“Yeah,” she answered. Her voice was stronger. She needed a few minutes to gird that armor up. Cover the chink with more iron and sally forth.
I carried her backpack and the two plastic bags of money on deck and dropped them into Beth. We closed the companionway and locked it. I would have preferred to move it back to its original anchorage, but leaving the area was a higher priority.
We motored the dinghy back to Carina. It felt like a lifetime since I left her. The grilled lobster had shriveled in the sun. I tossed the remnants back into the sea. Seemed like canned chicken and crackers were going to be lunch today.
“Make yourself at home,” I told Lily as we went below. “You can have the aft cabin. There might be some junk in there; I don’t have many guests, so it tends to become storage.”
“Thank you,” she said. After we left Madge, her cheeks began to color. The stress of the morning began to lighten.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Pull anchor and run,” I stated. “I don’t know how far away the other boat was. I want to be moving toward the States before anyone comes looking.”
“What about my dad?” she asked.
“If he doesn’t give up the money, he’s worth more alive than dead,” I assured her. Unfortunately, I worried about how alive he might be if he could resist whatever they used to encourage him to give them the money.
She relaxed a bit.
“I have to secure the dinghy and pull up anchor,” I told Lily. “There’s some food in the galley. Just get settled in.”
Lily disappeared into the aft stateroom, and I climbed back on deck. The plastic bags of money were still in the dinghy. I lifted them out and removed the stacks of bills. They lined up on the opposite bench. There were 38. $380,000. Plenty of incentive for someone to come back for it.
Under the port bench was a lazarette that was quite spacious. Secured to the side were three air cylinders used for scuba-diving and a small compressor that I use to fill them after each dive. I pulled the middle cylinder free and lifted it on deck.
A friend of mine converted an old cylinder for me. Twisting the base of the cylinder removed the bottom, revealing a watertight hiding place. A rubber boot on the base covered the crack between the removable bottom and the rest of the cylinder. I used duplicate stickers with inspection dates to make the tank look like the real thing.
The 38 stacks of bills fit tightly in the hidey-hole if I rolled them to conform to the tank’s shape. There was enough room to stash the fake passports that Travis and Lily had. I saved the one for Alexa Cooper, figuring that Lily would need to get back into the States without raising any flags. Once the cylinder was replaced, the three tanks looked identical.
Within a few minutes, I had the dinghy lifted out of the water and secured on its davits. The windlass began pulling the anchor off the sandy bottom. As soon as I felt the drift, I began hoisting the mainsail. The first gust of wind lifted the boat in the water and propelled us forward.
Despite the events of less than an hour ago, my spirits lifted as the breeze carried us forward. Wrapping the line around the port winch, my hands gripped the jib sheet and began pulling it around the winch. The jib sail unfurled a few feet before the wind filled it and spun the furler to release it all. The winch handle clicked the gears as I tightened the sheet and trimmed the front sail.
Carina heeled to port about 30 degrees, and the water lapped at the hull while we sped away at 18 knots. A sailboat was no match for the speed of one of those cigarette boats, but for pure endurance, she’d outlast them. It was a fair estimate that I could make the entire journey back to Florida without turning on the Perkins diesel engine until I finally made harbor. Those go-fast boats would run out of gas eventually.
Lily appeared in the companionway, carrying a plate with some cheese and crackers.
“I didn’t know what you might want to eat,” she explained.
“I never turn down cheese. There are some bottles of water in the fridge. Can you grab one?”
“Yes,” she answered, ducking below.
When she returned, I told her, “I save the bottles and refill them. There’s a water filter on the sink, so the water is drinkable. I just like it cold.”
She settled on the seat next to me and offered me a wedge of cheddar. After we had devoured half the plate, she leaned back and stared at the sea behind us. The girl looked tired, and before long, her eyes drifted closed.
Engaging the auto-pilot, I leaned back and relaxed, enjoying my first sail in a few weeks. The weather conditions were ideal, with a north-easterly wind that was directly at our back at the moment.
I found a beach towel and covered Lily. She was in a heavy sleep; I didn’t want her to wake up scorched by the sun. She slept for an hour as we plodded home.
Lily jerked awake as the VHF radio squawked.
“What was that?” she asked.
I adjusted the volume as the radio wave burst through again. “Sailing vessel,” an accented voice announced, “this is the HMBS Freeport. Please come about and prepare to be boarded.”
Lily was pointing off the stern, and I turned my head to see a patrol ship approaching about a mile away.
7
The jib rolled around the furler as my hands moved one over the other to reel in the line.
“Why are you stopping?” Lily demanded nervously.
Carina’s velocity slowed without the headsail. I was already moving to release the cam lock and lower the mainsail.
“We don’t have a lot of choices,” I explained. “It’s the Defense Force.”
“No!” she insisted. “We have to keep going.”
The canvas fell as the main halyard zipped upward once it was released.
“Lily, we can’t outrun them. If we don’t stop, they can fire on us. The Freeport has .50 caliber guns that can chew up the hull and leave us sinking, assuming we aren’t killed first. ‘Keep going’ isn’t an option here.”
“What are we going to do?” Lily panicked.
“Stay calm,” I urged, watching an rigid-inflatable-boat bouncing over the waves. “These kinds of stops are standard. Under maritime law, they can board and inspect any vessel. There’s nothing to worry about. You are an American citizen. For now, you’ll need to be Alexa Cooper, but they should be able to help us. Maybe they can alert law enforcement Stateside to look for your dad.”
“We can’t tell them that someone took my father?”
“Why not?” I asked incredulously.
“Didn’t the guy you killed say that the…” She blanked on the name and waved her hand at the patrol boat. She continued, “…whatever they are, told them we were still on the boat?”
“RBDF,” I informed her. “And they may have a contact, but it’s not like the entire Defense Force is on the payroll. They are good guys.”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know. You can protect me. I’ll give you all the money. Help me find my dad.”
“No,” I told her. “I don’t want your money. I’ll help you. It’s up to you; this is your life. I’ll follow your lead, as long as it doesn’t require fighting the RBDF.”
“What will we do?” she queried.
The inflatable dinghy was still a few hundred yards away. Two Black men stood on the bow; one held what looked to be an Uzi. A third was behind the center-console helm.
“Alright, if this goes south, we will have to confess everything. I have no intention of being tossed into some Bahamian jail,” I stated. “You use the Alexa Cooper passport. You’re my daughter. You have your mother’s last name. We’ll stick to the story about your mother’s cancer. You already know it, and the truth is so much easier than something else.
“After her death, you came to live with me. We are exploring the islands as we get to know each other better. Keep it simple.”
She nodded.
“I’ll play the ‘dad card’ to try to do all the talking. You have to back me up, though, if they ask.”
&n
bsp; “I can do it,” she promised.
We stood and watched the tender slow as it drew near. The officer on the bow grabbed the railing as the inflatable nudged gently against Carina’s hull. I grabbed the line from the RBDF’s dinghy and secured it to the cleat mid-ship.
“I’m Senior Lieutenant Blocker,” the officer stated. He didn’t offer introductions to the one holding the Uzi, but the insignia on his uniform indicated he was a Chief Petty Officer.
“Come aboard, Senior Lieutenant,” I offered as if the choice was mine.
“Thank you, skipper,” the officer replied.
The Chief Petty Officer climbed aboard first. Once he was firmly aboard, the Senior Lieutenant followed suit.
“Skipper, we are doing an inspection following an emergency transmission we received a few hours ago,” Blocker explained. “Do you have identification?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, producing our passports. “My name is Chase Gordon; this is my daughter Alexa. We didn’t issue an emergency call.”
“Yes, sir,” Blocker remarked absent-mindedly as he examined our passports. He studied the picture on each before looking us over. “Miss Cooper, your last name is not the same as Mr. Gordon’s.”
“No, sir. I have my mother’s name,” she stated.
“Is your mother on board?” he inquired.
“No, sir,” I offered. “Alexa’s mother passed away last year.”
He glanced up at Lily and me. “My condolences,” he said.
“Do you have anyone else on the vessel?”
“No, just the two of us. We’ve been doing some island hopping.”
The Senior Lieutenant gave the Chief Petty Officer a nod below. The CPO stepped through the companionway and disappeared below deck.
“I’m sorry, we didn’t hear a mayday,” I told Blocker. “We haven’t seen anyone all day.”
“Where did you begin from?” Blocker questioned.
“This morning, we were anchored about 20 miles east of Sale Cay. We were doing a little early morning snorkeling before we set sail for Mangrove Cay. We wanted to be back in West Palm by the end of the month.”
Blocker nodded. His eyes glanced around the cockpit. “Can we have a look in your lockers?” he asked; however, the question was merely a polite gesture. The quickest way to move on from an inspection was full cooperation.
“Absolutely,” I consented, opening the lazarette on either side of the cockpit.
Blocker plucked a flashlight from his belt and illuminated the interior. His beam strafed across the cylinders and dive equipment.
“You aren’t spearfishing with scuba gear, are you?” he asked.
“No, sir. Not here. We’ve done some diving but not while fishing.”
“Good,” he remarked.
He moved to the next locker and did the same. The Chief Petty Officer appeared in the companionway.
“Sir, the interior is secure.”
“Thank you,” Blocker told the CPO as he moved to the aft locker.
He straightened up and asked, “You haven’t seen any other vessels today?”
“I didn’t notice them. I was honestly enjoying the weather. We had the wind at our backs most of the way. I didn’t see anyone else. You guys snuck up behind me as it was.”
Blocker nodded without much regard.
“Allow me to inspect your cabin,” Blocker said; again, the statement was only worded to sound like a request.
“Please.” I waved my hand, inviting the RBDF officer below deck.
Lily gave me a look; I signaled her to stay put. Blocker left the CPO on deck as he went into the cabin.
There are few times when time comes to a slow crawl. Waiting rooms, the last fifteen minutes of a work shift, and being at the mercy of bureaucracy. We stood with the Chief Petty Officer in the cockpit as the Senior Lieutenant dug through my personal life. The experience wasn’t new. Thirteen years in the Corps left little room for privacy.
When Senior Lieutenant Blocker returned, I could tell that he had found nothing of interest or contraband.
“Mr. Gordon, I thank you for your time,” he said.
“I’d be happy to offer a beverage before you leave,” I suggested, knowing that the response would be negative. That might border on bribery, and the Senior Lieutenant was an up-and-coming officer in the Royal Bahamas Defense Force. He would do nothing inappropriate in the presence of two enlisted men.
“No,” he stated firmly. “Thank you. You are permitted to continue on your way.”
“Glad to accommodate,” I replied as he disembarked Carina for the inflatable tender.
The Chief Petty Officer followed him, and I untied the lines securing the boat to Carina. We were offered a polite wave as the dinghy’s outboard motor revved up. I watched the wake push the rigid inflatable boat toward the massive patrol boat.
Lily relaxed next to me. She wanted to go down below and recoup; instead, she stood next to me and watched the RBDF officer’s departure.
After a few seconds, I broke her stare. “Let’s hoist the sails. There’s no point in waiting around here for them to come back.”
“They won’t come back, will they?” she asked, her apprehension aimed at me.
“Doesn’t look like it. Let’s not give them any reason to.”
Pulling the main halyard around the winch, I began to lift the mainsail.
8
The familiar skyline would have made a perfect picture. The setting sun outlined the buildings along the beach. The orange light cast a glow against the Flagler Memorial Bridge crossing the Lake Worth Inlet. Condominiums, hotels, and more commercial growth than any city needs had grown along the shoreline like barnacles on the hull of a derelict boat. Every year, another developer appeared, ready to reap whatever green he could. Any available land became more valuable than air and water. Cold buildings designed by the same school of architects took the place of the character that once thrived along the coast.
The West Palm Beach City Hall is adorned with an aerial photograph taken in the late 1930s. The coastline was white with empty beaches of sand bordered by greenery. The waterways had a few boats navigating toward the ocean. A similar image taken today would show concrete and little black ants crowding the beaches. Vessels the size of small towns were funneled through Lake Worth like mosquitoes swarming the light.
I realize that I’m part of the problem. A non-native that immigrated to complain about how the old charm of Florida has been strip-mined away to leave a barren land devoid of life. I’d like to make the excuse that my personal footprint isn’t as big as the guy chugging down the Atlantic coast in his 70-foot gas guzzling floating mansion. Carina is reasonably self-sufficient. The fuel tank can carry me for months without a refill. The solar panels attached to the top of my bimini and the wind generator affixed 15 feet above the cockpit keep the batteries at nearly full charge.
None of that matters, though. I came here as an escape. After leaving the Marines, I had the choice to return to the Ozarks or find a new landing. I knew that the trite saying was true: the sea was in my blood. Certainly, the draw to the blue was stronger than any need to return to Arkansas.
The inlet was clear. Most of the day-trippers had returned to their berths before the sun was completely below the horizon, and the only traffic was the commercial shipping vessels trying to clear out of the harbor before dark. Carina glided along, but before I maneuvered under the bridge, I cranked the diesel up. The sails could carry her all the way into the marina, but given Murphy’s Law and the predisposition of people to inadvertently enforce that law out of carelessness or idiocy, I prefer to drop the sails and use the engine to take her in the last stretch.
“You live here, huh?” Lily asked as she saw the edge of the Tilly Marina with the Tilly Inn overlooking the collection of boats.
“Yes, but only when I’m Stateside. I work up in the hotel when I’m here.”
“It’s nice,” she commented.
Looking over at the girl, I smile
d. “Honestly, I prefer remote anchorages like where we were. Too many people around here make me nervous.”
“Not me,” she shrugged. “I liked being there, but I miss people. How do you handle not talking to anyone?”
“I do it in spurts,” I explained. “I will spend several weeks out there alone. When I need to get supplies or just want to have a conversation, I find a crowded anchorage. Most cruisers are friendly, and being a single guy, I get adopted by lots of older couples who bring me aboard for dinner and cocktails. Usually, one or two of the ladies will try to set me up with another single lady.”
Lily grinned sheepishly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
I shook my head. “I don’t. I’ve date a few women that enjoy spending a few weeks on board, maybe even a month or two, but eventually, they grow tired of life at sea. Or maybe just tired of me. It’s a tight place to spend time.”
“Oh yeah,” she agreed. “That’s part of it. There was never any privacy. Just me and Dad.”
She paused when she mentioned her father. A sadness washed through her eyes. I didn’t say anything else. Any comfort I could give would be short-lived.
“Tilly Marina, this is SV Carina,” I spoke into the VHF radio.
A few seconds passed before I heard, “This is Tilly Marina; go ahead Carina. Chase, you’re back early, aren’t you?”
“Affirmative, Randy,” I answered.
Randy was the dockmaster at the marina. He was a grizzled sea dog that emigrated from Canada in the 60s. Randy has an old Gibson houseboat on which he lives, and he spends the rest of his days running the marina operations. I think he has been a resident here since before the hotel was built.
“F-12 is clear, Chase,” Randy’s voice came through the radio’s speakers.
“Ten-four,” I answered.
“What’s F-12?” Lily asked.
“The slip we will be berthing. I end up in a different slip every time I come back. Usually, in the transient section.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her.
Carina took a broad curve so that I could point her straight into the slip. A blue and white Pearson 35 was parked in F-13. Perseverance was from Baltimore, Maryland, according to her transom. She appeared to be at least 40 years old and in the midst of a moderate rehab. The topside had recently been repainted. All of her sails had been removed.
Dark Cay Page 4