by Joe Nobody
Wyatt surveyed the towering behemoth beside them. “How would we load and unload the cargo, Captain? I can’t see carrying a lot of weight up and down that 10-story ladder.”
Again, Ripple had thought that through. “We have a small davit on deck. We use it to lift supplies aboard. We can raise or lower up to 2,000 pounds.”
The conversation continued back and forth for over an hour. Several times, Wyatt and Captain Ripple moved to the bridge, talking to nearby ships over the radio. By mid-afternoon, an itinerary was organized.
Wyatt looked up at David, “This is going to be a complex. It makes going to the mall with your mother and sister look simple.” The remark drew a punch on the shoulder from Morgan, who playfully snatched the list from Wyatt’s hand and examined it critically. She shared the plan with Sage, who smirked at her dad. “Piece of cake compared to our normal Saturday shopping sprees.”
Wyatt filled the airwaves with a flurry of conversation between Boxer and the other boats in the Marinaville fleet. After he explained what had been planned, the other captains agreed, and everyone received their assignments. At first light, four of the small pleasure boats would become bulk goods haulers and shuttle supplies between their ocean-going neighbors.
The jet-ski taxi returned, and Captain Ripple shook hands with Boxer’s master. “Wyatt, you can count on our help should you good people ever need it. I think we’re going to be here for a while.”
The ocean conditions were better the following morning, but the wind was blowing onshore, and everyone knew the seas would continue to grow as the day progressed. Wyatt was glad they didn’t have to attempt the next leg of the journey south just yet.
Four of the Marinaville boats were tasked to become merchant ships of a sort, while the rest remained tied to Diego Maru. One by one, the captains of the small vessels untied and moved off to load their assigned cargo. Boxer’s job was to haul three 50-gallon drums of diesel fuel to a nearby cargo ship in exchange for several dozen bags of rice.
Back and forth the nimble boats traveled, redistributing bartered goods ranging from a few small cans of yeast to several pounds of flour. The captains of the commercial vessels had evidently been communicating with each other for days; everyone knew exactly what they needed for their crew to survive.
As the day wore on, Morgan sought to coordinate a similar list of items that were in short supply with the fleet. By late afternoon, the final load was being lifted from Boxer’s deck – winched skyward to the deck of an Argentinian bulk carrier.
David and Sage were covered in sweat, having lifted, shoved, tied, and guided several loads onto and off of Boxer’s small deck. “Who needs a gym membership with a job like this?” Sage had commented.
The fleet of little boats benefited as well. Before leaving the marina, every scavenged fishing pole, reel and tackle box had been bartered. For the sailors stuck on the commercial ships, fishing over the side would be an important food supply, so the tackle was in high demand.
Another valuable commodity was firearms. International law prohibited the big ships from carrying any weapons. The recent encounters with the pirates made everyone in the Marinaville fleet wish they were better armed. Not a single one of the pleasure boaters wanted to give up any of their limited supply, so only the salvaged pirate shotgun and a few odds and ends were offered up for trade. At one point, a crewman on a natural gas tanker had offered five gold Rolex watches as payment for Wyatt’s shotgun. “You can’t eat or shoot a wristwatch – sorry, no deal,” was his response.
The only real problem with the massive exchange occurred at dusk. Wyatt was topping off Boxer’s fuel tanks using a hand pump attached to a 50-gallon drum, when a radio squawk requested that he visit one of his neighboring pleasure boats. After finishing with the fuel transfer, Wyatt rode the waverunner to the nearby cruiser and was welcomed aboard.
Kenny and Clare McClure were long-time boaters in their mid-60s. Wyatt could tell something was wrong immediately by the expressions on their faces.
Kenny shook Wyatt’s hand, and then Clare kissed the visitor’s cheek. The older man began, “Wyatt, I’ll get right to the point. We’ve been offered a cabin aboard one of these freighters. The captain proposed room and board in exchange for our ferrying cargo back and forth until things return to normal. Clare and I are going to accept their proposition.”
Wyatt was initially angry. Recruiting new crew was never part of any bargain with the ships. Still, he thought, it wasn’t excluded either. He attempted to keep his expression neutral. “Kenny, Clare, I’m not sure what to say.”
Clare spoke up. “Wyatt, we appreciate all you and the others have done, but we’re not cut out for this. We almost wrecked your boat back at Redfish because we don’t have the skills necessary for this kind of adventure. And while we aren’t leaking anymore, we’re down to one engine. The thought of living on this small little boat for a long time just doesn’t sit well with us. Our boat isn’t set up for the long-term like a lot of the others. I think we’ll be more comfortable on board that bigger ship.”
Wyatt’s momentary flash of irritation subsided. Imagine attempting this expedition 15-20 years from now when you’re their age. He nodded, thinking it all made sense. Kenny wasn’t done yet. “We’re not the only ones. Bill and his Anita have made the same decision.”
Again, Wyatt couldn’t blame them. He didn’t like the thought of the fleet breaking up or losing a single able-bodied hand, but it wasn’t going to be an easy lifestyle at Army Hole.
“I think I speak for everyone on this – I wish you all the absolute best of luck. If it’s not the right decision, you can always rejoin us later at the island.”
Clare stepped forward and gave Wyatt a final embrace, her eyes searching for evidence of Wyatt’s understanding of their decision, if not his endorsement. “We wanted to let you know first, Wyatt. You’ve gotten us through so much and we…well, we wanted you to know before we let everyone else know.”
Kenny pumped Wyatt’s hand one last time. As Wyatt hailed the water taxi, Kenny got on the radio and made his announcement to the fleet. It was a poignant moment for all – Marinaville was losing four of her esteemed citizens.
Gulf of Mexico
March 7, 2017
The following morning was calm and crisp. The sun was rising in the east, when Marinaville’s fleet began firing engines up and down the lines from Diego Maru. Wyatt looked up to see several men peering over the tanker’s rail. As Boxer and the other vessels edged away, the men above waved farewell.
Boxer turned south, loaded to the hilt with diesel fuel and about 300 pounds of supplies strapped to her decks. Most of the craft in the flotilla carried similar loads of additional supplies, but the extra items didn’t seem to make up for the loss of two of their own. Boxer was laden with four huge bags of rice and three brand new 12-volt batteries. Wyatt steered the bow into the slight two-foot rollers coming across the gulf. If the fleet could make good progress before the sun heated the air, the morning’s journey would be much smoother.
It was 88 miles down the Texas coast before the fleet would head into Matagorda Bay. The inlet was a maintained channel used by commercial traffic, and Wyatt wasn’t concerned about that portion of the excursion. Once inside the bay, however, the fleet would have to trek through several narrow passages, and the possibility of outside contact was high. The potential danger in that leg of the trip was not something that could be calculated from maps and guidebooks; it was a complete unknown. What the voyagers would find after landing at Army Hole was a nagging concern as well.
Wyatt glanced down at the radar display and navigation systems. They were making just over seven knots, or almost eight miles per hour. They should arrive an hour or so before dusk.
Sage and David were sitting on the bow. Since they had begun boating, the front of the boat had been the kids’ favorite position. There was less engine noise up there and always a fresh breeze. On calm days, the ride was very smooth. So much so that Sage liked
to call it “her magic carpet ride.”
Morgan was just ascending the ladder to the bridge with a fresh cup of coffee when Sage squealed in delight, pointing toward the water. There, riding in Boxer’s bow wake were four bottlenose dolphins, frolicking in the waves. The graceful, grey mammals were a common site in the gulf, but still generated a warm reaction from all aboard. They would swoop up and break the surface and then slide smoothly back below. Wyatt didn’t know, but he guessed the water being displaced by Boxer’s passing provided the intelligent animals some sort of challenge or game.
Wyatt sipped his coffee and looked to starboard where he could see the coastline in the distance. The fleet was about four miles offshore, and he wondered if they were visible to the naked eye from land. The water was less than 30 feet deep out here, crystal clear and a royal color of blue.
To port lay open waters, the horizon broken here and there by the giant offshore drilling platforms and wells. Wyatt couldn’t help but wonder if the men manning those floating rigs had been rescued or relieved. Shaking his head to clear the bad thoughts, he focused his attention back on the navigation system.
The fleet’s route was taking it past one more potential danger point – the City of Freeport, Texas. While Freeport wasn’t a big town, it was located right on the coast and had a significant level of marine activity. Wyatt made a mental note to watch the radar with more diligence as they approached that area.
Chapter 10
Matagorda Island, Texas
March 8, 2017
“Dad, I’ve got good news and bad news,” David’s voice sounded over the radio.
Wyatt had been waiting on the call since the jet-skis had sped ahead of the fleet, their goal to scout Army Hole. The fleet was almost there.
“What’s up, son?”
“First the good news – there’s nobody here, and it doesn’t look like anyone has been around in a long time.”
The information improved Wyatt’s mood immediately. His biggest fear was they would travel all this way and find out someone else had the same idea.
“The bad news is the approach to Army Hole is very shallow. I’m not sure everyone can get in.”
Wyatt sighed. He knew that for years a passenger ferry ran from the mainland to the island and that would’ve kept the approach from silting in. No one in Marinaville knew for sure when the park department discontinued the ferry, but it had been some years ago. Without any activity, it was only natural the bottom would shoal.
“How shallow?”
“Dad, I can’t tell for sure. I can see the bottom here and there. I’m coming back for a boat pole to measure the depth. I suggest all the boats slow down until we make sure we can get in.”
“Okay David, see you in a bit.”
Morgan stood up. “I’ll get the pole ready for him.”
Wyatt added, “Grab one of the good flashlights too, please. It’ll be dark soon, and he may need it.”
Morgan nodded and made for the ladder.
Wyatt stared over his shoulder at the long line of boats behind him. They only had about 90 minutes of daylight left, and that bothered him. Docking all of these boats in an unknown, tight area would be difficult enough in broad daylight – doing so at night would be asking for trouble.
Before leaving Southland, everyone had gathered all of the cruising guides, charts, and tour books available. These sources provided little information. Army Hole wasn’t very popular. Isolated and lacking amenities such as water and electricity resulted in few visitors and no publicity. Still, they had been able to estimate the size of the docking area from the various descriptions and nautical charts. No one liked depending on such limited data, but it was a chance they had to take. They all hoped everyone would fit.
Wyatt could see David’s waverunner scooting across the water, heading in at almost 50 mph. The craft slowed, pulling up to Boxer’s swim platform where Morgan handed David the boat pole and flashlight.
As the jet boat blasted off, Wyatt had to laugh at his son. David held the long, aluminum pole like a lance, pretending to be riding his trusty steed in a jousting match. At least he’s not lost his sense of humor in all this, he thought.
The fleet continued to creep its way into the Matagorda Ship Channel, barely making enough speed to maintain their course. The short waterway provided an entrance from the Gulf of Mexico into Matagorda Bay, a body of water over twice the size of their home waters, Galveston Bay.
Before long, the radio crackled again with David’s voice. “Dad, this is going to be tricky. At the entrance to the approach, the bottom has shoaled to about three feet. It’s very soft silt, so we might be able to plow through. We’ve found a channel of sorts that runs four to five feet the rest of the way in. It zigzags a little, but we can guide everyone in.”
Wyatt took a moment to digest the report. Three feet was shallow – very shallow. Boxer required at least four, and some of the other boats in the fleet needed five. This was going to be a knuckle biter. Wyatt responded on the radio, “Okay David, I’ll use Boxer to bust through the entrance. Say a prayer there aren’t any big rocks in that silt.”
As the fleet entered Matagorda Bay, the Intracoastal branched off to their left. Wyatt pointed Boxer toward the ditch, suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic with the closeness of the shoreline. The entrance to Army Hole was only a few hundred yards south of where The Ditch met the bay. Up ahead, David and the other jet boat idled, waiting on the fleet.
Two large poles were set about 20 feet apart to mark the entrance. A thin strip of land separated the Intercoastal Waterway from the shallow inlet of the state park where Army Hole was located. The entrance was a small cut, probably dredged years ago. The area David had found shoaled was like a speed bump for boats leaving The Ditch and heading into the park’s waters.
Wyatt was worried about two different problems. The first was tearing off or bending one of Boxer’s big propellers. Those wheels hung the lowest below the waterline. There were no propeller shops anymore and no boatyards to haul a damaged vessel to dry dock for repairs.
The second potential issue would be running Boxer aground and not being able to back her off. The entrance was barely wide enough for Boxer to fit. If she were stuck on the bottom, others boats wouldn’t be able to pass. Towing her off in the confined waters of the Intracoastal would be extremely difficult.
David glided next to Boxer and yelled up at his father, “I’ve poked around as much as I can. I think it’s all soft silt as far down and the pole will go. Good luck!”
After the nimble jet boat was clear, Wyatt spun Boxer around with her bow pointed at the entrance. He pushed the throttles forward, and the big boat started its charge at the cut. There was only enough room for her to reach five knots before the entrance, but that still seemed awful fast to everyone on board.
Right before impacting the bottom, Wyatt threw the throttles into neutral, taking all of the power away from the props. “Brace for impact!”
When Boxer hit the bottom, it was like hitting the brake of an automobile in an emergency - everyone pushed forward by the sudden loss of momentum. The sound coming from the bottom of the boat was like sandpaper rubbing wood. Right before she came to a complete halt, Wyatt slammed the transmissions into reverse and applied throttle. Boxer’s twin diesel power plants roared with power and the hull vibrated from the torque. For a moment they didn’t move, held fast in the mud. The expression on Wyatt’s face said it all – if they were stuck it was big trouble. A few anxious moments passed before Boxer’s big propellers bit into the water, causing her to sluggishly begin backing off the bottom.
As Wyatt backed the vessel to its original starting point, a cloud of stress fell over the bridge. Wyatt searched Morgan’s expression for some level of confidence in his waterlogged strategy. “You know, if we can’t get to the island we’re screwed. The gas boats won’t have enough fuel to get back- even if we decided to return. There’s no place around here we can go. I hope I haven’t led us all to a
dead end.”
Morgan reached over and touched Wyatt’s arm. “You’ll get us in there. I know you will. Don’t give up.”
Wyatt stopped Boxer and stared at the cut in front of him. He shook his head. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut, Morgan. Who was I to suggest any sort of plan? Everything I touch seems to turn into a big disaster.”
“Wyatt, you’ve got to keep trying. We’ve made it too far to stop now.”
Wyatt’s expression changed from helplessness to determination. “You’re right as usual, Morgan.”
He looked over at a very concerned wife and daughter. “What do we have to lose now? Here we go again - hang on,” and pushed the throttles forward.
Boxer thundered at the cut again. This time the impact wasn’t nearly as noticeable, and without slowing much at all, they busted through. A cheer rose up from the bridge; the radio came alive with renewed hope and excitement. They were in!
Wyatt glanced over his shoulder at the muddy water boiling behind Boxer. He had never imagined using his boat like a snowplow, but it had worked. Even the vessels behind him that required more water should be able to make it now.
One of the waverunners led Boxer through the estuary to Army Hole. The shallow inlet bordering the park was less than a quarter of a mile wide, with a few small fingers of land between the cut and the dock.
The sun was just touching the western horizon when Morgan and Sage tied the last line on the port side. There wasn’t enough room for each vessel to have its own mooring, but that had been expected. Fenders were draped over the starboard side of Boxer’s hull to provide cushion for the next boat in line.
One by one, the fleet arrived in predetermined order. The next boat pulled in beside Boxer, and with Wyatt’s help, was pulled tight against the fenders. All in all, there was enough dock space for six of the larger boats to tie up against the concrete bulkhead lining Army Hole. The rest of the vessels secured themselves to one another, a formation called “rafting.”