by Bobby Akart
Tucker returned with a sixteen-ounce can of Monster energy drink. The fact that he was guzzling it down told Lacey all she needed about her son’s plans for the rest of the trip. He was going to remain jacked up on B vitamins and caffeine until he crashed on the dock below the Conch Republic flag at Driftwood Key.
They talked for a while, alternating between reminiscing about boat trips she and Owen had taken Tucker on when he was young and speculation about how the Keys had fared following the nuclear attacks.
They shared their recollection of how Hank operated the Driftwood Key Inn and the role everyone played. The McDowells were healthy eaters, so they were looking forward to eating the organic-grown vegetables from Sonny’s greenhouses and eating the fresh fish that Jimmy was so adept at catching.
The conversation turned to Mike and Jessica. Lacey and Mike were always close. He was more of a big brother to her than an uncle. When he married Jessica, who was slightly younger than he, Lacey had immediately found a sister to commiserate with following the death of Lacey’s mom. The trio had become tight, and Lacey looked forward to seeing them both.
1001 millibars.
Their conversation bounced around as they continued heading south-southeast along the coast. Their course took them along Captiva and Sanibel Islands off the coast of Fort Myers. After they’d gotten married, Lacey and Owen had honeymooned by going camping in several of Florida’s state parks, including Cayo Costa, a sand-filled barrier island accessible by a small boat or kayak. It was one of the largest barrier islands and had afforded the newlyweds plenty of privacy.
As daylight turned to dusk, Lacey began to develop a slight headache. She asked Tucker to bring her one of the Monster drinks. It would never be her beverage of choice under any circumstances, especially since it was not chilled. But his inability to find any pain relievers or analgesics on board necessitated the alternative method of using caffeine to narrow the blood vessels leading to the brain, which restricted blood flow and alleviated the pain.
The wind had begun to pick up occasionally. As pitch darkness overtook them, the occasional breeze turned to unexpected gusts that were strong enough to rock the fishing boat from side to side. They’d pass without Lacey or Tucker giving them a second thought.
The two had grown complacent and comfortable during the uneventful trip. They were more than halfway to Driftwood Key when they sailed past Marco Island. However, everything suddenly changed.
Lacey’s head was pounding from an incessant headache. The wind gusts had become more frequent. The sea spray turned to rain. The previously uneventful trip was about to become far more interesting.
998 millibars.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Friday, November 8
Aboard the Cymopoleia
Gulf of Mexico
995 millibars.
In Greek mythology, Cymopoleia, daughter of the sea god Poseidon, was the Greek goddess of violent seas and storms. The boat had been renamed by its original owner several years ago to pay homage to the thirteen people who’d died when their commercial liftboat capsized during a hurricane in the Gulf. The death of anyone on the Gulf waters tugged at the heartstrings of commercial fishermen who made a living there.
The fishing boat had a padded captain’s chair designed for comfort. However, it was positioned far enough from the helm so the captain of the vessel didn’t, as they say, fall asleep at the wheel. The wheel of their fishing boat was the size of a bicycle tire with stainless-steel spokes. It had signs of wear and tear from the many hands that had gripped it, fighting the waves and navigating to the most-fertile fishing waters.
The wheel was mounted waist high. Behind it, a number of essential devices were mounted at the helm, including radar, the LORAN, and a control panel dedicated to navigation. Embedded amongst all the dials and switches and displays was the boat’s barometer. Ironically, it was located near the marine radio, which would ordinarily have been set to monitor the weather in the region. Now it was turned off, as static was the only thing being broadcast.
The barometer had dropped precipitously, but Tucker, who’d cozied up in the captain’s chair as they sailed just off the coast, had stopped monitoring it early on when it had shown no evidence of dropping as the Andinos had suggested it might.
Yet it had. Tucker wasn’t a seasoned boater. Every once in a while, he’d look down toward the helm to see if any warning lights were flashing. Mainly, he’d glanced at the GPS to determine where they were in relation to landmarks on the coast. Like a passenger on a long road trip, he’d become more interested in his surroundings and calculating the answer to the question are we there yet?
Nonetheless, Tucker considered himself a seasoned boater by this point. He’d spent hours under the tutelage of Andino together with hands-on experience as they’d crossed the Gulf from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs. His familiarity with the controls caused him to become overconfident and lackadaisical. Like on a highway, things can go wrong when on the open seas.
The Gulf waters had become tedious to look at. Waves rolled past as the bow of the commercial fishing boat crashed through them. The conditions created by the fallout of nuclear winter resulted in the water and the sky visually merging into one.
Dull. A shade of gray without form except for the hints of darkness both above and below the whitecaps, which were becoming more frequent.
They say a good sailor knows when to stay in port, but that axiom was based on the ship’s captain knowing the weather conditions around him. Lacey and Tucker were sailing blind into a storm that had a full head of steam as it roared across the Florida Keys. An experienced boater might hear their story and say, “Well, I’ve never been caught in bad weather.” They’d either be lying, or it just hadn’t happened to them yet.
As the first feeder band washed over their boat, forcing the bow to suddenly push toward the west, Lacey and Tucker realized they were headed for trouble. They began to question their present course. Together, they studied the GPS and the nautical charts. If they changed direction toward land, where could they dock, and how long would it take to get there? Would they be met with friendly, helpful people like the Andino family, or modern-day pirates who’d steal their fuel or their vessel or worse?
The longer they waited to make a decision, the more severe the storm became. The gusts turned to a steady moisture-filled wind. The conditions had turned raw. Harsh. More than they thought they could handle. Despite their fears of the unknown, Lacey and Tucker had become hardened to the threats they faced.
Suddenly, the bow rose out of the water and dropped hard, throwing Lacey to the deck of the wheelhouse. She scrambled to find her footing, and just as she did, the stern lifted and the bow dropped, creating a surfing effect as the boat dipped its nose into the canyon created between the waves.
At the bottom of the sudden drop, the crest of a breaking wave crashed into the boat, driving into them like an out-of-control Mack truck. It had all changed with lightning-fast speed.
Lacey flew across the wheelhouse again, as she couldn’t find something to latch on to.
“Mom!” Tucker shouted as he scrambled to help her to her feet.
He glanced through the side windows of the wheelhouse and was shocked to see the whitecaps. Despite his inexperience, in that moment, he felt relieved. Being eye level to the whitecaps meant they were safe. If he’d seen nothing but water, it meant they were sinking.
He held her around the waist while keeping one hand on the wheel to keep the bow pointed into the unruly waters. Lacey gripped the teak trim on the helm until she could locate the stainless-steel grab bar near the entrance to the galley.
Up they went again as another massive wave rolled past with a violence only the planet itself was capable of generating. Man may be able to conjure up destructive nuclear bombs, but nothing compares to the annihilation caused by naturally occurring catastrophes like volcanos, earthquakes, and killer storms.
The bow popped up out of the water like a cork,
only to be crushed by another wave taller than the wheelhouse, forcing it back down again with a crushing blow. Two forces of nature battled one another—gravity and buoyancy. The powerful waves used their ally, gravity, to force the boat toward the bottom of the Earth. The boat’s buoyancy fought back, using its upward lift to seek air at the surface.
Over and over again, the waves, which had now caught up to the wind speed, attacked the vessel at its most vulnerable. The constant battering of the boat tossed its crew around the wheelhouse. The Cymopoleia was without a captain, as Lacey and Tucker were unable to regain control of themselves, much less the boat. Flailing about in the water as the storm had its way with her, the vessel was caught in a battle to the death between gravity and its ability to float.
Then a massive gust of wind struck her on the port side, forcing it sideways. Now, rather than the hull acting as a buffer to the incredible waves they encountered, the Cymopoleia was turned sideways to the storm.
Advantage: gravity.
With gravity continuing to use its powerful grip on the vessel to pull it down, the buoyant nature of the boat had shifted to one side. They were now broadside to the waves, beam-to, as boat captains say. Even aircraft carriers can be rolled in rough seas when they’re beam-to.
If these captains didn’t right the ship, it would capsize.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Friday, November 8
Gulf of Mexico
984 millibars.
The sound of the wind was unnerving. It had changed from scream to shriek to moan. Then it turned preternatural. It was alive, playing a macabre tune resembling a ghoulish figure angrily slamming its hands down on the keys of a church organ. Deep. Growling. Like an AI-generated sea creature rising from the dark water, throat open, ready to consume them.
Man versus the forces of nature. Tucker gave up on the prospect of making it to shore. His mind raced. He recalled the conversations around the dinner table at the Andinos’ home as well as during his hands-on training from the day before. Certain things stuck in his head.
If you can’t make it to shore in time, stay away. Waves get steeper and break more easily as they approach the shoreline. Tucker had visions of his inability to control the boat as it crashed into Marco Island.
Keep your speed, or the storm will drive you. With rain pelting him from all directions, Tucker wiped his face clear and then rubbed the gauges located behind the wheel. He was deeply focused now that he’d gathered himself. He was ready to soldier through.
After they had regained their footing, Tucker stayed with the helm while Lacey went in search of protection in the event they were washed overboard or capsized.
“Put this on!” shouted Lacey, who returned from below deck with life jackets.
Tucker continued to grip the wheel in order to bring their boat around, turning it back into the waves that were rolling toward them. He provided a little more throttle as the bow dipped into the water, using the surfer’s method of taking advantage of the wave’s energy to turn. The boat responded, and they were once again toe-to-toe with their heavyweight opponent.
Lacey held onto the stainless-steel grab bars mounted within the wheelhouse. She helped Tucker slip on the life jacket and secure the buckles before pulling the tabs to adjust for his slim waist. They both exhaled for the first time in a while.
“This is nuts, Mom!”
She shouted back to him, “Just keep doing what you’re doing! I have one more thing to get!”
Patting her son on the back as she left, Lacey struggled to keep her balance as she descended the stairs into the galley. After a moment, she returned with two safety lines. These elastic tethers had carabiner anchor points at each end. One connected to a stainless clasp at the back of their life jackets, and the other could be attached to any suitable spot on the boat, including railings or cleats.
Tucker caught a glimpse of the barometer on the water-soaked helm. The pressure had dropped to 982 millibars. The storm was continuing to strengthen, battering the boat mercilessly.
Tucker’s head was on a swivel, looking in all directions as if an exit ramp from this highway to hell would suddenly emerge. He wiped the moisture off his face and leaned into the wheel to glance at all the gauges. They offered nothing in the way of comfort. Finally, he convinced himself it would be okay speaking aloud, as if verbalizing his rationale would make it so.
“We gotta hang on. It’ll pass over us eventually. They always do, right?”
Lacey leaned against the bench seat on the other side of the wheelhouse and gripped the helm. Tucker set his jaw and continued to fight the wheel. He was gaining confidence and focus.
The waves were coming every fifteen seconds or so with a steady, almost set-your-watch-by-it predictability. The rhythmic motions allowed Tucker and Lacey to breathe when pointed toward the water and hold their breath as the bow was thrust upward, praying that the coming wave didn’t crest more than a slight whitecap.
As the period between waves gets shorter, they become steeper. The steeper they become, the more likely they are to break in the middle of the Gulf. A tall, breaking wave at that frequency could destroy their boat. They weren’t breaking yet.
Tucker’s prior obsession with the GPS and their course was abandoned. He simply steered the boat with survival in mind, hoping to outlast the storm.
Then it happened.
The bow was forced downward, deeper than normal, it seemed. The massive wave pounded its fist on the deck, snapping the antennas that were bolted to a steel mast adjacent to the wheelhouse. Losing their antennas meant they’d lost their GPS and LORAN navigation system. Any hope they had of reaching out by radio to issue a Mayday was dashed. Not only did they lose track of where they were, but they were unable to detect or reach out to any boats that might be in the area. Issuing a Mayday on Channel 16, the international distress frequency, would fall on deaf ears or be silenced by the drone of the hurricane-force winds.
The ramifications were simple. If they capsized, nobody would know until the debris, or their bodies, floated ashore.
Chapter Forty
Friday, November 8
Aboard the Cymopoleia
Gulf of Mexico
It was after midnight when the sea sucked Lacey overboard. Above the wheelhouse, the Bimini top that covered the upper helm had been ripped from its supports. Still holding on by a thread, the winds whipped the canvas around in circles, beating the top deck as well as the windows of the wheelhouse. The metal supports that had been dislodged from the fiberglass threatened to break the glass of the cabin with each blow. A boat that loses its windows can fill up with water in minutes.
Lacey refused to let Tucker go out of the wheelhouse to harness the flying canvas. She insisted he was more experienced driving this boat, although it was really a ploy to keep him safe. After a lot of convincing, she moved below to rummage through the stateroom and galley cabinets in search of a serrated knife. All she could do was cut the Bimini top loose without having it beat her down in the process.
“Mom, you’ve got to stay tethered!”
“I know. Just hold it steady and don’t slow down. We’ve got this!”
She leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. She held onto the cushioned seating and the ceiling as she made her way through the door onto the aft deck. The nonskid gelcoat was no match for the three inches of standing water that seemed to remain on the decks during the deluge. She immediately wondered if she’d be able to pull off the task as the wind caught her clothing and tried to lift her into the air.
Lacey reached out to grasp the ladder leading to the top deck. She gathered up the nylon rope attached to her carabiner. She clipped it to the ladder and began her ascent topside. The boat continued to pitch with the passing waves, making her task near impossible. It was hard to imagine a more difficult job than doing anything outside the protective confines of a boat’s cabin during a violent storm.
On land, hurricane-force gusts can slow anyone to a crawl.
On the water, that same wind can knock you flat. The decks are soaked with water. The boat is rolling, pitching and heaving. The sea spray is pelting your body like birdshot from a shotgun. In the back of your mind, the fear of a misstep resulting in your being blown overboard begins to consume you.
Lacey climbed the stairs and emerged topside on her hands and knees. Her nylon rope had gotten tangled up in the antenna that was barely attached to the boat by a rubber-coated cable. She struggled with the cable, finding it difficult to hold onto something and untangle her safety line.
She pushed her way across the deck with the balls of her feet until her back was wedged into the corner of the side railing. Lacey started to cut through the cable with the serrated edge before stopping herself. If she did that, they’d have no hope of using their marine radio. She let out a deep sigh and surveilled her surroundings.
The Bimini top was flying overhead like a large kite trailing a commercial airliner. It whipped upward, and then, as the boat rode down the back side of a wave, the change in windspeed brought it downward, where it swirled from starboard to port across the windshield in a counterclockwise motion.
It was everything attached to the canvas that created the threat. The stainless supports were like sharp, twisted clubs seeking a target. The Garmin radar antenna had broken loose of its supports and was entangled with the canvas, adding a powerful punch each time the remains of the Bimini top struck the boat.
The entire tangled mess was being used by the hurricane as a weapon to pummel the Cymopoleia. Lacey couldn’t reach the cables and ropes that held the top to the boat because her safety line was tangled. She didn’t want to cut off their only chance of issuing a Mayday. She had an idea.