Hunting the Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page A

looked up at a young couple he judged to be well-financed honeymooners. They were wearing shorts, expensive reverse-print Hawaiian aloha shirts, and slaps. The man had his attention on the surfboard. Her eyes were fixed on the watercolor.
    Fighting to keep his cool, Billy smiled and said, “Yeah, sometimes.”
    “Would you sell that one of the little boat?”
    He held the grin and lied, “I usually send them back to the gallery in New York.”
    He could see she was impressed, but her husband looked skeptical.
    “If you were to sell that one, how much would you charge?” she asked.
    “Since I won’t have to wrap and ship it—air freight’s expensive down here—two hundred and fifty U.S. dollars, if I knew it would have a good home.”
    The husband switched his gaze from the surfboard and said impatiently, “We’ve got white walls and a view of the ocean. Is that good enough? How about a hundred in cash, right now?”
    “Make it hundred and fifty and you’re the owners of a Billy Crawford original.”
    She looked pleadingly at her guy. He pulled out a fat wallet and began peeling off bills. As Billy opened his Swiss Army knife and sliced the painting off the watercolor block, the husband said, “Nice board. Want to sell it?”
    “No way. Where I go, so does my board.”
    “Searching for the perfect wave, right?”
    He didn’t like the man’s probing and turned his back to pick up a pencil. He signed and dated the watercolor. When they walked off Billy stuffed the money in his wallet and let out a breath. My first sale. How about that? I’m really an artist now. And thank you, Miss Graham.
    He thought about Miss Graham, his high school art instructor. Without her help and encouragement he probably would have dropped out of high school. You really made art fun. Hey, I’d better paint another.
    He looked for inspiration and his gaze held on the black-hulled tuna clipper’s graceful lines. “She’s too industrial for a watercolor, but maybe some crewman would buy a sketch.”
    He carefully packed the tubes of pigments, his expensive sable brushes that were a gift from his aunt, and a liter bottle of distilled water in his “getaway” bag. Since the near disaster off Bombora, Billy had bought a small waterproof duffel with shoulder straps. He filled it with survival gear and his artist’s tools, sketch pad, and watercolor paper. His eyes made a quick inventory of the contents—compass; Swiss Army knife; signal mirror; sunscreen; Mini Maglite with extra batteries; ten granola bars in silver foil wrap; fishing line, lures, and hooks; swim fins; mask and snorkel; and a pair of surfing booties in case he had to walk over a coral reef to reach shore. His prudent organization gave Billy a sense of security. After a long look at the ship he pulled out a number-two pencil and sketch pad to begin drawing the tuna clipper.
    The ship’s tall knife-edged bow reminded him of a navy destroyer. His sense of form was offended by the wasplike helicopter sitting atop the bridge. He’d leave it out of the sketch, along with the black panel truck parked near the gangplank. The huge mountain of red nylon net on the aft deck seemed appropriate, as did the tall crane that drew in the net. At the very stern perched a broad-beamed, battleship-gray, twenty-four-foot-long skiff used to pull out the net that would encircle the tuna. He would include the skiff as well.
    He decided to pencil in as much detail as possible without sacrificing the clipper’s graceful lines. Any fisherman interested in buying a drawing would want to recognize the ship he sailed on. “Later,” he murmured, “I’ll color it with a wash to make it look like a painting, even though that’s kind of cheating.”
    After finishing a draftsmanlike outline he added some shading. He felt stiff from sitting so long. Billy stood, packed his gear, and walked closer to pick up some more details.
    He slipped the bag’s straps over his shoulders and ambled for the