Off Track: An Off Series Novella

by Glen Robins

  “I quickly changed my clothes, donning the darkest colors I had: a navy-blue button up shirt with red and white flowers and brown cargo shorts—not a fashion statement; an attempt at stealth, though not a very good one. I did manage to find a dark sweatshirt to hide the flower print.

  “Halfway to the entrance gate of the marina, I had to turn around and fetch my key. My haste had made me forget that minor detail.

  “I moved like a panther through the streets of George Town, sticking to the shadows of the alleys and walking paths. My pace was much faster than before. It took me only thirty minutes to reach my destination, but when I did, I was surprised to find the house was still lit. Yellow light streamed out of its windows on all sides. Every other house lay in darkness.

  “Seeing activity at three o’clock in the morning altered my plans. I stood in an alley across the road and halfway down the block, observing. I waited fifteen minutes, keeping my eyes open for any sign of police or neighbors who might be watching. The voices from inside the house began to die down and a few of the lights turned out. A few more minutes went by. Another light or two went out and the noises all but subsided.

  “In the time that I waited, my plan had changed. I realized now that I wanted the occupants to be awake. The neighborhood had several alleys, perfect for a quick escape. A window of opportunity opened just a crack and I took advantage. I galloped across the road, pounded on the door, dropped the backpack I had carried, and darted into the nearest alley.

  “I waited just long enough to hear the door open, a woman curse and then bellow out loud, ‘What is this?’ Since the door didn’t slam shut, I knew she was gathering reinforcements. I also suspected that the sight of Tino’s share of the reward had surprised her.

  “Twisting and turning through the back alleys at full speed brought me back to my boat in twenty minutes. Five minutes after that, I was underway with only the light of the brilliant stars above to guide my path through the harbor to the open sea.

  “I sailed alone until I reached the shore here at Blossom Village, where it all started for me. Here at my childhood home. Here where I learned what I needed to learn and where I watched my parents struggle to meet life’s challenges. I knew I could draw strength from this place.”

  I tip my head toward the shore of the island behind us in the distance. Rob and Lukas both follow my gaze. It is now late in the afternoon, but neither of them indicates they are tired of listening nor tired of fishing, so I continue doing both.

  “None of my family was here anymore, but my parents’ little hovel remained just as I had left it. I arrived as the sun peaked over the horizon. I dropped anchor a hundred meters from shore and swam in, pushing an inflatable bag full of food and water and other necessary supplies ahead of me because I was too tired to blow up the dinghy.

  “Since none of my former crew members knew this hut existed and my siblings had sworn to never return following our parents’ funeral, it made the perfect hideaway. Here I would stay until I could get my head right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Six Months Before Meeting Collin Cook

  Blossom Village, Little Cayman Island

  “How long did it take to get your head right?” Lukas asks. He peers at me from across the deck. He’s sitting now, leaning forward on his cane.

  “It took a long time,” I say. “I had so much guilt and so much pain nagging at me that it took me a long time to get this head of mine right.” I knock on the side of my skull with my knuckles as I say this. It brings a smile to both men’s faces.

  “No doubt the rum colluded with the guilt which conspired with the shame to make it difficult to get anything right. It was like living in a permanent fog.”

  “So, you tried drowning your sorrows, huh?” asks Rob. “Didn’t work, did it?”

  “No, of course not,” I say.

  “How long did it take you to figure that out and how did you get past it?” Lukas is the one asking this question. Again, he seems empathetic to my sorrow. His experience seems close to the surface.

  “I’ll tell you” I start. “At first, the days blurred together—each not so different from the one before. Each day filled with a heap of self-loathing and double guessing. And drinking. And sleeping.

  “Time, they say, heals all wounds. I remember thinking that and wondering how much time it would take to heal mine.

  “After a few months went by, the pain faded enough for me to realize I was wasting my life. My self-pity was serving no purpose. The drinking was destroying me, but I had no will to stop.

  “It was time to change course, but still too early to go back to my old life.

  “For the better part of three years, I fished in the morning. After breakfast, I would work on my parents’ little home. I applied and improved my skills as a fix-it man, making measurable progress each day. In the middle of the afternoon for those first few months, when the sun was high and the air grew heavy, I would soak my soul in a bottle of rum until I passed out somewhere in or near the house.

  “I made slow but steady progress on the home improvement work. Seems a competent person with some focus and drive could have finished the whole project in much less time, but I had no deadline and only trace amounts of motivation. Working on the hut and making it a home was therapy. Fishing was, too. The drinking? Well, it was just a bad habit I knew I needed to quit.

  “As the house started to take shape and become something of a fine edifice, I became more excited about my progress. Seeing the transformation of that tiny, dilapidated hut into a dwelling fit for a prince brought a sense of accomplishment and pride. Each milestone brought more excitement, which spurred me to work harder. Bit by bit, the amount of work I did each day increased and the amount of rum I drank decreased. I’m sure there’s a correlation there somewhere.”

  This comment brings a chuckle from both of my listeners and a look of relief to Rob’s face, especially. I think he was worried before hearing me say this piece. I cast my line with a fresh bait fish on the hook and continue.

  “All the while, the Admiral Risty bobbed in the surf day after day, baking in the sun and suffering from lack of use and neglect. She seemed to watch me like a jilted lover, waiting for me to return to her. My thoughts drifted to her often, but I kept my distance. Too many unpleasant things to remember onboard her.

  “Occasionally I would swim out to her and make sure everything was OK. I ran her little inboard engine every other week to keep it working. During my visits, I usually scrubbed her down with a bucket and brush. As my ambitions with the hut grew, so did my need for materials not available on Little Cayman. The Admiral beckoned me to use her. So, I scraped the barnacles off her underside before setting sail for Jamaica, where I would go every other month or so to buy the building materials I needed.

  “Of course, I also checked on my store of cash, hidden in the secret compartments. My modest lifestyle meant that it was holding up rather well.

  “One day towards the end of my self-imposed exile, I took a detour on my way back from one of my supply runs. I moored off the coast of George Town and drove my dinghy up on to the sandy shore where the tourists like to play. Many of them looked at me curiously, then continued on with their vacationing. Perhaps they paid me no heed because I acted like I was in a hurry and knew what I was doing.

  “After parking my dinghy on the beach, I donned my backpack and headed toward the downtown business district where all the banks that cater to the rich and shameless from across the globe are congregated. I waltzed into the one I knew by reputation. Many of my clients had used this particular bank for many of their transactions when they visited Grand Cayman on their combination business/pleasure trips.

  “My backpack contained $30,000 cash—the lion’s share of what remained of my ill-gotten earnings from my brief sojourn as a drug smuggler. It took me over an hour to transact my business but at the end of it, my three former crew members had accounts set up in their names and I had a promise from the bank pre
sident that he would track down these men and inform them of their holdings. His promise was backed by government regulations.

  “Without the burden of the excess cash hiding on my boat, my conscience felt liberated and I plowed into my home beautification project with more resolve. A typical day for me looked something like this: wake at eight o’clock; fish from the rocks or the public pier for an hour or so; walk to the market in town to sell a few fish and buy the day’s food; work on the house until lunchtime; eat my lunch; nap in my hammock in the shade of the ironwood trees; inspect my work and decide what needed doing the next day; fix myself something to eat for dinner; sit on the back patio and watch the sun go down over the watery horizon; sleep; wake and do it all again the next day.

  “I supposed most people who work in an office and toil away at some soul-crushing job might envy my circumstances. But I grew bored once the house project neared completion. The rum had long since lost its appeal, as had the fishing. I needed something more.

  “My bi-monthly trips to Jamaica confirmed to my soul the need I had to be out at sea. I also needed a crew and camaraderie and adventure.

  “The Admiral had needs, as well. It was time to get myself ship-shape and get back to doing what I loved to do. Then it was time to get the Admiral ship-shape and back to what she did best.

  “I showered. I shaved. I donned my Captain’s hat. I locked up the house—which now resembled one of those vacation beach resort cottages you see online—and marched out to the dinghy and drove it to the Admiral. I sailed her under half-sheets to Kingston and began my search for a new crew.

  “By the end of the second day, I had assembled a team of four experienced sailors who seemed to also possess the types of personalities well-suited to my needs. They were willing and able to work hard, play hard, talk nice to and around rich customers, and were easy to like.

  “I chose a man with a wild mop of hair and a quick smile as my first mate. Rojas was his name. He came highly recommended by one of the experienced boat captains with whom I had become acquainted during my many visits there. Making people laugh and smile and relax was his God-given talent. He was kind-hearted and generous and, like myself, was raised around boats. It was a perfect fit.

  “He suggested I also hire his cousin, Miguel. Miguel was a good man, though much quieter than his cousin. I liked him instantly because he set to work right away checking the sails and the rigging. He cared about boats and had, I soon learned, the ability and desire to fix anything that could go wrong.

  “Tog was a friend and former crewmate of Miguel’s. Rojas knew of him, too, and recommended him. He was my third hire.

  “To round out the crew, we found a man who was a friend of a friend of Tog’s. He went by the moniker of Jaime, which I thought unusual for a Caucasian. Afraid of nothing and always willing to try something new, this young white American seemed to be the odd man out, but he soon proved himself to be more than capable and an easy fit to our newly formed family. After a week’s worth of cruising through the Caribbean together, figuring out our compatibilities, we sailed for the tourist destination of St. Maarten’s in search of income.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Day I Met Collin Cook

  George Town, Grand Cayman Island

  Rob, the businessman, is stunned by this revelation. “Wait,” he says, mystified. “You went three years without an income? You survived on what? $32,000 for that long? While buying supplies to remodel your home?”

  I chuckle at his incredulity. He is obviously used to big city prices and lifestyles.

  “Yes,” I say humbly. “You can do a lot with very little if you know how to find a bargain and are willing to catch much of what you eat.”

  “Wow. That is unbelievable,” he says as he reels in an empty hook. The tuna are stealing most of our bait, but neither of us is bothered by it.

  “I should add at this point,” I say, “that I did odd jobs here and there to support myself. I didn’t want anyone in town to be suspicious of me. I had to make a show now and then of working. I also planted a small garden and harvested a few vegetables and greens. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep people from poking around like they do.”

  “Makes sense,” says Rob. “But still, that’s amazing. How long did you stay in St. Maarten’s?”

  “A few weeks. I like it, but I was an outsider. The other boat captains did their best to let me know that, so we moved on. I figured after three years enough time had elapsed that it was safe to reestablish myself in George Town as a service provider to the re-emerging tourist trade there. During those three years, the unnamed man had not been seen by any of my friends or colleagues in George Town. Nor had I heard a single whisper from him. In fact, no one had paid me any attention during my long absence.

  “The economy had improved, too. Cruise ships were once again loaded with passengers who were themselves loaded. Money was flowing as it had before the recession. Around this time, I discovered online rental services and learned that my little remodeled hut was exactly what some rich folks wanted for a getaway. I began renting it out at what I thought were exorbitant prices. I became fairly adept at navigating these ecommerce sites as a provider and soon I had a reasonable passive income stream. I liked that, but I also needed to establish a routine and build something where I could use my talents and my experience. I needed an active income as well. That’s why I went and hired a new crew and began booking charter sailings again. Things were good, but I decided the logical place for me to set up my base of operations was back home here in my beloved Cayman Islands.

  “So, my crew and I returned to my home base after our three-month tune-up through all parts of the Caribbean together. We had honed our skills and techniques, both technically concerning the operation of the Admiral Risty and business-wise in terms of indulging our wealthy clients with the right mix of amenities and adventure. The rich tourists wanted to feel the breeze and the freedom of sailing the seas without being too far from a bar, a bathroom, and a beach. Cruising around the islands of Cayman was the perfect environment for such people. The cruise ships brought us a fresh supply of eager customers three days a week.

  “My crew and I had been working the tourist trade in George Town for three months before your friend Collin Cook entered my life, causing another drastic turn. Revenues were growing as our reputation among the cruise ship and hotel concierges grew. Most of our clientele came as referrals from the top hotels in town or as part of the onshore excursions provided by the major cruise lines.

  “The Admiral was the envy of the island. Her main mast stood taller than that of any other ship in the marina. Her teakwood decks and polished gunwales gleamed in the Caribbean sun. She exuded an aura of exotic distinction and untamed freedom at the same time. That day, I stood proudly near her, leaning against a tree, while my crew enjoyed a respite in the shade. We were coming off an early morning cruise with a group of eight individuals who previously had never met, but thanks to the magic of time spent together and drinks shared in one of the world’s premiere vacation spots, were now fast friends. The four men pretended to be seafarers longing to return to the open sea. The women pretended to be willing cohorts as they boarded my boat. In typical fashion, this collection of Type A personalities egged me and my crew into achieving top speed and engaging in some mock racing maneuvers. By the time we returned to port, all eight had lost their lunch, so to speak. With green faces, they thanked us for an ‘awesome adventure.’” I say this with my best American accent. Again, my listeners indulge me with a chuckle.

  “I’ll bet you enjoyed every minute of that, didn’t you?” says Rob.

  “Of course I did,” I reply. “Nothing better than ‘bringing low their haughty looks,’ as the Bible says.” I snicker at this, as do Rob and Lukas.

  “Though the group seemed wealthy enough,” I continue, “there was no tip involved. Most sunset cruises involved much less speed, a gourmet menu, and the requisite debates about the finest wines and the best
golf courses. They always tipped better than the tours in the morning. The morning groups, however, usually seemed bent on pushing the limits of both speed and seasickness. It was not uncommon for these patrons, unlike the evening crowd, to vomit and to stumble gladly back on to the shore at the end of a three-hour tour.

  “The day Collin Cook came into our lives my crew and I had finished the morning tour of duty. The scheduled evening cruise was still five hours away when your frazzled-looking gentleman-of-a-friend jumped out of a taxi and speed-walked toward us. He tried to look nonchalant—like he had nothing better to do—as he approached me and my crew in the shade of the palm trees near the marina’s main gate.

  “He politely asked the men if they knew the captain of that boat, the one with the tall mast. My men shrugged, so I asked him what he wanted. This guy wasted no time. ‘Can I charter a private cruise, please?’ he asked.

  “I looked him over. He seemed like a decent fellow, though he was clearly agitated. I ignored the caution sign in my head. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘How many people in your group?’

  “‘Just me,’ he said. He tossed his head toward the street from which he had come. ‘I need a ride to Jamaica.’

  “I cocked my head at his unusual request. ‘When do you need that ride? We do mostly sunset cruises, you know.’

  “‘Like now would be good,’ he said as he looked again toward the road.

  “My men started to laugh, which made me laugh. This guy was bold and totally unfamiliar with the normal flow of our little business. I decided to throw him a hurdle to see if he would walk away. Nothing about him made him seem like anything extraordinary. A nice guy who seemed clueless and anxious? Yes, indeed. But a guy loaded with money? No. ‘I can do that, but it’s going to cost you, man,’ I said to him.

  “‘How much?’ he said without skipping a beat.