experience has been limited to a few weekends on friends' boats, you've
always been able to talk a good game. And with as willing a listener as Vanessa, who
could steer a long course, as they say in yachting circles.
So now it's the day of the start, and as you swing jauntily aboard the sleek 70-footer,
your spirits are soaring. You feel every inch the gentleman sailor in your carefully selected
wardrobe makes you look. Well, welcome aboard, Mr. Farley. Thank you, Captain.
Morning, Mike. Vanessa, boy, don't you look wonderful.
Thank you, sir, she said. Hi, skipper. Mike.
We can take off any time now. Doc's aboard. We all here, Vanessa? Crew complete?
We're all here, Mike. But there's been a little change in personnel. Charlie Edmonds
had his appendix taken out the night before last.
No kidding. So I've asked my cousin, Hugh Guthrie, to sail with us in his place. I'd
like you to meet him. Hugh, this is Mike Farley, my cousin Hugh Guthrie.
Oh, very glad to know you, Mike. Thank you.
Vanessa was telling me you've done quite a bit of sailing on the East Coast. I thought
perhaps we might... I made the Bermuda races a couple of times.
Oh, fine race. What boat? The Kintana.
Kintana? Mike raced on her in 1952, the year she won.
Yes. You done much sailing, Hugh? I used to sail a good deal with Vanessa's father.
Hugh's one of my smarter type cousins. He handled all of Dad's business affairs. He
handles them for me now. Oh, I see. You from out here?
Oh, no. I tend store back in New York. Hugh flew all the way out just to make the
race with us. I was glad to find an excuse to get away for a while. And who could ask
for anything nicer than sailing with a first class skipper like Vanessa again, particularly
on a boat like the Segway. You've sailed on the Segway before?
Oh, Hugh, though. He knows her like a book. Well, that's a relief to me. Charlie and I
were teamed up as watch partners. We would have worked the foredeck and the puppet, and
that's no place for a greenhorn. You may have to bring me up to date on a few things
up there, but I think I'll remember most of the race.
Oh, I'm sure you will. Excuse me, Miss Evans, but the crew are all
present. All the gear is stowed. I wondered if you'd like to be getting on the way pretty
soon. Thank you, Pete. I think we can go any time now.
Fine. Stand by to let go of the lines. Mack, you take the spring line.
Aye. Mr. Farley, you're stationed forward. You
can let go of the starboard bow line. Okay, Pete.
And Mr. Guthrie, you're forward with Mr. Farley. You watch Vanessa as she backs the Segway out
of the slip into the channel, and you can't help wishing that Charlie Edmonds was your
watchmate instead of Vanessa's kissin' cousin, Hugh Guthrie.
You're outside the breakwater now, beating slowly to windward. The breeze is fresh, even
the leaves point firm and your uneasiness about your plan and the complications Vanessa's
cousin Hugh might present fade out in the anticipation of the most exciting of all moments,
the start. Forty-five trim ocean racing yachts of all sizes and rings, white hull, black
hull, mahogany hull, knifing through the long gentle swells of the Catalina Channel, maneuvering
with a skill that is born to blue water sailors. Aboard the Segway with Vanessa Evans' slim,
strong hands almost caressing the wheel, you know the excitement. Share it with every other
sailor on every other boat as the seconds tick away and the navigator's voice continues
to count down. Stand by to get the fishermen up as we cross the line. Standing by. Five.
Flash in the air. Three. Two. One.
Was it all right, Pete? If I hadn't been looking, I would have thought your father was at the wheel.
Thank you, Pete. Beautiful start, Vanessa. I don't think you had more than two seconds
to spare. I thought for a minute we were going over the line too soon. I was scared, Mike,
really scared. Oh, you handled her like a master. And we're doing great. Look, I don't think
there's more than two boats ahead of us, maybe three. Well, that cutter isn't going to wait
for us, though. You'll weather us all the way to the west end of Catalina. But once we get
around, we can really put some sail on, see what she can do. Well, we're pointing higher
than that ketch over there, leaving her too. The ketch? Yeah, right over there to stop
it. Oh, the yawl? No, she's a ketch. Oh, oh yes, of course, she's a yawl. Unless, of course,
they've changed things around, Huck, you're the best. No, no, no, she's a yawl. It's a,
just sort of a mental block I have. Never can remember which is which. It's an easy enough
way to make for a blue water sailor. Oh, come now, Mr. Farley. You look at Vanessa, and she's
looking intently at the compass, avoiding your eyes. And you look at Hugh Guthrie, and
he doesn't avoid your eyes. And you know that you made your first bad mistake. And he knows
it too. You've been at sea for three days, and so far you haven't made any more mistakes.
But you know that Vanessa's cousin Hugh hasn't forgotten your slip. You know he's watching
you, and he's waiting for you to make another one. And you're certain that next time she
won't let it go. Not this boy. But there are moments aboard the Segway, rare but wonderful
moments when you're alone with Vanessa out on the pulpit, a tiny fenced in platform on
the forward tip of the bowsprit, with nothing but the sound of the wind and the bow wave.
She's beautiful from out here, isn't she, Mike? She's beautiful from anywhere, like her skipper.
Mike, if I ask you something, will you get angry? Of course not, darling. I couldn't
be angry with you. It's about you and Hugh. What about you and me? Well, I don't know
what it is, Mike, but from the very first day of the race, you've been standing off
watching each other. There's something between you. What is it, Mike? What's happened?
Well, as a matter of fact, Vanessa, I've felt it too. Mike, you don't like him, do you?
What? Well, I don't dislike him. I don't think he likes you, Mike. He's been
pumping me about you, about your parents, where you were raised, what boats you've
sailed on. Well, I'm flattered by his interest, but why is he so concerned with me?
Of course he's my guardian, Mike. Your guardian? Why, he's only a couple of years older
than you are. I told you, he was one of my smarter type cousins. Daddy liked him,
wanted it that way. So, uh, he controls your money? He controls everything Dad left
for me. And your heart, Vanessa? I control that, Mike. Why, are we talking about
things that don't matter? Who cares about your money? That old cousin Hugh has it
if he wants it. Who cares about anything but us, Vanessa? Us? That's all that matters.
Mike. I don't care what happens as long as we have each other. Oh, Mike, darling.
Vanessa. Vanessa. You stay out on the pulpit after Vanessa leaves and you try to
digest this new and unpleasant piece of news. So cousin Hugh is Vanessa's guardian,
her legal guardian. And you think of what a little thing loused up your plan. Just
pull on Charlie's appendix. And you begin to hate Charlie, to wish he were dead. Or,
wait a minute, why Charlie? Why not cousin Hugh? You and he share the midnight to
4 a.m. watch out here on the pulpit every morning. Sailors have gone overboard
before. Out here at night in the dark. A quick push. An accident. An unfortunate,
terrible accident. It's the only way out. You know you have to do it. The only
question is when.
You got two plans now, haven't you? One, to marry Vanessa, and two, to get rid of
her legal beaver cousin Hugh. Work until the second is finished. But everything's
got to be just right. The wind must be high enough and the sea rough enough, the
night black enough. And seven days out midway between San Pedro and Honolulu, the
right time comes. With the wind blowing 20 to 25 knots and the sea coming at you
in long rolling swells, the tops blowing off, feathering into the night, the bow
of the segway seems like a giant fucking bronco. Lifting high only to plunge back
in, pulpit and all, down into the black angry water. You and Hugh are wearing your
floatation gear. Small but efficient life jackets that inflate when you squeeze
the handle of a CO2 bottle. But you know that Hugh will not stay afloat once he's
over the side. You removed the little steel air bottle while Hugh was eating
dinner, and in its place you inserted an empty one. And one thing more, you fixed
the lifeline fastener on the pulpit so it's ready to be opened at the right time
to provide a convenient exit for Cousin Hugh. A broken fastener on the lifeline,
they'll say, an accident, an unfortunate accident. So now you're out here on the
pulpit with Hugh and you're ready. But before you do anything, you have to know
how much he knows about you. You have to. It's almost a compulsion.
I had quite an interesting talk with Vanessa the other day.
Is that so?
Yes, we talked about a lot of things. Mostly about you.
Really?
She said she didn't think you liked me very much.
I may have given her that impression.
She said you'd been asking a lot of personal questions about me.
That's right, I did ask some questions.
Why?
Because I don't believe a word you say.
Just because I made a few small mistakes like calling a y'all a kid?
Oh, the business of a y'all really had very little to do with it. There were so many
other things. For instance?
Well, for instance, you're sailing as a crew member on the Quintana in the Bermuda
race of 1952. It was the year you sailed on it, wasn't it?
That's correct.
Well, despite the amazingly factual quality of your story, you were not on the Quintana
in 1952.
You can prove that, of course.
Quite simply. You're a good student, Farley. You've obviously done a lot of reading on
ocean racing. But you made a mistake in the Quintana story and a rather bad mistake.
You mentioned the names of the crew, but you left out the name of Hugh Guthrie.
If you sailed aboard her, how come you left that one name out?
Because you weren't on the Quintana.
Direction. I seem to have a knack for being a last minute replacement.
On this race, it was poor old Charlie Edmonds. On the Bermuda race of 1952, it was
a guy by the name of Kirby Mastin. He was on the Quintana. It was printed in the official
crew list, yes, but he was not aboard. He broke his leg on the very morning of the start.
And I, lucky Johnny on the spot, happened to be there to see an old friend off who happened
to be the skipper of the Quintana. I replaced Kirby Mastin.
That's impossible.
Farley, you're a bit of a liar. And I don't trust liars. Particularly when they're moving
in on someone very dear to me. Vanessa. Vanessa. Ah, yes. So now it's up.
I thought you were offering me a chance to see your little cousin's future happiness.
In fact, I warned Vanessa about you. You don't want me to marry her because you are the
one you're talking about.
All right, Farley, let's stop the nonsense. You're a cheap pony and I'm going to tell
Vanessa the truth about you.
You won't tell her anything because you're not going anywhere except over the side.
I don't think so.
You're going over now. Right now. You're a pony, Mr. Farley. A pony.
No. No.
As you lunge for in a giant wave, it smashes over the pulpit, burying you in tons of water.
You dab for the lifeline as you start over. But the fastener you docked it carries away.
And you feel a sharp, carrying pain as the hook-like end of it rips through your hand.
And then you're alone in the water, watching the Segway as she rushes on into the night.
You inflate your life vest and it works.
And then you see off in the distance the spreader and deathlights come on.
And you hear the voices, hurried, frantic, as they get the sails down and try to bring the Segway around.
And you know your plan is finished.
But you're alive. And that's all that matters now. You're alive.
And they're coming back to pick you up.
And then there's something between you and the lights on the Segway.
A triangular blue-grey fin, cruising slowly, almost indifferently,
slicing through the black water a scant ten feet away from you.
And you suddenly remember the recent stories in all the newspapers of killer sharks and what they can do to a swimmer.
And you lie very still. That's what they said to do.
And you watch. And the fin cruises away.
And you start to breathe again.
And then it circles, seems to flutter in the water, and pick up speed.
And you raise your hand in a futile gesture to ward it off.
And you suddenly know you're not going to make it.
Your hand, sliced to the bone from the hook on the lifeline, is bleeding.
And you remember that sharks are attracted to blood. It's the thing that makes them attack.
And you open your mouth to cry out.
And the cry never comes.
Because you're pulled down through the blue-black water.
And something has you in a vise of razor-sharp teeth.
And then you do scream with the last breath you have.
And no one hears you.
Or ever will.
Suspense.
In which Mr. Everett Sloan starred in William N. Robeson's production of Blood is Thicker.
Written by Sam Pearce.
Reporting Mr. Everett Sloan in tonight's story were Kathy Lewis, Lawrence Dobkin, Bill Quinn, and Sam Pearce.
Listen.
Listen again next week when we return with Mr. John Lunds starring in Eye Witness.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.