Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  The seas approaching the light at Sand Key were a steep five to seven feet high. They were common for this area. Because of the clarity of the water below, Morales’s 46-foot deep-V looked like it was running right over the coral. It was an optical illusion. The water surrounding the light was really an average of twenty-five-feet-deep and made for more great national coverage.

  Prince Henry’s throttle man trimmed the engine drives and the trim tabs inward. This changed the angle of the prop, pushing the bow of the boat closer to the water. Donaldson was not comfortable doing this but at the speed they were going, the twenty-foot leaps into the air were starting to get tiresome on the hull and the twin drive trains below the rattling deck. The threat was obvious and Donaldson knew it. The lower the bow was running to the water, the greater the chance it could penetrate an oncoming wave and submarine under the water instead of over it.

  Evenly placed sheets of jagged water erupted from both sides of the boat. Her speed was a constant eighty-six miles per hour and Morales was still in sight. Henry felt there was still hope yet, if he could just get his speed up. As they rounded the light, Donaldson pulled back on the throttles to compensate for the sharp turn. Henry though, put his gloved hand over that of his throttle man, pushing forward on the throttles. Donaldson pulled his hand from the aluminum sticks and turned away from the anxious prince, looking toward the ocean with his arms folded at his chest in an angry fury. Henry simply took over driving with one hand and throttling with the other. The end result was that there was no throttling to it. He had the boat at eighty percent power and was running over ninety miles per hour. The helicopter above, having to head into the wind, had to increase its collective pitch to keep up. Donaldson had achieved seven national championships, four world titles and countless other victories in his career as an offshore racer. Never before had he seen such a conflict in the cockpit. Win or not, as soon as they reached the dock, Donaldson was resigning from the prince’s team.

  The pilot of the helicopter above reduced the craft’s altitude, lowering it closer to the water. This came at the request of the cameraman who notified him that Prince Henry was really starting to look good. That’s when it happened.

  As the 39-foot catamaran submerged under the oncoming waves, a wall of white, frothing water rolled up the long deck towards the crew. Prince Henry watched as microseconds passed in what appeared like slow motion. Instinctively, Donaldson bent his torso towards his knees, down below the rise of the deck, letting the wave pass overhead. Panic turned to sheer terror for the prince who took the full brunt of the water into his face, neck and chest. He was one-tenth of a second too late as the wash pulled his head up and over the padded bolster seat, instantly breaking his neck. As the boat rapidly de-accelerated, the cameraman in the helicopter above strained to focus in on the dead body of the prince.

  A mile ahead on the course, a whirlwind of turbulent air followed the Bell 206 JetRanger occupied by Pat Stephens and Chester Marks. The airspace in and around Key West was a flurry of activity with a multitude of aircraft filing flight plans to track the offshore race through the harbor and out to sea.

  The JetRanger followed several boats but spent most of its time behind one in particular, the Miss Miami Coatings. Stephens didn’t care much for the sport although Marks was a fan of boats in general. The chopper maintained a close pursuit on the one hundred miles per hour boat maintaining an altitude of fifty feet. The only time Marks backed off was when the boat started to turn up a large amount of spray, at times saturating the chopper’s windshield.

  Stephens watched and waited as the boat below them leaped over the waves. Marks watched his airspeed indicator. It was reading one ten. Minus the six-knot headwind, that meant the 46-foot deep-V hull was traveling over one hundred and four miles per hour.

  “He’s really moving,” Marks said into the intercom.

  “That’s nice. Do we really have to be so low, Chester?” Stephens asked.

  “Pilot discretion, sir.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Watch him when he rounds this checkpoint, the seas are really rough on this stretch.”

  The JetRanger continued to follow, having to slow so as to not overtake the boat. Marks’s airspeed now registered ninety and they were flying with the wind.

  “This is some boat boss!”

  “Yeah, this guy only buys the best,” Stephens answered.

  “What do you think that thing set him back?”

  “Our sources tell us over one point two mil.”

  “Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No, I’m not and the absurd thing is he’ll probably replace most of the expensive stuff after every race, or at least he’s planning to.”

  “You gonna rain on his parade, boss?”

  “Rain? It’ll be a fucking deluge,” Stephens answered.

  •

  Small waves splashed upon the concrete seawall at Harbor Pier. SPORTSNET reports confirmed the crowd had grown to over seventy thousand spectators who since had grouped, trying to view the commotion around the winner’s circle. The long, sleek 46-foot Miss Miami Coatings lay tied to the pier. Her white deck was glistening in the sun, magnified by the small drops of crystal clear seawater that sparkled in the light.

  Morales stood like the victor he was, dressed in a white Nomex jumpsuit and a cherry red bandana wrapped around his neck. Standing next to him were the race officials from the American Powerboat Racing Association. Facing the group of men were reporters and television field correspondents who eagerly awaited an impromptu statement and possibly an interview. SPORTSNET had bought the broadcast rights for the World Championship Race and had several privileges that some of the other networks didn’t. Their crews were in full force, with cameras poised at all major points along the course and several mounted airborne, riding some of the many helicopters swarming the area like frenzied dragonflies. Sports World magazine, having neglected the sport for many years, sent one of their top writers and a skilled photographer. This was the largest world championship series ever held and, combined with the participation of Prince Henry, international attention was drawn to the tiny island city. The prince’s death would only compound the attention, although by the time of the winner’s circle ceremonies, the press was largely unaware of what had actually happened.

  “Guerillmo Morales,” came a strong, projected voice in the crowd.

  “Yes Mr. Roller,” he answered.

  “This is your third World Championship. The United States has not seen such a victor since the days of Betty Cook. Do you have any comments? How was it out there?” the commentator asked, his face barely visible behind the bright camera lights.

  “Well Stu,” he said, trying to display his best English, “it was rough!” The crowd erupted with laughter. “But seriously, I hope and pray as my family does that the Prince Henry gets, how you say, recovered. I wish we did see him so we could have stopped to help. I pray berry much.”

  “Any comments on the crash? Was this course just too rough?” Stu Roller asked.

  “A crash is berry bad, but we take a many risks to race like this in the ocean, it is never too rough for offshore racing. If you take a shower with you clothes on and at the same time beat yourself with a baseball bat why you tear up thousand dollar bills, that is offshore racing, it is berry rough.”

  “Very interesting analogy, Guerillmo Morales, World Champion offshore open class. Back to you, Vince,” Roller said, putting the mic down to his side as the camera-mounted lights went dim. “That’s a wrap, thanks Guerillmo,” Roller concluded with a handshake.

  “Sure anytime,” Morales answered.

  “Mr. Morales,” cried another voice from the crowd. “Hank Vincent, Sports World.”

  “Yes sir,” Morales answered.

  “Do you feel the sport of offshore racing will have to adopt stricter guidelines to prevent what happened here today?”

  “Definitely not sir, I believe we all take risks becaus
e we want to. No one holds a gun to my head to go racing, now maybe I hold a gun to my throttle man’s head, but that’s a different story.”

  The crowd erupted again with laughter.

  “If a man goes too far and stuffs his boat, I’m sorry. I know limits. I got my limits and my boat got its limits. I want to win, but I also want to go home and see my babies. Es simple.”

  “Can I quote you on this?”

  “I said it didn’t I?”

  “Mr. Morales,” came another voice from the crowd.

  “Pat Stephens,” the man answered.

  “Yes sir, and who are you with?”

  “The United States Attorney’s Office,” Stephens declared with authority.

  Morales froze. Was this some kind of joke? he thought to himself. Who would play such a rude trick on this, my greatest day?

  “Mr. Morales, I am here with twelve U.S. Marshalls. We have a warrant for your arrest,” Stephens said, coming face-to-face with the terrified man. Morales turned pale. Stephens made a special point to stand in and be cuffed to his prisoner with all the cameras in view and strobe flashes from a dozen different cameras exploding. Stephens took his time reading the classic Miranda warning in both English and Spanish, knowing that it would make a great soundbite for the evening news. The world watched as Stephens and a few from his entourage walked away from the winner’s circle. Morales, ashamed, held his once proud head low, a three-time world champion now fallen from grace.

  •

  Five hours later, swatches of red and blue light danced back and forth between the shoulders of the Keys Overseas Highway. In a line that stretched nearly a mile, thirty-two green and white Metro-Dade police cruisers along with four U.S. Marshall’s Suburbans formed an impenetrable convoy. Tucked away amidst the flashing lights and blaring sirens drove a white three-quarter-ton Dodge Maxi van. Its windows were made of Lexan and reinforced with wire mesh. The inside of the body panels were lined with yellow aramid Kevlar, making the entire vehicle bulletproof.

  The time was 9:39 p.m. Guerillmo Morales sat quietly handcuffed to a pole welded to the van’s frame. He sat prophetically amazed by the attention he had summoned. Along the route to South Miami, intersections were blocked by more flashing lights. It seemed like every agency in South Florida had a stake in the confinement and safety of Morales who was to be arraigned the next day.

  Morales had traveled this route many times before, usually in one of his Mercedes sedans, wearing a tailored suit or designer outfit, something loose and comfortable. Now he wore a bright orange jumpsuit with the bold white initials BOP-MCC, which stood for the Bureau of Prisons, Metro Correctional Center.

  * * * * *

  Doubloon

  The white and blue hull of the 53-foot Hatteras yacht Frankly Scarlett rolled softly as it endured the gentle four-foot swells. Moored to the bottom some ninety feet below, the massive craft exerted tension on its one-inch-thick anchor rope, making it taut with every wave. On board, Owen Sands cracked a stainless valve on a bright yellow aluminum dive tank. The burst of air hissed as it escaped the intense pressure.

  “This’ll do,” he said, slipping the cylinder into a matched backpack.

  Dressed in a professional wetsuit, Owen fit the part. His over-tanned legs extended up from his dive fins rising to the matte black wetsuit that started at his knees. It covered the rest of his body stopping short of his throat. He strapped a weight belt to his waist. From it hung a mirage of equipment contained in a mesh net bag. Joel watched, trying to remember the finer points of diving he had learned two years ago at a scuba class he attended while at Berkeley. He was concerned and apprehensive. The only practical experience he had was in the university swimming pool with the exception of one open water dive off of Catalina. Joel looked like an amateur. He was clad in a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt that read If It Feels Good, Do It. He used Owen’s spare tank, mask, and fins. Despite his inexperience, he still recalled the basics. He knew that a depth of thirty feet of water exerted as much pressure on the body as an eighty thousand foot high atmosphere of air and it increased an atmosphere every thirty feet thereafter. He remembered words like the bends, nitrogen narcoses, and cerebral embolism as he milled over the set of dive tables he picked up at a local dive shop earlier.

  Owen mounted his tank and fell backwards over the teak-lined side of the boat creating a large splash in the process. As he entered the water, a cold chill surged through his porous wetsuit engulfing his body in the cool liquid. At the same time, he felt the seawater flow into his ear canal making everything silent. Stunned at first, Owen quickly took a breath from the regulator. As he bit down on the mouthpiece, the taste of rubber coursed his pallet. The first breath of pressurized air filled his lungs as he exhaled bubbles that surrounded him, rushing to the surface. Looking up at the Frankly Scarlett, he remembered just how immense the boat was. A few feet away, two four-bladed propellers, almost four-feet in diameter, sat motionless. Joel watched as Owen stayed just a few feet under the water. Bubbles surfaced every few seconds. Then he stood atop the teak-lined gunwale and jumped in feet first. He wanted to see where he was going but was not used to the clarity of the water. Being able to see the bottom ninety feet below reminded him of a time when he had jumped from the family garage as a kid. He had shattered his right knee and was acrophobic ever since. Jumping into this water was more like jumping off a nine-story building. Joel landed, suspended in a cloud of aerated bubbles, next to Owen. The two headed for the bottom at a gradual decline. They headed straight for a dark pattern situated between two patches of coral. The pattern was about one hundred feet long and eighty feet wide.

  The sixty-foot wood shell they found was, a few years before, a Haitian fishing trawler that was now sitting securely on the bottom at the base of the huge coral mountain that was the Elbow Reef. Ninety-four lives had been lost the year before when the crudely built boat capsized in heavy seas, just four miles from its intended destination, the Florida coast.

  Kneeling on the sand of the ocean floor, Joel looked up at the towering bow that extended over his head. It reminded him of the time his father had taken him to the boat show in Annapolis, Maryland. He was only seven at the time, but Joel remembered standing below the bow of a brand new large yacht with its glossy hull and brightly polished fixtures. The yacht was propped up in the middle of the show grounds, like a ship in dry-dock surrounded by smaller boats flying banners and booths displaying a wide variety of marine accessories. For a second, the memory made him feel warm despite the cold temperature of the flowing current he was fighting to stay in position.

  The Haitian boat was about sixty percent intact, with its mast snapped into three pieces, and other pieces of rigging strewn around the hull, littering the bottom.

  Joel felt Owen grab his arm to get his attention, pointing in the opposite direction from where he was looking. The two made their way several hundred feet from the Haitian trawler to a patch of sand that was marked by a painted green brick and a buoyant fishing bobber that was tied to it. Owen pulled an underwater metal detector from a canvas bag on his weight belt, turned it on and started to graze the sand back and forth. Suddenly the red LED light on top of the box lit up. Owen stopped and ran his gloved hand through the debris. Sand and pieces of rotted wood swirled about making a small cloud until a steel bolt appeared in Owen’s hand. He put it in his waist bag and then scanned the area again with the detector. It lit again. Maybe he was going to be lucky, finding another cannonball to match the one sitting on the mantle in his living room. Again he sifted through the cloud but to no avail. Then he noticed something metallic. He sifted through more sand exposing a tubular object made of aluminum. The modern alloy seemed out of place amidst the decaying century old timbers. Owen was exhausted as he dug deeper. Joel joined him. Between the two, a cloud of sand covered the area. As they worked, a canvas-covered top emerged along with a wooden plaque affixed to the side of the electronics box that read Island Girl. Owen sat motionless for a second. Puzzle
d, Joel watched as his partner moved slowly to the half buried object, wiping his hand over the plaque, almost caressing it. Then like someone turned a switch, he snapped out of his trance. Owen, perched on his knees with sand covering his fins, looked around the landscape of the ocean floor around him.

  Laying some fifty yards away was the anchor belonging to the Frankly Scarlett. From it, ascending to the surface was the one-inch-thick anchor line surging with tension after each wave above. Owen swam over to the seventy pound steel fork. He waited for the line to fall limp and then crouched down, pulling the anchor from the sand. As he did, another wave struck the bow of the large yacht, pulling the rope taut. It pulled the anchor and Owen across the sandy terrain like a toy. Owen tried to hold on, losing the grip of one hand. The other squeezed as the anchor bounced across the bottom, headed for Joel and the submerged wreckage of the Island Girl. Joel looked on with ambivalence, not knowing what to expect. Just as Owen felt the grip of his hand give way, the anchor latched onto a stanchion of the T-top making a loud clink sound throughout the silent world. Owen sat motionless as he tried to catch his breath. A constant stream of exhaled air exiting his regulator made a white trail of bubbles that headed for the surface. Joel, his eyes wide open, watched as the anchor held tight. All was still until the next set of rolling swells pushed the boat above, even further back. The stationary wreckage became mobile. It ripped from the sand and drug across the bottom, leaving debris scattered everywhere. The twisted tubes and canvas pieces traveled farther away until getting caught in some coral. The boat was again secured firmly to the bottom. In the wreckage was the detached electronics box. Owen reached into it and pulled out a two-way radio, sticking it in an empty net diving bag. As he turned back to Joel, he noticed an amber sparkle coming from the sand. Owen twisted his body, swimming back, sifting through more debris. From the sand came a gold doubloon, shining in the sunlight that pierced through the water above. The doubloon was a form of currency used by the Spanish during the 17th Century and a rare collector’s item.