by C J Schnier
“Yeah, the sooner we get out of here, the better,” she agreed.
Within minutes we had the dinghy stored upside down on the deck and lashed down. The wind was really starting to build now, and the rigging began to moan. I pulled up the anchor, and Kelly unfurled the genoa, sailing us away from the island. With the winds blowing this strong, our friend was in for a rude awakening.
Chapter Ten
“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is sailing vessel Zephyr, Zephyr, Zephyr. Again, mayday, sailing vessel Zephyr. Location: west side of Devils Cay. Position: 25° 36.235’ North, 77° 43.896’ West. My anchor has dragged, and my vessel is hard aground on the beach. I am requesting a tow. One person on board, no injuries. The vessel is a forty-two foot Hunter sailboat. White hull, navy blue trim and canvas. Over.”
Holy shit, it worked.
“Kelly, you gotta hear this!” I yelled down below into the salon.
“What do you want? I was just about to fall asleep,” she complained.
“Come up here and listen to the radio, it worked! It actually worked!” I shouted with glee.
“No way!” she bounded up the steps into the cockpit.
“Listen,” I said.
The radio crackled again as if on cue and a static-laden Hispanic accented voice repeated the distress call. When it was over, Kelly smiled and stared at me.
“I can’t believe you actually pulled that off. I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever heard when you came back to the boat and told me what you had done. Who would have thought it would actually work?”
“Honestly I’m a little surprised too. I would like to think I would be able to notice and would wake up if Paramour was dragging,” I replied.
“Yeah but you’ve spent hundreds of nights afloat, I doubt he has that kind of experience.”
“True, but that was a textbook mayday call. Our friend on Zephyr might actually know a little something about boating.”
“That doesn’t mean much, a lot of charter companies have a cheat sheet posted by the radio so that their clients can call for help. All of our charter boats had them when I was running my father’s fleet,” she said.
“It still boggles my mind that you chartered out your dad’s drug boats.”
“The best front is a legal and working one,” she said.
“Well, at least we know more about the guy that is after us,” I said changing the subject.
“Yeah, we know he’s stranded on Devils Cay for a while,” she laughed.
“Not only that, but he’s definitely Hispanic, and he sounded calm under pressure. I would be freaking out if I woke up with my boat on the beach, regardless if I knew what I was doing or not.”
“Yeah but this guy doesn’t have that Cuban lisp when he talks. I doubt he is part of my father’s group. They call themselves a cartel, but it’s mostly just friends and family that came over from Cuba. They started hiring outside the core group once they got their operations up and running. Though only for expendable positions. So, while Papa did hire outside his circle, all the decision makers are close friends, and anyone with any importance is certainly Cuban. My uncles are both big shots with their own territories. They don’t trust outsiders much,” she explained.
“So you think he is just a hired goon?” I asked.
“Most likely,” she confirmed.
I sat at the helm, staring out into the dark, pondering what kind of man was chasing us. I had gotten one over on him, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that he would stop. His distress broadcast came across the VHF radio again, this time with more static. I turned it down.
Only two hours had passed since we pulled up the anchor and fled the Berry Islands. We were just a dozen miles east of Devils Cay, but we were making great speed through the humid summer night. Our genoa and mizzen were full, propelling us at nearly top speed with the fresh breeze that had started to blow. I knew this west wind wouldn’t last forever and that the dominant trades would soon take over, blowing steady from the east. I hoped to be in the Abacos by then.
The Abaco islands are the northernmost islands in the Bahamas and provided some of the best cruising and fishing grounds in the country. I had considered heading east and south to the Eleuthera chain, but the vast quantity of anchorages and hidden holes in the Abaco islands were too much to ignore.
Kelly and I had a long sail ahead of us. Instead of taking the most direct route we decided to sail out of Providence Channel and into the Atlantic Ocean, then turn northwest and start at the top of the chain and work our way south. A distance of nearly 170 nautical miles, which would take us two full days of nonstop sailing.
Long passages at sea are a mixture of tedium and dread. Most of our time was spent relaxing and making sure that the boat stayed on course. Paramour will sail a straight line with no feedback from the helmsman if the sails are trimmed and balanced. We would often go thirty or even forty minutes before having to either correct our course by turning the wheel or by trimming the sails if the winds shifted.
While the tedium made for an easy, if boring trip, in the back of my mind was always the thought of disaster. Sudden catastrophic failure of any one of hundreds of critical components and we would be trying to make our own Mayday call. I have spent my life on the water and knew all too well what could go wrong. Only a couple of months before I had nearly dismasted Paramour when a lower shroud broke. With one of the support wires gone, all the rest had to take up the stress. Luckily they held, straining against the added pressure, and I limped into the safety of protected waters.
Nightfall brings even more worry. Ships running undermanned watches are notorious for not being able to see a small boat at night, even one in their path. Traveling at thirty knots, they move from horizon to horizon at an alarming rate and could be on top of us before we even noticed. Reading the wind and seas became much harder too, and work on deck becomes treacherous. One missed step could cause a stumble overboard, and then we would be lost in the inky darkness.
Thankfully none of the thousands of scenarios that ran through my head happened. Our passage was smooth with steady winds and no equipment malfunctions. The winds did start to shift back to their accustomed easterly direction just as we were pulling into our first anchorage. Our timing couldn’t have been any better.
We dropped our anchor in the protected lee of Walkers Cay. The island served as an eerie reminder of the power of nature. The cay had once been a resort and sport fishing destination, but all that remained was a ghost town, abandoned after severe hurricane damage. Its airstrip was overgrown, and the docks were beyond dilapidated, with only a few pilings still standing. Even the grand hotel was little more than an empty shell.
Despite the destruction and ruins, Kelly and I found it a great place to spend several relaxing days. We explored the ruins in the morning, retreating to the water for afternoon snorkeling adventures when the sun and heat became unbearable. Occasionally we would take the dinghy over to explore Tom Browns and Seal Cays. There were no seals at Seal Cay.
We would eat a simple but delicious meal at sunset. Lobster or conch, both plucked from the sea floor. With our bellies full we retired to our cabin to make sweet love.
We moved on after four days of exploration. Our water supply and gasoline for the dinghy were both starting to get low. It was time for us to head back to civilization. Only four miles away was an island with the ironic name of Little Grand Cay. It was to be our first stop in civilization since leaving Bimini.
Approaching the island, I made a call on channel 16 for guidance into the harbor. Our charts showed that it was much too shallow, but a friendly voice greeted us and talked us through the narrow and tricky channel. We docked at the quaint little marina simply named Rosie’s Place to get our bearings. Rosie’s turned out to be what we needed.
We topped off the water tanks, refilled the gas cans, and even grabbed a bite to eat at a restaurant. The locals were friendly and welcoming, waving and smiling as they passed us. We felt so welcome
d that we decided to spend the night and explore yet another island.
“Do you think we’ll be alright spending the night in a marina?” Kelly asked.
“I don’t see why not, I didn’t see Zephyr when we came in.”
“I didn’t see any sailboats here at all. It feels like we’re the only cruisers in the area.”
“It’s nice isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah, all the snowbirds must have left when hurricane season started. Though I think I’d rather be here than in Florida for the summer, at least there is a breeze here,” she said, chuckling.
“Come on, finish your lobster and let’s see what this town has to offer.”
As it turned out, Little Grand Cay didn’t have a lot to offer us. We marveled at the bright, colorful little houses and the towering sport fishing boats. The small shops were a pleasant distraction, but we found ourselves casting off our lines after a hearty breakfast and getting underway for the next adventure.
We didn’t have to go far. It seemed that every mile or two there was a new group of islands, most of them deserted. Kelly and I would spend a day or two at each and move on to the next island. When the afternoon squalls would move through, we would both strip and shower out on deck. Eventually, I devised a rain catchment system using a tarp and a couple of clean five gallon buckets. It was rare for our water tanks to get below three-quarters of a tank.
Kelly and I had settled into the cruising life at last. Enjoying empty beaches, exploring hidden ruins, and just living our life to the fullest. We worked our way south, one island after another, crawling our way through the Abaco chain. I should have known that it couldn’t last forever.
Chapter Eleven
Kelly squealed as the first cold raindrops landed on her bare shoulders. Giggling she bolted to her feet and ran for the dinghy.
“C’mon Chase, we’re going to get soaked,” she cried.
“We’re going to get soaked anyway,” I yelled back, getting to my feet and brushing the sand off my shorts.
Kelly had already pulled the dinghy down the beach and into the water by the time I got there.
“Hurry!” she pleaded as the rain started to fall heavier.
“Alright, alright,” I said, finally picking up my pace.
We both stepped into the dinghy, and I pulled the cord, bringing our trusty Honda to life.
“Hold on,” I warned before twisting the throttle.
The little boat took off like a bullet. Rain and spray pelted both of us as we skipped across the water towards Paramour, sitting regally at anchor.
“So much for staying dry,” she yelled with false venom over the wind and rain.
“Well, you were the one that wanted to lay on the beach with a squall coming,” I countered.
Kelly pouted like a child and looked forward, her long dark hair whipping in the wind behind her. We reached Paramour within a minute of leaving the beach, but we were both completely soaked before we climbed aboard. Luckily the dark cloud was nearly past us. A short five-minute storm was all this was, typical in the tropical summer.
Kelly looked at the passing clouds and laughed.
“Looks like we would have been better off just staying on shore,” she said.
“Well, we needed to get underway anyways. On to the next island. I hope this one has fuel, we’re starting to get low, again,” I said, turning our unwanted shower into motivation.
“I guess you’re right, can’t sit on the beach all day,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked with a wink.
“We can do that at the next beach,” she said. “Now get up here and let’s get underway, the rain’s already slacking.”
“Aye aye captain,” I quipped with a salute.
I let the dinghy drop backward and around the stern of Paramour, and then connected the lines used to hoist it out of the water and suspend it from the davits hanging off the back. Once attached I noticed that our boarding ladder was hanging by only one of its arms, perilously close to falling overboard. I reattached it, making sure it was secure and clambered aboard as the rains finally quit.
Once in the cockpit, I raised the dinghy and secured it. Kelly was busy down below, storing the few items that we had taken out of lockers. We had our routine down now, and never left anything out where it could fall and be broken.
“Crank up the engine and throw me a dry shirt would you?” I yelled down to her as I set up the cockpit for sailing. A moment later I heard the engine come alive and seconds later a ragged T-shirt came flying at me from the companionway.
“Alright, I’m going to pull anchor,” I shouted.
Pulling the shirt over my head, I moved forward and started the laborious process of raising the anchor. It popped free, and I secured it before heading back to the cockpit.
“What are you doing down there?” I asked, surprised that she wasn’t already in the cockpit.
“Nothing, I’ll be up in a minute, just let me grab a light jacket out of the hanging locker,” she responded.
Easing the throttle forward I focused on getting us out of the anchorage and into deeper water. A heartbeat later I heard a loud crash down below, and Kelly screamed. Not the same playful scream that she let out on the beach, this was a primal, fearful scream that made my hair stand on end.
“Kelly!?” I yelled, moving from behind the wheel.
Peering down into the salon I saw Kelly struggling with something in the doorway to the V-berth. I was halfway down the companionway stairs when she launched backward, feet catching on the step to the forward cabin. She fell through the air, unable to control herself and hit the back of her head on the salon table. Kelly crumpled, and lay unmoving on the salon floor.
Skipping the last two steps, I swung myself into the salon to help her, only to come face to face with the nightmare that had plagued me since our first encounter at Petit Cay. Bottomless black eyes stared at me. Cold killer’s eyes, devoid of emotion and incapable of remorse.
His eyes were set into a clean-shaven, tanned face. Wet, black hair clung to his forehead. He wasn’t big, close to my height and weight. Trim and fit, he was wiry and hard instead of the overdeveloped muscular structure of a weight lifter. This was the same man I had seen on the deck of Zephyr before I sabotaged its anchor. This was our specter, our hunter, our killer.
“Who the hell are you, and how the fuck did you find us?” I said, rage replacing my shock.
“You know who I am Mr. Hawkins, or you are not as clever as you think. I have been following you since Marathon, toying with you as I see fit,” he said with disarming calmness.
“So that’s why you missed when you shot at us on Petit Cay? That’s why you let me foul your anchor and make your boat wash up on shore?” I asked. “Sounds to me like you’re not as clever as you think either.”
“Ah, so it was you who caused me to shipwreck. Well done, but I am afraid it wasn’t enough. And now, since you know who I am, if you would please turn around and go back up the ladder,” he said in his disturbingly calm voice, swaying on his feet as the boat rocked on the waves.
The assassin flicked his wrist and nodded his head towards the companionway. I realized with a shock that he was holding a flat black pistol clutched in his right hand. I glanced down at Kelly, breathing shallowly in a pile on the floor, the only thing separating the assassin from me.
“Why? So you can shoot me in the back?” I asked, refusing to move.
“Back or front makes no difference to me,” he said coldly, and then gestured towards Kelly sprawled on the floor. “You are inconsequential to me, it is this one that I want.”
Glancing around the room I looked for anything that could be used as a weapon, but everything was stowed away out of reach. Even the kitchen knives were locked away in the drawers. I would need a distraction to gain the upper hand.
Behind the hitman I could see the hanging locker door swinging back and forth in the waves. If it would slam into him, perhaps it would startle him enough for me to ma
ke a move.
“How did you get aboard?” I asked, stalling for time.
“I swam out here while you and Ms. Walsh were on the beach. Then I hid in the closet and waited for you to return,” he said.
“I’m glad I could be the one to help you out of the closet, I never knew you trusted me that much,” I replied with a disarming smile and wink.
“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled, just as the locker door swung far enough to slam into the door frame behind him.
The assassin snapped his head around at the sudden and unexpected noise. Wasting no time I grabbed his right arm and slammed it as hard as I could into the indoor helm. He yelped in pain and dropped the gun. It went skidding across the floor into the galley. I followed up my first attack with an immediate right elbow to the man’s face. I could feel a sickening crunch as the dark-haired man went down to one knee.
The assassin wrapped his arms around me and drove me back like a football player, our feet tripping over Kelly’s unconscious body. I slammed into the salon table but managed to roll so that I landed on top of my opponent. He shoved me from him and scrambled for the companionway stairs. Regaining my footing I lunged after him, grabbing his foot just as he made it to the top of the stairs.
I was rewarded with a kick to the face for my efforts. Reeling backward his foot slipped out of my grasp. The assassin flailed and scrambled into the cockpit, trying desperately to find his feet. The suddenness and savagery of my attack had thrown him completely off balance. I had to press my advantage.
Following him up the stairs, I threw a punch at his face as soon as I could, narrowly missing and giving him just enough time to compose himself. He counter attacked with a punch of his own and on the pitching deck, I faltered. The blow struck me on the shoulder, but I used his own momentum to grab him and then shove him past me towards the starboard side deck.