Rising Force

by Wayne Stinnett

“Uh, yeah,” Macie said. “About that. Your loft isn’t ready yet. But with you here to help, we can get it livable tomorrow, easy. There’s a bunch of boxes and stuff up there right now.”

  “No worries,” Kat said. “You have room in the boat, right?”

  “Well, not exactly. The vee-berth’s been converted to storage.”

  Kat and Macie both turned toward me. “The couch is all yours,” I offered.

  “That big ketch doesn’t have two cabins?” Brayden asked.

  “It did,” I replied. “But the forward stateroom was converted to an office and the bunk removed. The sofa pulls out into a queen-sized bed, but the mattress doesn’t look very comfortable.”

  Kat smiled at my discomfort. “The couch is fine, Jesse. It’s really very comfortable.”

  “Go make your vessel secure, then,” Brayden said to me. “Where we’ll be diving to get the little buggers is only about fifteen feet, so just bring a mask and fins, eh?”

  I thanked them for the beer and headed back down the dock toward my boat. The remnants of the clouds, which had poured down on us for an hour, were moving off to the west, dissipating quickly. The area around the small marina was mostly tall sea grass, scattered cocoplum bushes, and a few coconut trees, all bent slightly to the west by years of wind and rain. The sand at the water’s edge was glaringly white, and the water just off the beach was gold, giving to light turquoise, then cobalt blue where it got deeper. I knew that, just a mile or so to the south, the bottom disappeared to more than half a mile deep.

  Looking beyond the marina, I saw no movement around the small dwellings to the northeast. There were only a handful of full-time residents on the island, but I’d heard that like many of the Berry Islands, it was for sale, and there was talk of some rich Texas developer planning to build a resort here.

  Standing at the foot of the pier, I looked around. The wind had come back up, tickling the sea grass into a dance. It felt invigorating against my skin. The air was fresh and clean, with a salty tang. The little stilt houses and marina blended well with the natural surroundings; it was an idyllic little island, painted in neutral pastel colors of yellow, tan, green, and white. It would be a damned shame when they brought bulldozers and cranes in here.

  Just as I reached my boat, Finn came trotting out onto the pier and barked. He was in the company of a shaggier version of himself. Both dogs were panting, and I noticed the other one had a black tongue. Probably a chow mix.

  “Found a playmate?” I called back to Finn as I stepped aboard.

  Finn barked again, he and the other dog waiting patiently at the foot of the pier.

  “Don’t go far,” I said. “We’ll be here until tomorrow.”

  As if they both understood, the two dogs went bounding off toward the beach and, no doubt, a dinner of clams. I often wondered if they communicated in any other way besides sniffing each other’s butts.

  Hey, Finn, let’s go play.

  Okay, but we gotta stop and ask my dad first.

  I checked the lines, adding two spring lines just in case of a blow. Tides here only changed about eighteen inches from the highest high to the lowest low, and it was low now. So I left enough slack in the lines, knowing they’d tighten as the tide and boat rose. Then I unlocked the cabin hatch and went below.

  Kat’s bags were on the couch in the lower cabin. I went forward, opening all the hatches. The slip was oriented perpendicular to the prevailing wind, and soon there was a little air movement through the boat. I wasn’t worried about the lack of electricity. Though it felt like it was in the eighties before the rain came, the temperature at night in these islands was usually in the low sixties in January. I anticipated a comfortable night.

  Grabbing my snorkeling gear from under the bench seat at the dinette, I started up the companionway. Macie was standing on the pier.

  “Thanks again for bringing Kat,” she said.

  Closing the hatch, I locked it and turned to face her. “It was no trouble at all. She more than pulled her weight.”

  A small outboard started on the other side of the marina and Macie looked that way. She had something on her mind, so I waited.

  “She’s kinda gullible, you know.”

  “No, I don’t,” I replied, wondering what she was getting at. “But I only met her last night. She struck me as sort of a free-spirited girl.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and paused for a moment. “Free spirits can get walked on by certain guys.”

  “The guy she was with didn’t strike me as anyone to write home about.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Benny. But yeah, he hurt her. I can tell.”

  I looked down at Macie. “I see. You’re wondering about my intentions toward your friend?”

  Laughing, Macie cupped a hand over her eyes against the sun and looked up at me. “Kind of a weird way of putting it, but yeah.”

  I stepped down to the dock next to her and grinned. “I’m much too old for games, Macie.”

  “Age is nothing but a number, Jesse. Kat was just dumped and she’s very vulnerable. She’s the type who wears her heart on her sleeve.” She paused and looked me up and down. “And you are a hot guy, regardless of your age.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, though her gaze and comment made me uncomfortable. “There was a time, in a faraway place, I’d have taken her hand. But my own daughters are her age, and I don’t see women of a certain age the way I once did.”

  Macie grinned up at me as the outboard approached. “I’ll take you at your word, then. I think you’ll like most of the people coming tonight.”

  Turning, we both walked toward the end of the pier as Brayden approached. “Is tonight a special occasion or something?” I asked her.

  “Yeah,” she replied, as the little boat turned and lightly bumped the dock. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “All set, mate?” Brayden asked, holding a dock cleat in his hand.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I believe so.”

  Stepping down into the small, wooden boat, I dropped my gear at my feet and sat on the middle bench.

  “Be back in a coupla hours, love,” Brayden said, pushing away from the dock and reversing the engine.

  Macie waved as Brayden turned and pointed the little boat toward the marina entrance. His skiff was a handmade wooden boat, with a high bow and wide beam. It looked and felt sturdy as we motored out toward the ocean.

  Once away from the marina, Brayden asked, “She have a talk with you about Kat?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Nothing to worry about from me. I’m searching for my lady. Or I hope to think she’ll one day want to be my lady.”

  “Ahh, I get it, mate. Hard to love a lady who loves the sea.”

  The little boat rounded the point and Brayden turned west. The sturdy wooden skiff bounced on the small rollers, but not so hard as to cause pain or anything.

  “This lady you’re looking for,” Brayden shouted over the outboard. “I take it she’s been in this area?”

  Turning around, I faced aft. This was the way in I’d been looking for. A local waterman. Someone who knew the daily comings and goings of anyone who came near Chub Cay. Maybe Savannah had stopped here, maybe she hadn’t. The only way to find out was to ask.

  “A friend met her up on Hoffman’s Cay about a week ago, and she was headed in this direction in her Grand Banks trawler. Her and her eight-year-old daughter. Savannah and Florence Richmond.”

  Brayden studied my face a moment and seemed to come to a decision. “Tall, blond lady? A bit younger than yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice. This was the first lead I’d had. “You saw her?”

  “She was here a coupla days, mate. Anchored off on the lee side. Left last Sunday.”

  “Any idea where she was headed?”

  He studied my face again. Peop
le have said I shouldn’t play poker, as I’m not good at hiding my feelings.

  “They were waiting on weather,” Brayden said, as he slowed the boat. “You wanna grab that anchor? We’re coming up on a sandy patch.”

  When he brought the little boat down off plane, I turned and went to the bow, watching the water. I saw a patch of light yellow sand just ahead and off to port and pointed at it. “There?”

  “That’s it,” Brayden replied and turned the boat. “I think I remember her telling Macie that they were headed for the BVI.”

  When we were over the sand, I lowered the anchor quickly, and Brayden backed away until fifty feet of line was out. “Tie her off, mate.”

  Once anchored, I turned around and faced him again. “The BVI, huh?”

  “Boat like that,” he said. “It’d take at least three weeks, unless she moved night and day.”

  “No,” I replied, looking off toward the island while studying the map in my head. “She runs only about eight hours a day, never in a hurry. Probably closer to a month with stops along the way.”

  “Need gloves?” Brayden asked, slipping his fins on and extending a pair of mismatched gloves toward me. “I have extras. Sorry they don’t look the same.”

  “Form follows function,” I said, taking the gloves. “Thanks.”

  “You’ve caught lobster before?”

  I grinned. “Yeah, a time or two.”

  Once we both had our fins and masks on, we rolled off either side at the same time, then reached up into the boat and grabbed the two bright orange goodie bags.

  “All ’round that sand patch where you dropped the anchor,” Brayden said, rolling onto his back and beginning to kick his fins. “It’s gonna be loaded with bugs.”

  I rolled over and followed. “I knew Savannah a long time ago.”

  “About nine years ago, I’d wager,” he said. “Judging by the girl’s age. She yours?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, “but I’d like to.”

  “They stayed pretty much to themselves, but I got the impression she was a smart girl. Her mum, too.” Brayden rolled over and looked down, then lifted his head out of the water. “Here we are, mate. We only need nine, eh?”

  I put my face down and looked at the bottom. The anchor lay almost centered in the patch of sand. All around the ledges of coral and rock were dozens of lobster antennas.

  When I looked up at Brayden, he was grinning. “Let’s make it an even dozen, eh? I don’t know about you, but I’m famished on Wednesdays.”

  With that, he doubled over and started to the bottom. I followed right behind him. Free diving for lobster in just fifteen feet wasn’t difficult. When I reached the bottom, I immediately saw that the biggest obstacle would be in choosing which ones to catch, while not scattering the others. The shallow ledge was teeming with lobsters. Instinctively, I headed away from Brayden, kicking slowly so as not to burn up the air in my lungs or scare the lobsters.

  I caught two in just a few seconds, then a third eluded my grasp. I kicked slowly toward the surface and paused for only a second, inhaling and exhaling quickly. Brayden was coming up as I went back down.

  Moving slowly along the edge of this lobster honey hole, I was amazed at the size of some of them. It was like shopping; I was able to pass over the ones I knew were undersized and avoid the monsters that could break a man’s wrist. The nice, fat four- and five-pounders didn’t need to be measured.

  Brayden and I both surfaced together after three dives. “How many ya got?” he asked.

  “Four. You?”

  “The same. Two more each should do it.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up sign, and we descended together. On the bottom, I bagged another lobster quickly, then a second one kicked so hard he almost twisted my wrist before getting loose. Grabbing another one from under the ledge, I put it into my bag.

  As I turned, something caught my eye about fifty feet away. Brayden was heading to the surface. Rising, I looked over again. There were several large objects resting on the bottom, gently swaying in the easy surge. They seemed out of place, but too far away to see exactly what they were.

  “I think we’re good,” Brayden said, his head bobbing on the surface.

  “I saw something down there,” I said. “Something out of place about fifty feet off to the south.”

  “Let’s get these bugs on the boat,” he said. “Then we’ll go have a look-see.”

  Within minutes, we’d dropped our heavily laden bags into the boat and were returning to the anchor site.

  “What was it you saw?” Brayden asked.

  “Not sure,” I replied. “Two or three large objects, all drifting in the current near the bottom.”

  When we reached the sand patch, we turned south and snorkeled away, looking down at the bottom. I saw it again and pointed. Brayden and I dove, kicking slowly toward whatever it was.

  Still twenty feet away, I realized what I was looking at. The backs of three sea turtles, with their shells removed, and the raw meat of their bodies exposed. Brayden kicked closer, moving toward the first carcass. I settled in beside him.

  It appeared that sharks had been feeding on the carcasses, taking small bites out of the exposed muscle and a rear flipper. I looked all around but saw no movement in the water. There didn’t seem to be any other injuries, so I couldn’t tell how the animals had died.

  Brayden straightened the flipper of one of them and pointed out a metal tag in the fleshy part of the skin. Quickly drawing a knife from a sheath on his ankle, he cut the flesh away from the tag and removed it, stuffing it into the pocket of his baggies.

  Just as we turned to swim up and back to the boat, I almost collided with a black tip shark. Black tips aren’t usually aggressive and, as sharks go, they’re considered rather small and harmless. Fortunately, he dodged me more than I dodged him. He was bent on getting to what was left of the turtles.

  Harmless or not, I knew there was blood in the water and that might attract other sharks. Bulls, hammerheads, and tigers are found throughout the Bahamas. And they’re neither small nor docile.

  We both stayed near the bottom as we finned toward where we knew the boat was. More sharks appeared, circling the three carcasses and darting in and out for a bite. I looked toward Brayden, my lungs burning for air, and we both jerked a thumb toward the surface and rose quickly.

  Levering ourselves aboard from opposite sides, we fell into the boat, breathing hard.

  I pulled my mask off. “I counted at least five black tips and a bull.”

  Brayden nodded. “We probably spooked them when we arrived.”

  “Any idea what happened to those turtles?” I asked.

  “Bloody poachers!” Brayden said, yanking on the pull cord. “And recent, mate.”

  Sitting in the forward cabin aboard Salty Dog, I connected my sat-phone to my own laptop, leaving Victor’s in the desk drawer. Though I wasn’t crazy about the electronic devices, I had grown to see the convenience of them. As a kid, I’d spent hours, sometimes days, looking up stuff at the library. Today, it takes only an internet connection and a few minutes. The sat-phone could be used to connect to the internet, but I found the small screen difficult to type anything on. Chyrel had shown me how to use a phone as a modem. The satellite data rates weren’t much more than making a voice call.

  On the short ride back to the marina, Brayden had told me of quite a few dead turtles that had turned up in the area. They were all hawksbill turtles, one of the most endangered sea turtles on the planet due to their beautiful shells, which are used to make jewelry and eyeglass frames. That had been all the poachers had taken in each case. I saw it the same way I viewed killing an elephant or rhino just for the tusks and horns: a deplorable lust for money. People mistakenly quote the Bible, saying that money is the root of all evil. But money can be used to do good just as well as evil. It’s
the love of money—greed—that is the root of evil.

  According to what I found using the computer, there were fewer than fifteen thousand nesting-aged female Hawksbills left in the whole world. On a global scale, since these turtles are found in all tropical oceans, that’s teetering on the edge of extinction. Imagine a body of water that’s fifteen thousand miles long and three thousand miles wide, with that few individuals able to propagate a species. That’s one turtle in three thousand square miles of ocean. It’d be like being the only person in the whole state of New Hampshire, trying to find the only person in the state of Vermont.

  The shell of an adult hawksbill could weigh twenty to twenty-five pounds and was worth a hundred dollars a pound. Not a lot of money back in the States, especially with them being so difficult to locate. But those three dead turtles had made someone a helluva profit for just a few minutes work.

  The boat moved slightly, and I heard the unmistakable sound of Finn’s claws on the deck above. A moment later, he came into the gangway and sat on the deck just outside the little office.

  “Where’d your buddy go?” I asked him.

  Turning his head aft, he looked toward the main companionway, his tail swishing on the deck.

  “We’re going to stay the night here and it looks like we’re going to a beach party. Think you can supply some clams?”

  Finn cocked his head at the mention of his favorite snack, his eyes bright and mischievous. “Just a few,” I said, closing the laptop, “so you and your friend don’t mooch all the lobster.”

  I followed Finn aft and up on deck. The sun was low on the horizon, bathing everything around me in a light golden hue. The wind was back up to its usual ten knots, tugging at my hair and beard. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen anywhere. There’s something very seductive about watching the sun set over water, especially if you’re on an island.

  Chub Key is much larger than my island. It’s shaped like a dog’s leg, with the longer, southern part of the island being about four miles long and a mile wide in places. The northeast dogleg is only a couple miles in length, and a good outfielder could throw a baseball across some of it. The marina is located at the western end of the island, along with most of the homes, where the twenty or thirty permanent residents lived.