The community would keep that funeral pyre going day and night until only the Mathis’s dust remained to mix with the sand and be washed out to sea on the tide. Then the stones would be moved to a different spot on the beach and the little community would move on.
Macie waved as I pointed the bow to the right of the rising sun and set the autopilot. I waved back, looped the main halyard around a winch, and hoisted away. When the mainsail was halfway up, I inserted the winch handle and raised it the rest of the way.
I could feel the burn in my side but chose to ignore it. If the stitches didn’t pull out, it would heal nicely. I’d just have to resist using that part of my body to exert force for a while. And sometimes a little pain can make you feel alive.
Moving slowly, I killed the engine and raised the mizzen sail, then unfurled the jib for a beam reach. The big boat increased speed slowly, as if sensing I was in no hurry. She heeled over slightly and soon reached seven knots in the strong morning air.
I had plenty of supplies on board, so I had no intention of stopping in Nassau. So, for right now, living in this moment, it was just me, Finn, and Salty Dog. The name was starting to grow on me.
Cat Island lay about a hundred and sixty miles ahead, and I could reprovision there. Rose Island, just east of Nassau, was a good anchorage and start-off point for crossing the shallow banks to Exuma Sound in daylight. Once in the sound, I planned to sail straight through the rest of the day and tomorrow night to make Cat Island before the second nightfall. I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but Nassau and Exuma were there, forty and a hundred miles away, if I needed to stop in an emergency. I’d rested, my body was healing, and I wanted to sail through the night.
Nearing Nassau at noon, I turned more easterly to keep wide of the tourist island and its busy shipping lanes. In the distance, I could just make out a powerboat heading my way. As it got closer, I recognized it. Recognizing it, I lowered the sails and waited.
Detective Bingham hailed me with a bullhorn, as his patrol boat slowed. “Salty Dog, heave to and prepare to be boarded.”
I was already adrift, so I simply sat there at the helm seat and waited.
“Cap’n McDermitt,” Bingham said, standing at the gunwale of his patrol boat as a uniformed officer held it away. “I was coming to Chub Cay to talk to yuh.”
“I’m not there anymore,” I replied, however needlessly. “On my way to the BVI. What did you want to see me about?”
“Yuh shaved off di beard,” he said, studying my face closer.
“You were coming to Chub Cay to comment on my grooming?”
“Have yuh heard anyting else about di Pence couple or dat Haywood woman?”
I didn’t know what Brayden planned to do about the wreck of the catamaran, or the bodies that were aboard it. Way out on the flats, it might go undiscovered for weeks. By then, the only evidence left would be the burned-out boat itself. The sea has a way of reclaiming anything that dies.
“Nope,” I lied, reaching into a small cooler and lifting out a cold beer. “Haven’t seen or heard anything about them.”
I offered the beer to Bingham, but he declined. “And di poachers?”
“I’m pretty sure they’ve moved on,” I replied, opening the beer and taking a long pull as the wind tugged at my hair. “No problem in days.”
“I see,” he said, studying my face. He stepped back and nodded to the helmsman. “Well den, I won’t keep yuh, Cap’n.”
Pushing the patrol boat away from Salty Dog, the uniformed cop went to the helm and the boat roared away. Once clear, he turned the boat back toward Nassau Harbour.
I took a long pull on the cold Kalik as the Dog wallowed in the wake and small waves. I knew I wasn’t a convincing liar. Had he read the lie on my face? If so, had he not followed up on it out of a sense that justice had already been served, or out of some mistaken notion of who I was? I decided it didn’t matter and stuck the bottle in a drink holder. Once more, I set sail for Tortola.
The run to the BVI took two weeks. Several days the wind had let up to the point that I’d had to start the engine to maintain headway. The boat and all her systems worked flawlessly. I’d spent most of my nights in small, out-of-the-way coves, dropping anchor just before sunset whenever I could. I avoided the crowded tourist islands as much as possible.
The experience of sailing slowly across the sea, with only the wind and my wits to get me where I wanted to go, was one I’d not soon forget. Aboard Gaspar’s Revenge, a thousand miles could be accomplished in two days, just at cruising speed, with a ten-hour overnight stop for fuel and rest. It took several days to become accustomed to the much slower pace of sail. Then I remembered what both Kat and Charity had said, about the voyage being the destination.
The days had been long and some of the nights even longer. Since leaving Chub Cay, I’d watched thirteen beautiful sunsets, each different, yet still the same. The days of sailing, unaided by the autopilot, coupled with the utter beauty and tranquility of the tropical sunsets, soon lulled me into a very laid-back state of mind, as Jimmy would say.
On my third day out, Deuce sent me a message. He and Tom Broderick had gone to Chub Cay and returned Charity’s chopper to Andros. Tom had been a rotor pilot in the Corps, but, being deaf, he couldn’t get a civilian license. Of course, there wasn’t anyone on Chub Cay to check it, so they had no trouble.
Deuce said he only rode along to warn Tom if a warning buzzer came on. Reading that, I chuckled, knowing that the buzzer would have been accompanied by a flashing light on the dash. Deuce just wanted the seat time.
My injury healed quickly. I’d checked in at Aquadilla, Puerto Rico and sailed the leeward side to Ponce, then on to St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands.
I decided the incision had healed enough to remove the stitches. The constant itching when the tiny threads snagged on my shirt had been a constant irritant. So while watching the sun go down over the bay, a bottle of rum at my side, I snipped and pulled each stitch out. Without the stitches to snag on my clothes, the itchiness was a lot more tolerable.
Anchoring in Cane Garden Bay the following evening, I planned to stay aboard. It was a Monday, and if she was on time, Savannah was still six days out. While I couldn’t be sure exactly when she’d get here or why she was coming, at least from what Macie told me, I knew that she wanted to be here on the first.
Cane Garden Bay was a popular, well-protected anchorage with a consistent sandy bottom. A beautiful, white-sand beach arced around the eastern part of the small bay. There, you could find just about anything a cruiser might want.
Salty Dog’s bow was pointed toward the beach, her stern to the west. I quickly readied her for the night, then Finn and I sat on the aft deck to watch the sun go down. There’d be no green flash; Jost Van Dyke was barely four miles away. We watched the winter sun slip quietly into the bosom of Jost’s eastern peaks. Picking up the old conch shell, I joined in the chorus of farewell horns.
“That was a good one,” I said, reaching down to lightly rub Finn’s neck and shoulder. His tail thumped his agreement on the deck.
With the sun gone and it still early, I switched on the spreader lights and went below to prepare something for dinner. I’d used a trolling lure during much of the crossing and had a good supply of mahi filets.
I turned on the stereo in the lower salon, and brought the old Silvertone out to the cockpit, along with two filets. The filets went on the small gas grill I’d picked up in Puerto Rico, along with a new coffeemaker. One filet well-seasoned for me, and the other with just a little black pepper for Finn. While the fish broiled slowly on a low heat, I strummed the guitar.
Sitting in the cockpit, the music turned up just loud enough for me to hear, I tried to strum along, just practicing the chord changes. Over the last several days at sea, listening to the stereo and remembering the chords Kat showed me, I’d grown to recognize and anticipate them in t
he songs.
After a few minutes, I put the guitar aside and flipped the filets. Finn monitored my every move. He’d grown accustomed to this new life. In secluded anchorages, he could come and go from the boat as he pleased, launching himself into the water and climbing back up the ladder.
Cane Garden Bay was different. There were more than twenty other boats at anchor around us. None were close; the nearest was more than a hundred yards away. But that was still too close for Finn to run around alone. There were just too many people around for him to go exploring. I never worried that Finn would hurt someone; he was a gentle giant. But his size frightened some people. I worried more that someone might hurt him, mistaking his exuberant play as aggression.
While the fish cooked, I sat back down and absently strummed along with the music playing on the stereo. I’d always preferred jazz, but this new tropical island music was growing on me. Maybe the ambiance had a little to do with it.
“Ahoy Salty Dog,” a voice called out from behind me. As I set the guitar aside, my hand instinctively went to the small cabinet on the side of the table and its hiding spot.
When I turned, I saw a man in blue baggies standing on a paddle board. He was tall and thin, with a dark tan. His unruly blond hair was to his shoulders and gray stubble covered most of his chin.
“Hello,” I said, rising to face the man.
Finn joined me in watching the stranger, his attention momentarily diverted away from the grill.
“Was just heading over to Myett’s to see him play,” the man said.
“Hear who play?” I asked.
“Eric Stone’s playing tonight at Myett’s. I saw you come in, and heard you playing his songs, so I thought maybe you didn’t know.”
“Thanks,” I said, lifting a beer. “We might head in after supper.”
The man’s paddle dipped, and he leaned into it. “See ya there.”
Finn and I ate our mahi. I also had an ear of corn, one of the last on the boat.
“Wanna go ashore and see what’s happening?” I asked, leaning from the side deck and rinsing our dinnerware in the water.
Finn cocked his head questioningly, his amber eyes bright and sparkling with mischief.
“I don’t know if they have clams here,” I replied to the look I’d come to recognize. “You’re a bottomless pit.”
Going down to the galley, I quickly washed everything and put it all away. Then I went down to my stateroom, showered, and got dressed for a night on the town: cargo shorts and a faded Rusty Anchor tee-shirt.
With my appetite sated, I got in the little dinghy and started the engine. Finn paced the deck, as if he thought I was going to go off and leave him. He’d gotten pretty good at climbing up Salty Dog’s boarding ladder, but he couldn’t climb down. We’d learned that him simply jumping into the water from the boat and then climbing into the inflatable Zodiac wasn’t a smart idea.
Turning, I pulled the little boat alongside and planted my feet firmly in the middle, calling Finn closer. He grudgingly obeyed. When he was in the right position, I quickly wrapped my arms around all four of his legs and lifted him down into the boat. He was close to a hundred pounds and most certainly not dead weight; it was always a gamble whether we would both end up in the drink.
I don’t know if dogs are capable of the emotion, but he always looked embarrassed when I had to lift him into the little boat.
Minutes later, I slowed as we neared the beach. There were nearly as many dinghies pulled up on the sand as there were boats at anchor on the bay. To my right, a couple dozen beach chairs were lined up in regimented rows. I imagined most of the chairs were probably still warm from the people who’d occupied them to watch the sun go down. Beyond the chairs was a beach volleyball net.
The sound of music spilled from an open, two-story structure built on huge dock pilings. It had porch rails all around the front and sides of both floors, with tables arranged inside. The building seemed to be a part of the landscape, surrounded by palm trees, orchids, and other tropical foliage.
“You stay close,” I reminded Finn as we climbed out of the dinghy.
He immediately bolted toward the first palm tree he could find. He used his fake-grass head when he had to, but there’s something in the dog’s nature that requires him to pee on a tree every chance he gets.
I didn’t worry. I knew he’d be at my side before I reached the steps up to the entrance of the open-air bar and restaurant.
Inside, I made my way toward the bar, Finn right at my heels. The stage seemed to be the main focal point. It was festooned with decorations and posters and had dozens of lights mounted on bars above the front of the stage, pointing down at it. The music wasn’t live but was coming through the speakers on either side of the stage.
I spotted a table for two in the corner and we weaved our way toward it. There were about fifty people scattered at the tables, but it wasn’t anywhere near packed. The mixture of people was about evenly split between locals and cruisers.
I pulled out a chair on the far side of the small table and sat down. Finn circled the table, looking for a suitable place, and finally dropped himself onto the wood floor next to me.
After a moment, a man came over to take my order. I asked for a bottle of Carib and a bowl of water. He didn’t blink at what would be an unusual request in most bars back in the States. A moment later, he returned with a dripping cold bottle for me and a scarred wooden bowl for Finn. He asked if I wanted to start a tab and I declined, paying him with American dollars. A tab meant waiting around to settle up, and I preferred to be able to move quickly.
Finn looked up at me, then down to his bowl.
“You behave and later I might add a little beer, okay?”
He licked his chops with a slurp.
The beer was cold. I looked around at the people in the bar. Many were eating—some just munching on bar food, while others had full dinners served. Though we’d already eaten, the aromas were enticing.
A familiar-looking man with long hair was moving among the people at the tables, saying hello, and occasionally handing something to someone from a small box under his arm. He was about six-foot, with big shoulders, carrying an oversized plastic cup with a straw.
“Here ya go,” the man said, as he approached my table. He handed me an insulated beer holder. “Don’t let that get warm.”
I thanked him and took it, looking down at the logo on the side: The Eric Stone Band. He started to turn but stopped and looked back. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Marathon,” I replied. “You were playing at a friend’s place; the Rusty Anchor.
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Jesse, right? Rusty’s silent partner.”
I nodded, though I didn’t really consider myself a partner in Rusty’s business. He’d needed a stake some time ago and cut me in for a percentage. We’d argued the amount, him wanting to give me a higher cut and me wanting it lower.
“Dude, Rusty saved our asses there,” he said, spinning the other chair around and straddling it. “I had a two-week gig all set up at Dockside, just so we could make enough money for this trip. Then they closed up, and we were short on funds to get here.”
“You probably saved his ass, too. I’ve been telling him for years, he needs to get better entertainment.”
“Thanks! Anyway, my wife’s a yogi and brought her classes to that big back yard Rusty has. The ladies really loved it. That’s where Rusty met Sidney.”
“A yoga class at the Anchor?”
“It went over well,” he said. “And Sidney is helping Rusty look at better shows to book.”
I couldn’t recall meeting anyone named Sidney. A new bartender or bouncer? I wondered.
“Who’s Sidney?”
“Rusty’s new lady-friend,” Eric said, with a grin.
I nearly choked on my beer. “R
usty? A girlfriend?”
Rusty and I had known each other for nearly thirty years. I was his daughter’s godfather, and I’d flown down when his wife died bringing Julie into the world. That had been more than twenty-five years ago, and as far as I knew, he’d never had a girlfriend since then. My first wife left me not long after that, and I didn’t make room for anyone serious in my own life for over a decade. To me, that was a long time.
“Yeah,” Eric replied. “Sidney Thomas.”
“Sidney Thomas?” I said, still confused.
Eric’s eyebrows did a little dance. “She used to be a Playboy bunny back in the eighties.”
Now I was sure the man was off his rocker. “How is Rusty dating a centerfold?”
“Oh, I don’t think she was ever a centerfold model,” he said, grinning. “But she did appear in the magazine back then. She drives a beer truck now.”
I knew the guy who delivered beer to the bar. I’d met him dozens of times. He was an older guy named Hank, who’d visited Marathon on vacation about a million years ago and never left.
Maybe Hank retired, I thought.
“Well, good for him,” I said, scratching my chin, still wondering. “That’s another thing I’ve been telling him he needed to get.”
“He’s a bit hard-headed, isn’t he?”
I laughed. “Now that’s an understatement.”
Eric tipped his big cup. “But he’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.”
“This is also true,” I said, raising and tilting my beer in salute.
“Sidney knows every guitar picker up and down the Keys, and a bunch more on the mainland. She got Scott Kirby to play the weekend we were leaving. And I heard she was trying to get the Boat Drunks to come down from up island.”
Rusty had almost always hired out-of-work fisherman who knew how to play a guitar, but occasionally he brought in others with a following. Eric was probably the best-known act he’d hired. To get names like that takes money, and Rusty is kind of a tightwad.
“Hey, I gotta get on stage. You be around for a while?”
Rising Force Page 22