Pursuing Chase

by C J Schnier

  Kelly came topside around 0800 with two piping hot cups of coffee. The bruises on her face had already started to heal from Alonzo’s attacks. I hadn’t looked in a mirror in days. I was willing to bet that I was a patchwork of bruises myself.

  “Here you go captain,” she said handing me a cup. “How’re we doing?”

  “So far so good. There have been a few ships that passed us, and the winds are lighter than we would like, but we’re averaging just over four knots. I’m sure Romulus could go a little faster, but I think Andy is holding back to keep us in sight.”

  “How is he? He must be exhausted,” she noted with real concern.

  “He gave me a wind speed update about an hour ago. He sounded pretty tired. Hell, I’m pretty tired, he is probably catatonic by now.” I replied, telling her the truth.

  Kelly grabbed the VHF radio mic and held it up to her face. “Why don’t I give him a call?”

  “Have at it sister.”

  “Romulus, Romulus, Romulus, this is Paramour, over,” she said into the mic.

  A long moment passed with no reply and she tried again. “Romulus, Romulus, Romulus, this is Paramour, do you read me, Andy?”

  Another moment passed before the radio crackled with Andy’s tired voice.

  “Paramour, this is Romulus, I copy. Switch to channel 68.”

  Kelly used the controls on the mic to switch the radio from channel 16, the international hailing and distress channel, to 68, one suitable for conversation.

  “Paramour, this is Romulus on 68, do you copy?”

  “Affirmative Romulus. How are you holding up over there?”

  “Just another day in paradise,” he said, sleep still clouding his voice.

  “You’re sounding tired over there,” Kelly said, fishing for information.

  “Oh I’m fine, I’ve been getting little fifteen minute naps here and there. The windvane is steering, all I have to do is keep on a lookout for other boats,” he said.

  “That is a relief, we were worried about you, it has been a long couple of days for all of us. At least you have a windvane, we’re stuck taking turns hand steering, Paramour doesn’t balance well downwind. Maybe Chase should have gotten a new autopilot when we were in Marathon,” she said cheerfully.

  “Might have been a good idea. Or better yet, get yourself a windvane when you can. They don’t use any power.”

  “We will have to look into that once everything calms down,” she replied. “How far to the Gulf Stream?”

  “Another few hours at this speed. We should alter course to the south, or The Stream will carry us up to Jacksonville. That current is no joke,” he said, obviously more awake now that when he had first called him.

  “We will follow your lead Romulus. If you need anything give us a call,” Kelly responded.

  “Will do, Romulus out.”

  Half an hour later we changed course, heading South by Southwest instead of straight West. As we sheeted in the sails a little tighter for the new course, we picked up speed. We were rocketing along at five knots, thankful for the continuing breeze in the hot and humid summer weather. We spent ten minutes carefully trimming the sails for the most balance which let Paramour hold her course for a few minutes at a time without any input from the wheel.

  Squalls started to pop up around us as the day dragged on, getting hotter and hotter. Luckily our course just happened to avoid them. Without the cooling effect of the rains and clouds, the heat and humidity were nearly unbearable. The ocean was unseasonably warm for this early in the summer, and even the occasional bit of spray did little to cool us off. If this weather kept up, we were in for a heck of a hurricane season.

  Kelly and I both stayed up for a while longer in the cockpit. I had tried to get her to open up about what had happened after Alonzo had hijacked the boat and kidnapped her. She refused to talk about it though, reverting to her emotionless persona anytime I brought it up. She was intentionally blocking the incident out, and I couldn’t really blame her. I just wished that the slimy bastard hadn’t escaped.

  Eventually, my exhaustion got the better of me, and Kelly let me rest for a couple hours. When I woke up, I knew immediately that something was different. The motion of the boat had changed dramatically. The waves had picked up and were coming from an odd angle. Were we off course?

  I looked at the dash mounted compass in the pilot house. It read 225 degrees. No, we were still on course. The Gulf Stream. We had entered the aquatic highway and now had a four-knot current pushing us north as we tried to sail against it. The result was a strange yawing motion as we plowed through the new and confused wave patterns.

  The sun was just setting over Florida when I went to join Kelly in the cockpit. I could barely make out the tops of the skyscrapers in Miami and Ft. Lauderdale in the fading light.

  “Looks like we’re getting close,” I said.

  “We still have a long way to go Capt. You can see the Miami skyline from a long way off,” Kelly responded in a convincing know-it-all voice.

  “How are we doing course wise?” I asked, trying to get a real sense of the boat’s direction.

  “Andy laid us on a perfect course. The winds have stayed pretty steady, and we’re more or less crabbing sideways straight for Ft. Lauderdale.”

  “That’s good. I was afraid the winds would die in the afternoon and we’d get pushed north.”

  I looked around again, taking in all that I could. It was already dark behind us, and the light was fading fast. This would be my last chance to see anything other than the millions of lights along the coast.

  “I’ll take over if you’re ready for a break,” I offered.

  Kelly accepted immediately and went straight below to try and get a little sleep. Even two hours of hand steering in these sort of confused seas could be exhausting and balancing the sails didn’t work too well when we were being rolled around in every direction. Romulus, however, was sailing along steady as a rock, his navigation lights already on, bouncing as she rode over one wave and up another in a nearly perfect line. I really needed to get some sort of self-steering gear.

  Darkness descended over us quickly once the sun was entirely down, but even with mostly clear skies, there were only a small handful of stars visible. The light pollution from South Florida left a yellow-brown halo above the land that drowned out all but the brightest of stars and satellites.

  Shipping traffic in the Gulf Stream was almost always heavy. The strong northbound current was a real advantage for shipping companies headed that way, saving them tens of thousands of dollars worth of fuel. For Andy and me, however, it meant we had to be on the lookout for those ships continually. To help me see them in the darkness, I fired up the little dome radar mounted on my mizzenmast.

  I adjusted the range for ten miles and waited for the screen to refresh. Several contacts appeared on the monochrome display. After a few moments, it was easy enough to distinguish the east and westbound pleasure craft from the larger and faster moving targets of the north and southbound ships.

  For the next couple of hours, Andy and I picked our way through the shipping traffic as the lights of South Florida rose steadily from the horizon. At this rate, we would be looking at Port Everglades Inlet in a few hours, hopefully right at sunup.

  Trying to enter a busy shipping harbor with a small, slow, sailboat is daunting. I would have preferred a smaller inlet with less traffic, but our options were severely limited in this part of Florida. It was either Port Everglades in Ft. Lauderdale, or Government Cut, an even busier shipping channel, in Miami. We chose the former.

  Once we had gotten closer to shore, the Gulf Stream finally let up, and we could sail downwind again straight west for the inlet. The night had been relatively uneventful, and it felt good to know we had almost arrived. Condos and shipping cranes greeted us from shore at dawn. The overdevelopment of Florida was disgusting to see after the serenity and remoteness of the Bahamas.

  Andy called me on the radio as we made our approac
h into Ft. Lauderdale, informing me that he had a private dock lined up for us not far from the entrance of the channel. He also had arranged for a car to be delivered to us sometime in the afternoon after we had both had a chance to catch up on sleep.

  I decided to rouse Kelly from her sleep. I would need a second set of eyes in this busy channel. I also turned off the navigation lights and went ahead and fired up the old Volvo engine. When I went back into the cockpit I was pleased to see that Paramour had held her course just fine in the calmer waters outside of the Gulf Steam.

  Romulus led the way through the wide channel, staying well off to the sides to avoid the ships and multitudes of early morning fishing boats that seemed to come and go at an astonishing frequency. Once into the main harbor turning basin, he turned north, negotiated clearance through the 17th St. Bridge, and headed up the channel.

  As soon as we had cleared the bridge, the view changed dramatically from industrial shipping to luxury high rises and mansions. I was feeling a little out of place in such an affluent area. Paramour had beautiful lines, but she was a far cry from the mega yachts that lined nearly every dock on the canal. I was a boat bum, and even with all my experience and credentials, I doubted that I could get a job swabbing decks on any of them.

  Andy turned out of the ICW and down a residential channel. Mansion after mansion lined the shore, one stacked nearly on top of another. I really missed the secluded islands of the Bahamas.

  Romulus pulled up to a sizeable fixed dock with three slips in front of a garish home. I hung back, holding my position in the canal until he was secured, and then took an empty space on the other side of the private dock.

  “Well, we made it,” Andy said, catching a line for us as we came into the slip.

  “Yeah, I was surprised we got to sail the entire time too. Whose, place is this?” I asked in mild awe.

  “Just a guy I know,” he said cryptically. “He's in Europe for the summer, but he said we could use his dock,” he added when he saw my disbelieving look.

  “If you say so. You ready to get some sleep?” I asked him, tossing a line of my own around a cleat on the dock.

  “You’re damn right I am.”

  We had Paramour secured in a matter of seconds. I ran down below, killing the engine and then fell into a deep sleep in dark and plush v-berth.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  I woke up rested but sweating four hours later. Kelly opened the bow hatch in an attempt for relief, but there was no wind at all, just sticky humid heat. At least at anchor a boat could swing into even the smallest breeze and provide at least some sort of relief. Tied to this dock, barricaded by an impenetrable wall of mansions and walled off properties, there was no relief to be had.

  Dragging myself out of bed I heard Kelly stir and groan. She rolled over and went back to sleep. I tiptoed my way out into the salon, careful to avoid making the wooden cabin sole creak and groan under my weight. It was early afternoon, and South Florida sweltered in the heat. The boat acted as more of an oven than any sort of shelter from the heat.

  The temperature difference when I stepped out on deck was several degrees cooler than down below. I considered setting up the hammock outside and sleeping in it to get some relief. I glanced around at the multimillion-dollar homes and rethought that idea. These people would not tolerate boat bums sleeping outdoors in hammocks.

  In fact, I doubt they tolerated much of anything. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local police showed up soon at the behest of one of the neighbors. South Florida, especially wealthy waterfront landowners, were notoriously unfriendly to boaters. We were lucky that we had the use of a dock. If we had been anchored out, we would have been boarded by law enforcement already.

  The dislike of cruisers was so severe that one local landowner had purchased fourteen small unlit sailboats and anchored them illegally behind his house just to stop others from legally doing so. When an unfortunate or clueless cruiser did in fact drop anchor near his home, he would blast rap music over a loudspeaker and train high-powered spotlights on the boat all night until they moved. In a just world, the authorities would ticket him for each one of the illegally moored vessels and for his noise ordinance violations, but money was no object to someone like that, and worse, he was friends with the governor. That alone put him above the law.

  This whole canal looked to be populated by people just like him. I could feel the unwelcome prying eyes. I wondered how long we could stay here without being harassed.

  Shrugging off the perceived animosity, I decided to explore our new temporary home. Andy had said we had permission to use the docks and that a car would be delivered. I took that to mean we had free reign of the property, but not the house. That was a shame, some air conditioning would have been a welcome change.

  I walked down the short dock. It wasn’t made of wood, but instead of thick recycled plastic, molded to look like wood. The synthetic decking was costly but would last many times longer than wood. At least until the next hurricane washes it all away.

  A lawn of thick St. Augustine grass that ran from fence line to fence line had been well maintained by a professional service. There was a fully functional outdoor kitchen area near the back of the house. It was a new custom installation of rock and craftily shaped concrete sitting under a well-built Tiki hut. The structure was outfitted with ceiling fans, and a large flat screen TV mounted in one corner. New looking stainless steel appliances dotted the custom counters as well as two refrigerators and even a bar complete with three beer taps sprouting from a brass tower. I was sure Andy would tell us if that was functional or not soon enough.

  Next to the kitchen was a pool, fed from a hot tub, that in turn was fed from a fountain. The pool stretched across the rest of the back of the house. The whole patio area around it was well landscaped with a variety of rare tropical plants to provide the best possible view of the canal and yet offer a modicum of privacy. All of the plants seemed to be healthy and thriving. I couldn’t help but think back to another lifetime when I owned my house with a pool. I never could grow anything, and my pool was green more than it was ever blue. Landscaping was a pipe dream for me. I always thought the pool was more trouble than it was worth and definitely too expensive.

  Tucked back in the corner where the pool patio and the house met there was an outdoor shower area. It was made in the same fashion as the outdoor kitchen. A small thatched tiki roof sat over a beautiful stone and concrete stall. Inside was one of those enormous shower heads like the ones found in luxury hotels. I tried the water and was surprised to see that it worked. When I finished exploring, I promised myself I would come back and take a much-needed shower.

  Leaving the pool area, I followed the high vinyl privacy fence around to the side where I knew a gate must be. There was no simple latch system though. Instead a keypad was mounted into one post. I tried the door anyway, but it was locked solid. So much for the exploration. Annoyed, I went back to Paramour to collect some clean clothes and my shower kit.

  Washing the salt and grime off of me felt amazing. I could go days without a shower and be just fine, but with all the heat and sweat and salt, it was glorious to get clean. My long hair had taken the brunt of the punishment, and it took me several painful minutes to brush it out after days of letting it tangle in the wind.

  Andy sat at the outdoor bar watching television with a glass of beer in his hand when I got out of the shower. Feeling refreshed, I went over to join him.

  “You didn’t have to get yourself all prettied up for me,” he joked.

  I chuckled and nodded towards his beer, “So I take it that keg system does work.”

  “Sure does, and it’s a good thing too. I ran out of beer in the Gulf Stream,” he said with relief. “Looks like I’ll be drinking on Sebastian’s dime for now.”

  “Is that your friend?”

  “Yep, Sebastian Karlsson is his name. We go way back. He’s some kind of brewery heir or something in Sweden. I forget. That sure ain’t Bud Light in thos
e kegs, I’ll tell you that much,” he said nodding at the beer taps.

  “How did you two meet? No offense Andy, but you don’t seem like the kind of guy that hangs out with rich Europeans.”

  “Sebastian is super cool. I ran into him in a bar and ended up being good friends after a while. He never brags about his wealth and always treated everyone as an equal. He spends the summer running his business in Sweden but winters here. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Me either. Where’d you get that glass?” I asked.

  Andy pointed to one of the cabinets near the beer taps. I pulled out a clean-looking one and poured myself a beer. He was right, it wasn’t Bud Light. It tasted more like a German lager or pilsner, with a distinct after taste. After a second sip, I had decided that I liked it, and I let myself wonder what was in the other two taps.

  I sat down on one of the stools next to Andy, “So what’s the plan?”

  “You’re going to meet with a man named Maxwell Valentine tomorrow morning in his office downtown. He’a been a major player in the area for a long time, made his fortune in construction back in the 80s when Miami was booming,” he said, finally laying out the plan.

  I stopped him before he could go on, “Most of that construction was funded by the drug trade. I don’t want to go from the frying pan to the fire if you get what I mean Andy. This better be legit.”

  “Chase, if you want to make two million dollars overnight you’re going to have to get your hands dirty. Valentine isn’t into drugs. As far as I know, he never has been, at least not directly. I'm sure he has taken dirty money to do a project or two, but that’s pretty far from what you’re talking about.”

  “Alright, so he was a construction magnate in the 80s. That was a long time ago.”

  “Right. He still has an active construction firm, but he switched mostly into real estate investment. He owns a few malls and other commercial buildings, but he makes most of his money on trailer parks. Owns dozens of them, and they provide him with a nice income stream. Valentine takes care of them too, he’s not just some slum lord. Money is no longer enough though. Lately, he’s got his eyes set on politics. State level politics,” Andy explained.