Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  The pilot had no worries. The doubloons were valuable and if he held on to them, they would only increase in value. Since the county paid for the plane’s fuel, it was a deal that netted a pure profit for him. The only people who could arrest him for the crime of aiding and abetting were sitting right next to him in the copilot’s seat.

  The sun was an hour from rising as he banked the plane over Dove Key and leveled off over the water at an altitude of fifty feet. The night before was busy with a boat chase that netted the Coast Guard a large commercial workboat and a sizeable tonnage of weed, but not before the captain had a chance to ditch part of the load in an attempt to rid himself of the evidence. Nine hundred yards of low-level flight later, the pilot was the first to see it: a group of bales floating in the shallows, about half a mile offshore.

  “You see me?” the guest called into an official radio.

  “We got you,” came a reply.

  “I’m right over it. She’s lit up boys,” he said, tossing the light sticks out of the cockpit window.

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Be careful, it’s pretty shallow and hurry up. The sun is almost up and you won’t be able to see the sticks.”

  “Will do boss.”

  Almost immediately, two U. S. Customs interceptors roared out of Tavernier Creek towards the nightsticks. Ten minutes later, the loose bales were retrieved and headed back to shore.

  * * * * *

  Restitution

  Kevin Pinder mounted his overbuilt four-by-four pickup and headed south towards co-operative substation six at exactly 9:00 p.m. The rain was driving down harder than he had seen in a long time. In South Florida, the rains were common but short and to the point. This storm had lasted for two hours and looked as though it would continue all night. As fast as the wipers could flash, they were still not fast enough. Kevin kept his speed at forty-five miles per hour. The drone of his 40-inch mud tires was louder than any other noise on the road that night. These rubber giants were great for navigating a mud hole in the Everglades, but not very valuable on the slick, paved blacktop. One good patch of water and he could easily lose control of the truck.

  His mission was simple: kill the power to Plantation and Windley Key just long enough for Gordo to do whatever it was he needed to do. Kevin knew he did not deserve the privileged information. His main concern was getting back into Gordo and Del’s good graces. He needed to work again. He was out of cash.

  The power substation was well lit. The Florida Keys Electric Co-operative spared no expense in making the otherwise dreary structure look acceptable and attractive from the roadside. Kevin pulled into the small parking lot and made a dash for the front door of the office.

  Behind the brick-faced office was a grid work of transformers and switching units measuring almost one hundred and fifty feet square and seventy-three feet high. Despite its beautiful facade, the cage-like structure had an ominous appearance once inside.

  Kevin grabbed a flashlight from a wall charger and proceeded into the compound. A shriek of lightning illuminated the grid work reminding him just how dangerous this was. His heart was beating thirty times faster than normal.

  Station number six handled power, breaking down the high voltage lines coming in from Miami and diverted it to the smaller grids. Station six had twenty-four units (or grids) of power. Units A, B, and C supplied North Key Largo; D, E, F, and so on supplied points further south. Areas of denser population were designated more switching units. Plantation Key occupied units T, U, V, and W. Windley Key was X. This was easy for the linemen to remember because back in the 1700s, Windley Key was used more than once as a depository for pirate’s treasure, some of which was still speculated lost on the small island. X marks the spot was a familiar pirate phrase when referring to the legendary maps.

  He would have to go into the cage and throw the circuits by hand and then he would have to wait there in case anyone showed up to check, which was very unlikely since it was his night to take call.

  Kevin pulled his vinyl raincoat tight around his head as he left the office’s rear door. He was immediately inundated with small bead-like pellets of falling water. He wanted to make this as fast as possible. The Mr. Coffee machine was just starting to get hot and the smell was already luring him back inside.

  The flashlight was helpful in illuminating the panel placards mounted in front of each of the switching units. A, B, and C were all very easily accessible. The walk was as long as the cage itself with one hundred and fifty feet of switching units mounted side by side. Kevin counted aloud as he neared the rear of the cage. J, K, L, M, shit! Couldn’t they have done this the other way around? he thought to himself. P, Q, shit! That’s it? This can’t be R, and S handled South Tavernier and T started Plantation Key…Where the fuck are they? Kevin mumbled to himself, continuing to look through the grid work. He was new to working in the cage. Most of his seven months with the co-op had been spent working on the line. Kevin considered himself smart though, and he felt confident in his ability to figure this small dilemma out.

  The sturdy beam of light reflected on something through the maze of electrical boxes and wire terminals. S, T, U…Thank God! Kevin blurted out. SMACK! Another shriek of lightning exploded as Kevin jumped back for a second. He was already frightened enough walking the cage on the concrete pathway, especially on this wet night. Water made for a perfect conductor, he remembered from his lineman’s safety class. The constant hum above his head was another reminder of the more than five million volts of electricity around him. There was no use in putting it off. He had to do what was necessary in pleasing his fat Cuban friend who was probably waiting right around now. He managed to squeeze between two of the switching units before coming face to face with the set of terminals he needed to access. Unit T was the first to go. Kevin imagined the sectors of lighted homes and streets being knocked out by one fell chop of the hammer-like lever. Like a gallous falling, the sudden CRACK at the bottom signaled the opening of the circuit. Behind it was five million watts of power, stopped, with nowhere else to go. All the remaining units shut down without incident until X. X marks the spot…the spot for trouble, Kevin thought to himself. The men who routinely worked the cage used to complain endlessly about unit X. It was alleged to be haunted by the spirits living on Windley Key. The switching unit had already been replaced three times. The problem was always the same. When it rained several days in a row the shields on the transformers overhead dumped their runoff of storm water into the lever mechanism, thus causing it to freeze in place. Kevin put all of his weight on the rubber-lined lever. It wouldn’t budge. I could go and get a pry bar. No, I’ll try something else first. The higher he got the more leverage he would be able to exert. It was worth a try. As he climbed onto a steel support bar, his better judgment told him not to. The other side of his brain, the one that told him to get it over with, convinced him differently. The first five circuits opened without any problem; this one was just being a little difficult. He continued to scale the beam until he was above unit X. He took a hold of the lever. He could feel the rubber squeezing between his strong fingers. Kevin grunted as he exerted all the force he could muster. As he looked down he could see that he had actually done it. The lever had moved almost two inches. The loud shrill of Kevin’s beeper sounded next, almost scaring him off the beam. People must have already started to call the main dispatch center complaining of the recent outage. Unfortunately, none of those calls were from Windley Key…not yet at least. Ten or twelve more inches to go as he grunted again. This time he could feel the lever moving. He continued the pressure, almost screaming with a frenzy of strength.

  With eyes closed and his senses dulled from the rush of adrenaline, Kevin never saw the final shriek of lightning.

  SMACK!

  The knife-like bolt of energy struck the top of the cage. The transformer above his head absorbed most of the rogue beam of light sucking it in and taking it to the ground. The initial blast caused Kevin to contract and curl up
into the circuit in front of him. The bones in his fingers snapped under the intense burst of pressure. His chest was drawn to the X placard like a magnet, burning the letter through his skin directly into his sternum. The milliseconds of time that elapsed were enough to melt his eyes and brain matter that immediately flowed from every orifice in his skull. The final surge blew him back to the ground where he laid motionless.

  Like a spontaneous reaction, switching units S through A were knocked out by the strike. Four more pages were dispatched to Kevin Pinder over the next few minutes. His beeper, now a molten puddle of plastic and electrodes, failed to respond.

  * * * * *

  Breath

  The wind-blown palms swayed with every gust, throwing monstrous shadows against the bare white walls of the Islamorada Coast Guard Station. Across Snake Creek, Gordo, Del and Julio sat perched in a dark gray Zodiac inflatable boat, floating under a wooden pier. Raindrops fell between the slats of the aged timbers filling the small rubber raft. Gordo could barely see the station house less than a hundred yards away through the drizzle.

  While Snake Creek did wind through the mangroves, it was hardly a creek. Because it connected the ocean to Florida Bay, the creek also had a current. It flowed out to sea when the tide was low and in towards the bay when it was up. At this moment, the tide was lower than normal.

  Gordo looked down at his watch. It was 9:17 p.m. Earlier that day, he had made arrangements with Kevin Pinder to cut the power to Windley Key and the surrounding areas. It was part of their restitution deal, and while Kevin wasn’t happy about it, he didn’t have a choice but to comply. However, there was a catch. Kevin was responsible for repairing all outages occurring between 8:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. If the power was not restored within an hour, his supervisor would undoubtedly come to investigate.

  He was starting to wonder if Kevin was going to come through as he looked over at the two-story station. The rain was heavy enough. Maybe we could do it with the lights on, he thought to himself. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder sounded. Everything north of the bridge fell into a state of darkness. The only lights came from passing cars on the bridge overhead. Del pushed as hard as he could against the barnacle-covered piling. Gordo grabbed an oar and began to paddle alternating from side to side.

  Small patches of white, frothy seawater and seaweed drifted by as Julio fended them off the oncoming concrete pillars, fighting the current by holding to the bridge’s cross members. Razor sharp barnacles scratched along the side of the rubber raft. The tiniest prick in the side of the fragile craft could threaten its flotation. They positioned themselves, preparing for the channel span located at the middle of the bridge. The passage was about seventy-five feet wide and had no supports or pillars to hold onto. It was the widest and highest gap under the bridge and was where boats would pass when navigating down the twisted waterway. To make matters worse, stationed above their heads was the bridge tender, a civil servant whose job was to open and close the massive drawbridge that spanned over the channel. Gordo knew he had to paddle as fast as possible to reach the other side before the current caught them, washing the raft past their first pillar and on out to the open water. Fortunately, the blinding rain continued to drive down upon them. They knew it would take a miracle for them to find the other side of the span, but these were desperate times.

  The wind howled as it blew under the bridge, slicing through the complex grid work of concrete and steel. Gordo pushed away from the pillar. The raft surged forward and headlong into a moving rusty steel wall. Gordo watched in horror as the object consumed his immediate field of vision. Startled for a minute, he realized they had caught a passing barge making its way through the creek. Just then, the surging swell created by the massive craft’s blunt bow captured Gordo, throwing him into the dark water below. His oar was immediately sucked under the passing barge. Gordo suddenly realized that the barge was being pushed, not pulled, and that the worst was yet to come. He grabbed a hold of the raft and began to push it back towards the pillar, away from their direction of travel.

  Gordo grabbed on to the pillar, a solid shaft of concrete four feet in diameter. The barnacles cut his arms and hands. Del and Julio remained in the raft and watched as the stern of the barge approached. Behind it, pushing with all its might, was a flat-nosed tugboat. The two could see the captain sitting in the heated wheelhouse, sipping a cup of coffee. Past the tug’s transom was a five-foot-high mound of white churning water generated by the spinning propeller that sucked as much as it pulled. Gordo held on tight. Any contact with the tug’s transom and they would undoubtedly be sucked under and fed through the turning propeller. As the tug’s aft came closer, Gordo gripped the barnacles on the pillar, momentarily losing his grip, slipping lower in the flowing water and then regaining it. He began to feel the surge of water rush by his legs, sucking one of his loose Topsider shoes from his left foot. As the wall of water approached, Gordo felt his grip weaken. He looked into Del’s eyes and wondered if this was some kind of natural retribution from the gods for his crash with Bobby at the Elbow. Gordo could let go and take his chances or he could try to climb back onto the raft. Either way he felt like he was watching his life come to an end. Before he had a chance to make a decision, the churning water threw everything in its path against the pillars. Gordo held his breath as the water rushed over his head. The wash pulled him free from the four-foot pillar and deep under the water’s surface. His hands, still clutching loose barnacles, scratched free from the concrete’s surface. Gordo felt the pounding lumps of water thrusts poking at every spot of his body, pulling and pushing at his contorted body. As he went deeper, the pressure pushed against his sinuses and made his ears pop. Churned up sand and mud from the bottom rushed inside his clothes, filling his pockets. He waited for the final bit of trauma, almost tired of the anxiety, wanting it to all end; the slice of the propeller blade cutting him into neatly diced pieces, chum in the digestive tract of some scavenger who was used to eating tin cans and fish feces. Then, as soon as the pressure mounted, it declined and the water grew warmer. Gordo’s body began to regain buoyancy. His head and torso popped through the surface of the white frothing aftermath. He was stunned and surprised to be alive. On the opposite side, Del and Julio looked on from the raft, relieved that he had made it.

  The three continued, paddling the raft the rest of the way across the channel. As they entered the cove next to the station, Gordo looked up at the Heads Up moored behind a 41-foot Coast Guard patrol boat. The sight was very intimidating. Gordo gave a final push from the bridge’s embankment as Julio and Del laid out the equipment, with the raft drifting over to the side of the seized boat. Grabbing onto the gunwales, Gordo ran his hand over the bright red sticker that marked the Heads Up.

  Seized Property

  NO TRESPASSING

  U.S. Coast Guard

  Department of Transportation

  Washington, DC.

  Julio opened a long black bag sitting on the soft rubber floor. Inside was a brand new Makita cordless saw and several unused batteries, all still wrapped in the plastic they were purchased in. Gordo looked up at the dark Coast Guard station house as they slid the raft in between the boat and the rigid concrete pier. Without any power, the men occupying the station could not see the dock, not even out of the radio room that was perched twenty feet away. The wind howled as Julio made the first cut through the side of the Fiberglas hull of the Heads Up. Splinters of Fiberglas showered down on the sides and floor of the raft. The carbide blade was an effective cutting tool, slicing the boat’s hull like butter, but the drain on the battery was noticeable. As the saw gradually winded down, Julio discharged the seven-inch-long cell letting it fall into the dark water and immediately popped in another one in its place and resumed the cutting. Gordo watched the surroundings. The blackout was hopefully going to give them enough time. He looked at his watch that read 9:31 p.m. The power had been off for fourteen minutes. Kevin Pinder agreed to give us thirty, but anything coul
d happen, especially if his supervisor showed up at the transfer station to intervene, Gordo worried.

  The rain had subsided but the wind continued to howl, muffling the sound of the churning saw. Gordo took one more look around the grounds next to the station. An upright shadow appeared in the distance about fifty feet away. Gordo popped his head back below the side of the seawall before inching it back up. He watched as the figure stood stationary.

  “Wait,” he whispered to Julio.

  “What is it?” Del asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s a shadow.”

  Del joined Gordo, peering just above the lip of the concrete slab.

  “It’s a fucking tree man! You’re so paranoid, maricón. You almost gave me a heart attack,” Del whispered as he sat back down in the raft. Gordo stayed silent and continued to watch.

  “Wait,” Gordo said, this time grabbing Julio’s arm.

  “The tree just lit a cigarette.”

  The three resumed their crouched stance as they watched the amber dot move down the dock toward their position. Julio sat deep into the bottom of the raft hiding himself in the equipment, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Despite the fact that Gordo was out of shape and required at least twenty to thirty breaths per minute, he was holding what little air he had left in his lungs trying to stay as quiet as possible. He watched as the shape moved closer.

  Julio and Del sat silent covered in gear and Fiberglas dust. They could hear the person’s footsteps approach as hard-soled shoes embracing the wet concrete echoed off the Fiberglas boat next to them.