Deadman's Cay

by Boyd Craven

  “This damn boat blocks my view. Sure, it may be good habitat for spiny lobster and all the good fishes once sunk, but I do not want ‘da bad juju this boat may bring, with it so close to Deadman’s Cay.”

  “Then you should’ve just called the authorities.”

  If there was ever a man that could give you the stink eye and actually make it hurt, it was my buddy. I let out a sigh and went back to my boat.

  “You said the batteries are dead right?”

  “Yes, bring extra battery from your boat. We rig it up and pump out all and see if we can get big engine started. Once ‘dey get going, they will charge up old batteries. You know to jumpstart engines, yes?” Irish John asked with a grin.

  I just grunted at him and got the battery and slid up onto the deck of the old fishing boat. If I could fix a diesel-electric train, fishing boat motors were no big deal. I had already worked on a dozen motors similar to this one at Franklin’s junkyard. If I had to guess, the fuel water separator had gotten full, or one of the fuel filters was plugged. Down here in Florida, we didn’t have a problem with diesel gelling up the way it did in northern states, so I didn’t think that would be the issue. Why would they park the boat and then pull the seacocks to sink it? That went through my mind as I got back on the boat and held out a set of jumper cables with alligator clips on either end, to Irish.

  “Hook these on to the pump, and we’ll just wait for the water to pump out,” I said, sitting down next to the opening.

  Sitting on top of the engine cover with my feet dangling over the edge, I hooked up my end of the alligator clips to the battery. I could tell as soon as Irish hooked his side up, as water started shooting out of the back of the boat, just under the railing. The pump was actually loud enough that I missed what Irish had said, but he was smiling at me and when I tilted my head to the side and asked him what, he just shook his head and waved his hand.

  It took about 20 minutes for the engine compartment to be completely drained. Irish unhooked his end and then wiggled his way out and onto the deck. He was sweating, and used his hat to wipe his face off.

  “Now, if big dummy asshole can’t get ‘dis boat started, we can call somebody and have it towed away. Irish John don’t want abandoned boats shitting up his view of the sunset.”

  “Why do you hate this boat so much?” I asked, wedging my upper body experimentally into the engine compartment.

  It was a tight fit, but I was able to get down there. Once I was, I realized it wasn’t as crowded as it had seemed when Irish John had gone down. I reached up and saw Irish struggling to push the battery in my direction. I stood and took the battery, and then lowered it down and set it on top one of the Yanmar diesel motors. I figured most of the gauges were up at the helm, but I could tell right away what the problem was. The motor had quit, and they’d run the battery dead trying to get it restarted.

  I knew that sounded like I’d just made a genius discovery, but it was by the tools somebody else had left down here that I could tell someone had very recently been horsing around. The battery terminals and wires connecting them were all shiny, and a wire brush and half a dozen small wrenches littered the floor.

  “What do you need, boy? You want to have relations with ‘dis motor in peace?” Irish John said with a snicker.

  “Now wait a second… Don’t you get started on me again.” I shook my head, remembering the time at the beach, when he’d told the pretty woman and her kids that I was wanting to have sex with the crabs. “It looks like I’ve got plenty of tools down here. Can you poke around up in the cockpit area and see if there’s any spare parts? Maybe a fuel filter?”

  “Irish John don’t know what ‘dose look like,” he said with a straight face. “Is that the long pointy stick that she used to turn–”

  “For somebody that wants my help, you sure are dragging this out. Maybe I ought to go home and get some more sleep.”

  “Am only playing, I will check. Didn’t see any spare parts down there when Irish John was getting pumps hooked up.”

  I grunted and went to work. The tools that were down here were exactly what I needed. Maybe whoever had been working on the boat didn’t know anything about diesel motors, and they’d got scared and abandoned ship before they could even get it fixed up and running. While John was poking around, I was blessed with silence. My hands knew what to do, and my brain quickly found the water fuel separator.

  “This one’s got a drain in it,” I mumbled to myself.

  I looked around in the compartment and saw somebody had left an old coffee can down there. Probably for just this purpose. It was tight, but I was able to twist and lean over enough to pull it out. I put it under the separator and opened the valve. Some water came out, smelling strongly of diesel, but not enough to have made this big tub of a boat stall out.

  “Here Tony,” Irish said from above.

  I looked up and he tossed me down a fuel filter, brand-new in a box and shrink wrapped in plastic. I went to work.

  I daisy chained the battery with the house battery that was up inside the front of the cabin. Crossing my fingers and toes, I cranked the starter switch. Nothing. Not even a clicking. I left the key in the on position... I knew the one battery was good, I hadn’t used it long to pump out the bilge, and it was what I used to start my boat up. Grunting, I got a screwdriver out and went over to the engine hatch, hanging over.

  “What are you doing?” Irish John asked.

  “I'm shitting in your hat,” I mumbled, shorting the positive and negative posts on the starter.

  Irish John's words were lost as the diesel motor coughed to life. It was like I had thought, whoever had abandoned the boat lacked basic knowledge to fix simple things, or didn't care enough to replace a twenty-dollar solenoid. They must have killed the battery bank trying to crank this over from within the engine compartment. Everybody knew the screwdriver trick, but not everybody knew where the solenoids were, or how to replace them. I waited until the coughing, wheezing, and smoking evened out before replacing the cover on the compartment.

  “Now what?” I asked Irish John.

  “Now you pull anchor and take this big boat out of Irish John's view.”

  “Where the hell am I supposed to take it?” I asked him, flummoxed.

  “Franklin's. There you can call FWC if you want. Maybe the sheriff. Use radio. Irish don't care, I need to do ’tings.”

  “What are you in such a hurry for?” I asked him, surprised. “First you want this boat out of here; now you're bailing on me.”

  “I... Hurricane season is coming. I always fear ‘dat it might...”

  “You don't have to stay out here alone Irish,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Come ashore with me if you want.”

  “And listen to big dummy asshole snore at night? Like he's calling in sea harpies with all his racket?” he asked, his face finally breaking into a smile.

  “Irish John, do you know how badly you snore? You shouldn't be talking,“ I chuckled, “Listen, I can tie my boat off and tow it home with this. You think Franklin will mind if I park it there since his charter boat is in town? Give me time to get the sheriff involved?”

  “I don't ‘tink he'd mind,” Irish said. “And you never know, maybe you get ‘da salvage rights and can keep this one, eh?”

  “I ... what?” I asked him, confused.

  “Is not the way Florida works all the time. Maritime law is one ‘ting, Florida law is another, but me thinks you might have just found yourself a big boat of your own.”

  He tipped his bowler’s hat at me, scurrying over the side to his boat, and throwing his line off.

  “Irish John...” I called, but he had already pulled the cord on his own outboard and was off in a rush of water.

  “A boat of my own?” I asked myself, turning around.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I had never considered keeping the boat until Irish John had literally fled in his own dingy. Now that I looked at it, I saw it in a different light.
It was an older power boat, probably used in commercial fishing more than charter fishing. The deck was made from faded wood, almost bleached white with salt and probably cleaning chemicals. The engine compartment was dead in the center of the back, with a short doghouse style cover to go over it. On top of that had been fitted with two wooden cutting boards, evidenced by the slices in them.

  So, they would either fillet or cut bait here. That’s when I realized they had no real coolers. I looked at the floor of the deck and saw on the right side that there were scrapes in the wood. So, a crane at one point had lifted a crate perhaps? The helm looked like every other helm on every fishing boat I had ever seen in my short time down in Florida. Wheel, throttles, gauges. What surprised me were the electronics. A large GPS touch screen had been left behind. I tried turning it on, but it was dead. The good news was the battery charging signal came on, on the touchpad, so its batteries had died at some point as well.

  Then there was the space forward. Almost like a sailboat, the opening went down a few steps into the cabin. I had been down there to check on the house batteries, but now I looked at it differently. A couch and table set that would fold down, a small white gas stovetop in a small kitchenette... galley? What looked like a small apartment sized fridge and two doorways on the back wall. The first one I found was the head; basic pump flush toilet, sharing space with a handheld shower, a fold up sink and everything done in the orange Naugahyde colors of the 70s.

  I headed to the other door, expecting storage, and was a little surprised. It was mostly storage space, but a small bed had been set off to the left side near the wall separating the head from the living/dining/kitchen combo. I walked over and sat on the bed. It had a foam mattress, but way too much spring. I got up and lifted the mattress to see two pieces of plywood with holes drilled out for a finger to get in there. Storage?

  I slid one of the access panels up with the mattress and started chuckling. The bed itself was sitting about three feet off the ground on a platform. When I took up the panel, I saw that it was an access to the bottom of the boat, and boy, was it full. Fishing gear, extra rope, all kinds of things. Fishing poles were stacked on top of what looked like a huge canvas tarp... It was like somebody stacked this all away when they were done with it. Why would they abandon it though?

  That is what had me nervous, and it had made Irish John nervous too. With the thrumming of the diesels behind me, I closed first the panel to the bed, then the door to the storage/bedroom and headed up top. The sun was up and, despite the fall weather, I could feel the heat coming. I debated making the call to the FWC and Sheriff's department right then, but decided it could wait until I got back to Franklin's and had something to eat. I had run boats this size before, Franklin's as a matter of fact, so I had an idea how much distance to the bottom of the channel the boat needed, and how to maneuver it.

  Moving my aluminum boat so it would follow behind, I set off.

  The FWC and Sheriff's department had taken two days to show up, and funny enough, without coordination, they both showed up at the front gate within seconds of each other. I heard the honk and went out front to see and saw two vehicles. I chuckled as I unlocked the chain holding the gate, then pulled it open, letting both trucks in together, then closed it back up, without locking it. Both pulled up to the side of the warehouse's steel side, near the overhead door. I walked up slowly as both cars unloaded. Two familiar FWC officers exited a green painted Ford. The sheriff's department had what looked like an old 80s blazer, but it was in pristine shape.

  “Are you Mr. Delgado?” the sheriff started.

  “Yes sir,” I answered, pulling my wallet out fishing for ID.

  “We know him, Sheriff,” one of the FWC boys said.

  “Agents Carter and Page,” he said, pointing to each other for the sheriff's benefit.

  “Ahhh, I see,” he said, waving at my hands. I put my ID away and pocketed my wallet.

  “Sheriff Mark Williams,” he said by way of introduction. “You're the gentleman who called about the sinking boat?”

  “That's me,” I told him. “Nice to meet you sir, good to see you again Agents Carter and Page. Boat's tied up on Franklin's dock.”

  “Wait, you're that guy who stopped those three robbers from hitting the pawn shop near here, aren't you?”

  It had been local PD who had answered the call I remembered, and I grinned, shrugging my shoulders. You would think I was used to this by now, but I wasn't.

  “Yes sir,” I answered.

  “Good, I know the family. Damned good people, I go to their church.”

  I bit the side of my cheek, trying not to laugh. Everybody around here goes to that church apparently.

  “Yes sir, Miss Carly and I are somewhat acquainted.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, his face darkening.

  Danger Will Robinson, danger!

  “Kind of,” I admitted. “You want to check out the boat?”

  “Yes, please,” Agent Page answered, with a motion showing he wanted me to lead the way.

  I told them the story of how Irish John had woken me up, leaving the part out that I’d fell asleep on the picnic table, and how he’d insisted on me helping him. We’d got to the boat by the time I told them how I had gotten the water separated and jumped the big diesels with my battery from my aluminum fishing boat.

  “You said she was taking on water?” the sheriff asked. “How?”

  “Somebody partially opened the sea cocks in the engine compartment. It was almost like they were trying to sink it. Irish John closed the sea cocks and we rigged a battery bilge pump up, then jumped her.”

  “Now why do you think they wanted to sink her?” the sheriff asked.

  “I honestly don't know. I know whoever it was killed the batteries trying to start it up, probably not knowing how to filter the water out… dead starter solenoid, basic diesel maintenance stuff. Other than getting it jumped and back here, I haven't really done more than a quick look in it to see if I could figure out who to call.”

  “We'll worry about that,” Agent Carter said, piping up. “There's a registration plate on all of these. We can find the owners and...”

  “You're thinking the same thing I am?” Sheriff Williams asked the agents, who nodded.

  “You touch the GPS?” Agent Page asked.

  “Just tried to turn it on after I jump started it. The battery was dead. Might be fine now, I hooked the boat up to shore power when I tied it off, so you folks could have lights on inside. I didn't think it'd take a couple of days, but that should have given everything time to charge.”

  “We get busy. Down here, especially after hurricanes, we deal with dozens and dozens of abandoned boats a week. Not worth the cost to repair or properly dispose of them, so the owners just cut the mooring lines and...” Agent Carter's words trailed off. “Which might be the case here.”

  “But the GPS should be charged, you guys can probably get an idea where this boat was operating out of when we found it.”

  “Was it floating, or anchored?” Agent Carter asked.

  “Both,” I answered, not sure what he was getting at. “Go ahead and get aboard fellas. I want to figure out this mystery as much as you do.”

  “Probably more so,” Agent page said with a grin.

  “It'll be his luck if it was a smugglers boat,” Carter shot back.

  “For all we know it was stolen and used to run drugs and guns,” Sheriff Williams replied.

  I hopped over the side and into the boat after them. These guys had been on lots of boats and knew right where to go. I followed them as Agent Page hit the power button on the GPS. We waited in silence as it booted. After an agonizingly long time, it was ready. Sheriff Williams and Agent Carter both reached for buttons, but it was Agent Page who brought up the main screen, with all the waypoints.

  “Back that view up,” Sheriff Williams told him.

  He did, using his thumb to make the waypoints in the ocean scrunch together as more and more land and
sea became visible. All the waypoints were clustered on north western Florida in the pan handle. Sheriff grunted, and then zoomed in the waypoints, writing down the GPS numbers in a notebook he carried in his pocket. The FWC guys started looking for the plate they had told me about.

  “What do you think?” I asked Sheriff Williams when he was done.

  “Looks like fishing waypoints to me. If I had to guess? This boat was hitting the coasts around Apalachicola. That isn't too far from here…”

  “Sheriff, we have the registration numbers here. Want us to run it, or do you...?”

  “I'll do it,” the sheriff said, writing things from their notebook into his, then turned to me. “I'll be right back.”

  “Ok,” I said, leaning against the doghouse cover for the engine.

  “So, how's Irish John?” Agent Page asked me.

  “He's... you know how he is. Something about this boat spooked him and he insisted I take it away from the island.”

  “No, I mean, is he doing ok? Is he healthy? My great aunt is Miss Josephine--”

  “Oh no way!” I said grinning as Agent Page turned slightly pink in the face.

  “Yes, way. See, we don't just check up on John to harass him about his fishing license,” Agent Carter said, “but me and Page's daddies were best friends since we were old enough to go shrimping together and his aunt was like a second mother to me...”

  “I get it,” I said.

  Irish John would be mortified if he knew the entire area sort of thought of him as a charity case. He wasn’t.

  “Yeah, I mean, I don't know how he survives on that Island all alone. We heard stories about why, but nobody has ever really gotten close to him.”

  “Stories about why he prefers to stay out there alone? He doesn't like all the crazy hustle and bustle. He decided, with all he knew, he'd rather live the quiet life.”