by Matthew Rief
At the bottom, I zeroed in on my quarry. Under a small outcropping of rocks, I spotted three long pairs of antennas sticking out. One of the best things about living in the Keys is the seemingly endless supply of great-tasting fresh seafood. And there was no bounty from the ocean that I enjoyed more than the Florida spiny-tailed lobster. With the end of the season only a month away, most of the lobster had vacated their shallow dwellings for safer, deeper waters. The last thing I wanted was to pass on a good opportunity.
Holding the net in my left hand and the tickle stick in my right, I finned right over the trio of lobsters and used the tip of the stick to prod them out one by one. These lobster swim fastest backward, so by situating the net behind them and tapping the front of them, you send them swimming back right into the net and they trap themselves. After being down just a few minutes, I had my limit of six bugs that were each easily above the regulation size of three inches carapace length.
Pressing my bare feet against the ocean floor, I pushed myself up and broke free of the surface. Ange was standing on the port side of the Baia, staring down at me as I held the full net up in the air. I kicked for the stern, climbed up onto the swim platform and handed them to her.
“Well, it isn’t exactly the kind of treasure we’re looking for,” she said, smiling from ear to ear. “But I can’t complain.”
I sat on the transom and toweled off as Ange opened the live well and dropped the lobsters inside. We spent a few more hours cruising along the line, recording depth readings and notable underwater formations. By 1100, we’d finished the course and had a pretty good lay of the ocean.
“It’ll take weeks to survey all of this,” I said, looking out over the blue water. “Maybe longer than that.”
Ange nodded. “There are far worse places to spend your time. Heard anything back from the professor?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. But I told Pete I’d be at the restaurant around one o’clock. Let’s start heading back to Key West.”
It was a perfectly clear day, so as Ange started up the engines, I stared off into the horizon in all directions. To the north, I could see all the way to the Everglades, and to the south, the Seven Mile Bridge and glimpses of the Atlantic beyond it. In less than a minute, Ange had us turned around and cruising at thirty knots, heading west through the Gulf along the Lower Keys.
FOUR
When we arrived back at Conch Harbor Marina, I noticed that Jack’s forty-five-foot Sea Ray named Calypso had returned and was moored in its usual spot at slip forty-seven. Jack Rubio is the owner and operator of Rubio Charters, a fishing and diving charter that has been running for almost a hundred years in Key West. We’d first met back in ’98 when I was eleven years old and my dad, a Navy diver, had been stationed at Naval Station Key West. We met on a dive charter and had been friends ever since. A third-generation conch, Jack was one of the best divers I knew, and he knew every island, reef, bank, cut, and ledge in the Keys as well as anyone alive.
Ange eased the Baia against the white fenders, and I jumped onto the dock and tied her off. Glancing down towards the Calypso, I spotted a group of four guys and two women walking towards me, carrying two massive blackfin tuna and a sailfish between them. Judging by their pale complexions, which had turned painfully red from a long morning out on the water, I knew that they were tourists.
They laughed and talked loudly as they shuffled their heavyset frames past me. I watched as they continued on towards the side door of the Greasy Pelican, the marina’s restaurant that sat right over the water and offered clean-and-cook service for freshly caught fish.
After locking up the Baia, I tucked the leather-bound dagger into my waistband beside my Sig, then Ange and I headed over to the Calypso, spotting Jack out on the deck with a black plastic garbage bag in his hands. His beautiful boat was a mess, with empty beer cans all over the place, fish guts and blood on the transom, and three tangled fishing poles resting against the starboard gunwale.
“They look like they had fun,” I said, glancing over at Jack as he threw an aluminum can into the half-full garbage bag, causing it to chime in a symphony of tings against a pile of others.
Jack was all wiry muscle. At six feet, he was a few inches shorter than me and probably tipped the scale at only a buck seventy. He had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and rarely wore anything more than a pair of boardshorts. To the naked eye, he looked like a typical island beach bum, but the truth was he was a savvy businessman and always worked hard at whatever he did.
“Oh yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “Those landlubbers had the time of their lives.”
Ange and I stepped over the transom and helped Jack clean up, wiping down the fiberglass with rags, picking up trash and helping him untangle the fishing poles. Even from across the marina, we could hear the group talking obnoxiously over by the Pelican. They took pictures with their phones, dropped the fish on the dock and used more profanities than even I’m used to, and I was in the Navy for eight years.
Jack looked at them and shook his head. “A lot of these people don’t give a damn about the romance of it all, bro,” he said. “They think it’s all about the noise and the damn photos that they can show and brag to their friends about. But fishing here is much more than that. It’s an art, and those beauties we caught deserved better than those clowns.”
As we finished up, I turned to Jack and said, “I still don’t get how you deal with all of this.”
“Rubio Charters has been around longer than just about any establishment here in the Keys,” he said. “It’s as conch as Key lime pie, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see it go.”
“I didn’t mean stop the business. What I mean is, why don’t you just hire guys to do this for you?”
He nodded. “I’ve thought about it. But they aren’t all bad, bro. Usually, I get people worth their salt.”
I patted my old friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go and get some lunch over at Pete’s. My treat. He told me he caught a haul of grouper last night. Plus, I’ve got something to show you.”
His eyes lit up at that. “The last time you spoke like that, you found a German WWII submarine. What are you up to now?”
The drive over to Pete’s took only a few minutes in my black Toyota Tacoma 4x4. His restaurant is on Mangrove Street, just a few blocks away from the ocean. As we drove, I noticed that the streets were much busier than usual, with lines of people filling the sidewalks and scampering across crosswalks. I remembered that the cruise ship Princess Louisa was scheduled to be in port for another day due to unexpected engine trouble and knew that it would be replaced soon after it left, a common occurrence in Key West, especially this time of year.
We pulled into a small parking lot in front of a structure that had the words Salty Pete’s Bar, Grill and Museum plastered in white paint across a dark blue backdrop. I was happy to see that the lot was nearly full. When I’d first moved to the Keys, the place had been rundown and barely made enough money to pay the electric bill, let alone make a profit. But thanks in part to Pete’s help, we’d found the Aztec treasure, and Jack and I had used part of our small finder’s fees to fix up the place. Now, it was one of the most popular places to eat in all of the Keys.
The three of us headed up a small set of steps and through a pair of mahogany double doors. As soon as the doors cracked open and the bell rang, the smell of grilled seafood wafted through the air and into my nose, causing my mouth to water. Osmond, a massive Scandinavian guy who went by Oz, was one of the best cooks in all of the Keys and never failed to impress. The restaurant looked almost new, with freshly painted walls, shiny hardwood floors, new booths lining the edges, and custom-made tables and chairs in the middle. But it still had its old-style charm, with pictures hung all over the place, many of them black-and-white, and old wooden helms and a few giant stuffed marlins.
We greeted and moved past Mia, the head waitress, and up a wide set of stairs near the back of the dining area that led up to the museum on the second floor. It had
rows of glass cases filled with artifacts from all over the Keys and even had a section devoted to the Aztec treasure, including pictures of the site and a golden statue of Montezuma. We stepped through a sliding glass door and out onto the balcony, which had a large seating area and a 180-degree view of the ocean. Given that it was in the eighties, there were only a few tables taken, and we sat down on one in the corner that was well shaded by a large umbrella.
Mia appeared a few seconds later, smiling as she filled three glasses in front of us with ice-cold water. As usual, she had her dark hair in a ponytail and wore a red Salty Pete’s Bar and Grill tee shirt that was tied back behind her.
“Pete’s out back tinkering with an old Mercury outboard,” she said. “I sent Jess to let him know you’re here. You guys know what you want?”
I decided on a blackened grouper sandwich with their specialty sweet potato fries and grilled shrimp kabobs over pineapple slices for an appetizer. I also ordered a glass of Key limeade to wash it all down. The good thing was you couldn’t really go wrong with Oz’s cooking. I’d tried everything on the menu and liked it all. Ange got the grilled mahi and Jack the jerk chicken with a side of a dozen raw oysters.
Leaning back in his wicker chair, Jack stared at me and said, “How much longer are you planning to keep me in suspense, bro?”
Just as the words left his mouth, the sliding door opened and Pete walked out onto the balcony. Pete Jameson is a well-known figure in the Keys, a man who’s lived here all his life and spent most his living hours out on the waters fishing and diving. He moves a lot quicker than you would imagine, given that he’s in his early sixties and has a short, chubby physique. His skin was bronzed from spending hours every day out in the sun and the top of his head, was completely barren of hair. But the most distinct feature about Pete was his right arm, which was missing just a few inches above the elbow, and his metal hook in lieu of a hand.
“Well, if it isn’t three of my favorite people in the Keys,” he said, smiling as he greeted each of us. Placing a hand on Jack’s and my shoulders, he added, “Did you guys see the exhibit for U-3546? I added a few new pieces.”
U-3546 was the German U-boat that my dad had discovered and given clues for me to find just before he was murdered. She rested in one hundred and sixty feet of water, about thirteen miles south of Islamorada, and we’d all spent much of our time over the past few months diving, exploring, and photographing the wreck.
“I’ll have to check it out after lunch,” I said. “Did you see that it was named a historic site?”
His eyebrows grew wide and he nodded. “It’s about time. That wreck is one of the most astonishing things I’ve ever seen beneath the waves, and I’ve seen more than a handful of most salty aquanauts combined.”
Mia appeared, holding a large plastic tray of food in one hand and a glass pitcher of Key limeade in the other. She smiled as she set our plated food in front of us and refilled our glasses. Unable to control myself, I grabbed hold of the sandwich and took a bite of the delicious fresh grouper.
Seeing my reaction, Pete plopped down into the fourth wicker chair and patted me on the back. “And to think,” he said, “the first time you came into my place, you weren’t even here for the eats.”
Ange laughed. “Some things don’t change.”
Jack, Pete, and Mia all stared at her inquisitively.
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “What Ange means is, today I’m not just here for the food. Though, with Oz on the grill, it sure is one hell of an added bonus.”
Mia raised her eyebrows. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve stumbled upon another Spanish galleon.”
The table went quiet and I glanced back at her, unable to keep a boyish grin from manifesting itself across my face.
“Damn, Logan,” Jack said. “Don’t you ever just kick back and relax?”
I threw my hands in the air. “I didn’t go looking for it. It just stumbled into my lap.”
After a short pause, Pete glanced at me inquisitively. “It?”
Mia had other tables to check up on but couldn’t bring herself to step away. In a moment, the table seemed to rise in anticipation, like when you’re at a movie theatre and the title screen is about to play. Instead of using words, I reached to my side and grabbed the dagger, which was still wrapped in the leather cloth I’d received it in and wedged between my holstered Sig and my belt. Unwrapping it slowly, I held it out in front of me, then set it on a small empty space on the table beside the salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of Swamp Sauce.
For a few seconds, they just stared at it. Then Pete reached across the table and snatched it with a calloused hand.
“It looks old,” Jack said, leaning over to stare at the dagger as Pete examined it.
“There’s a name inscribed here,” Pete said. “And a date. Beatrice Taylor, 1665.”
Ange nodded. “And there’s a symbol too,” she said, pointing beside the name and date.
“What is that?” Pete asked, tilting his head. “A heart?”
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as ours. But it sure looks like it. So what do you guys think?”
Pete held the dagger out in front of us and said, “Well, it’s a knight dagger.”
“A knight dagger?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s a variant of a rondel dagger. It was popular in Europe in the late Middle Ages, and this one has a solid gold hilt and steel blade. My guess is that this particular blade was designed for ceremonial purposes.” He shook his head and added, “It’s incredible that such an old piece lasted so many years under the ocean and still looks like this.”
“I was told that it had been encrusted with barnacles and other sea life,” I said. “They could have formed a protective layer, keeping the dagger from total corrosion.”
Pete nodded. “It probably came from an English merchant vessel of some kind. Or possibly it came off one of the ships in the 1733 Spanish fleet, or any of the hundreds of other wrecks in the Keys.”
“But why would a European merchant vessel be sailing in modern-day Florida Bay?” I asked.
Jack’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, where did you find this?”
“I didn’t find it,” I said and explained all about Chris and how his uncle, an old shrimp captain, had found it years ago while hauling in his catch.
“That’s some shallow water out there,” Jack said. “And there are hundreds of small islands, sandbars, cuts, and reefs.” He shook his head and added, “Not the place for a merchant vessel.”
“And that rules out the 1733 Spanish fleet theory,” Pete said. “Or any galleon for that matter. A Spanish galleon fully loaded down with treasure, cargo, and contraband would draw nearly thirty feet of water. A ship like that couldn’t have made it anywhere close to Florida Bay, even if it wanted to.”
I took a few more bites from my sandwich, finishing it off, and tossed a few sweet potato fries down the hatch as well. I looked out over the blue ocean beyond and marveled at all the secrets it still kept hidden beneath the surface after all these years.
“So, if it’s not from a galleon or merchant vessel, where did it come from?” Ange asked.
As we finished eating, Pete stayed uncharacteristically quiet, seemingly lost in thought. After a few minutes, a faint smile appeared on his face and he said, “It must have been a sloop or a schooner, and there’s only one type of captain who would dare set sail into such shallow and treacherous waters in those days.” He paused, took a drink of water, grinned and added, “A pirate captain.”
FIVE
We sat on the balcony, chugging down a few Paradise Sunset beers and talking about the dagger long after our food was gone. Pete’s mention of the word pirate had us all both intrigued and skeptical.
“I didn’t know there were very many pirates in the Keys,” I said.
“There weren’t,” Pete replied. “In fact, these islands scared the hell out of even some of the most notorious pirates. But there are a few s
tories.”
“Any about sunken pirate ships?” Ange asked.
Both Jack and Pete shook their heads.
“Never heard anything like that before,” Pete replied. “Nowhere near Florida Bay, anyway.”
“What about the name?” Ange said. “Who is this Beatrice Taylor? We did a few internet searches and couldn’t find anything on her.”
Pete shrugged. “This dagger was probably stolen. Could be anyone.”
After another fifteen minutes of drinks, theories, and a few of Pete’s sea stories, we set out to search the entirety of the area that Chris’s uncle dragged his net through. Jack, Ange, and I rose to our feet, but Pete stayed put.
“What you guys need to do is mow the lawn,” he said, a term used to describe a salvager searching the ocean floor over a large area for lost antiquities. “Get that equipment out that you used to find the Intrepid, and start going back and forth. Just be careful. That kind of activity will draw attention around here. And people who frequent those waters will grow suspicious real fast.”
Having been sitting for so long, I stretched and patted Pete on the back.
“Thanks for everything,” I said. Then I grabbed the dagger off the table, wrapped it back in the leather cloth, and stowed it away beside my holstered Sig.
We headed back through the sliding glass door, past the rows of artifacts and down the stairs towards the main entrance. I handed Mia a folded twenty-dollar bill on the way out and told her that the food was amazing as usual.
Pushing through the double doors, Jack swiveled his head back. “I don’t have a charter for a few days. We should head out there in the morning and get started.”