by Hank Manley
Rhonda Early peered around the corner of the kitchen and wiped her hands on a towel. She was strikingly beautiful at age thirty-six with shoulder length blonde hair, powder blue eyes and a slim, toned build.
“Hi, honey,” she replied as she bent slightly from her five foot-eight inch height to kiss Warren warmly on the cheek. “How was fishing today?”
Conchshell barked affirmatively and rose on her rear legs. She stretched her front paws to Rhonda’s chest and waited for a hug and kiss of her own.
“We caught a bonefish that would go over ten pounds,” Warren said as he began to remove his fly reel from the rod to give it a fresh water cleaning. His father had carefully instilled in Warren the responsibility for proper care of his equipment.
“That’s wonderful, darling,” Rhonda enthused. “When you talk to your Dad this evening, be sure to tell him. He’ll be very proud.”
Warren’s tone turned suddenly serious. “Have you heard anything about the weather, Mom? The sky looks bad way off in the distance. It’s black, and I noticed a swell building in the deep water as we were leaving the flat.”
Rhonda’s eyebrows wrinkled with concern. “Let’s go outside,” she said. “Show me. I haven’t had the television on all day.”
Together, Rhonda, Warren and Conch walked to the rear porch of the cottage and looked over the flats stretching to the east and the deep water beyond. The summer sun was still high, but a thickening veil of scattered clouds had begun to fan across the near sky. Gone was the bright, uncloaked blue overhead. To the southeast the deep, black scar of a storm line was distinctly closer, broader and more ominous.
“That’s more than a summer squall,” Rhonda said immediately. “Turn on the television to the weather channel. I’m going to call your Dad in Florida and see if he’s heard anything.”
Rhonda scurried to the telephone and dialed her husband’s cell phone number.
“Morgan?” she said slightly breathless when he answered on the fourth ring.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Morgan Early said the moment he heard the concern in his wife’s voice. “Is something wrong?”
“Have you heard about a storm coming this way?” Rhonda asked without preamble. “Warren just came home and pointed out the southeast sky. It looks very serious. More than just a summer squall.”
“I haven’t heard a thing,” Morgan replied. “I’ve been busy getting the next phase of Escapade’s upcoming work scheduled at the boatyard.”
Escapade was the Earlys’ sixty-foot custom sportfishing boat that they lived on in Palm Beach Shores, Florida. With new engines being installed, it was impossible to remain aboard. The Early family had rented a small house on Serenity Cay in the Bahamas for the summer while the extensive work was being performed.
Morgan was a very successful professional charter fishing captain with an impressive list of active clients. The major scheduled service meant that Morgan had divided his days between Florida and the rented house for the past month, alternating time with his family on the island and being on-hand in Florida at critical junctures during the re-power operation.
Rhonda was a former professional tennis player ranked thirty-third in the world at the zenith of her career. In Florida she taught tennis at the prestigious community of Lost Palm Village. To fill her mornings and early afternoons on Serenity Cay, she had started a free tennis clinic for the island children on the single court adjacent to the elementary school.
The venture was immediately successful. Within a week Rhonda had thirty enthusiastic young students taking group lessons with rackets she had arranged to be delivered to the island.
“Mom,” Warren yelled from the little den that housed the television set. “Come quick.”
Rhonda carried the remote phone into the small room and turned toward the screen. A serious man, dressed in collared shirt and necktie, sat in front of a map of lower Florida, the Bahamas and the northern Caribbean. A large, counter-clockwise spiraling cloud formation, with a distinct hole in the approximate center, circled to the southeast of the central Bahamas.
“Turn the volume up,” Rhonda said quickly to Warren.
Meteorologist Dr. Paul Smathers continued his report in mid-sentence. “...the suddenness of hurricane Danica’s formation is extremely unusual. Typically hurricanes originate off the coast of Africa as waves of low pressure, but this storm seems to have developed spontaneously in the northwestern Caribbean. Nevertheless, the storm should be taken very seriously. Sustained winds of 120 miles-per-hour are reported with gusts to 140.”
The dark-haired, female anchorperson pointed over her shoulder toward Florida and in a concerned voice asked: “Dr. Smathers, can you predict with any certainty where the storm will hit the United States?”
“At this point, the eye of the storm appears headed toward Florida, striking the coast somewhere between Palm Beach and St. Augustine. Naturally, we can’t be more definitive at this early juncture,” Dr. Smathers reported. “But another interesting feature of the storm is that it is moving to the northwest at about twenty miles-per-hour. This is very rapid movement for a named hurricane.”
The camera panned away from the meteorologist and focused on the anchorperson. “Thank you, Dr. Smathers, for the latest update on the storm.”
Rhonda motioned to Warren to lower the volume on the television as she walked with the phone from the den toward the kitchen. “Were you able to hear any of that?” she asked Morgan.
“Yes,” Morgan replied, the concern evident in his voice. “I heard, and it doesn’t sound good for the Bahamas.”
“The storm is moving fast,” Rhonda said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can get back here before it hits.”
Morgan’s journeys between Florida and the small Bahamian vacation island had not been direct. He had taken a small charter plane from the island to Nassau and then a scheduled Continental Connection flight to Fort Lauderdale.
“I’ll look at the schedule again,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure there’s only one Continental flight a day from here to Nassau, and that one has already left. Perhaps I could find a charter company to fly me to the island . . .”
“No,” Rhonda said firmly. “I don’t want you flying in a little plane into a hurricane. We’ll be fine here.”
“Are you sure?” Morgan asked. “I wish I was there. I don’t like the thought of you and Warren alone in the house with a storm bearing down on you.”
Rhonda laughed to relieve the tension of the moment. “Don’t you worry about us,” she said brightly. “We’ll be fine. Just make sure Escapade makes it through without any damage. You’re protecting our home, you know.”
Sobered by the thought of preparing the sportfishing boat for a storm, Morgan drew a deep breath. “Maybe it is better I’m here,” he said.
“Call tonight,” Rhonda said forcing confidence into her voice. “I’m going to prepare the house. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Morgan said. “Give Warren a kiss for me.”
“I will,” Rhonda said as she disconnected and walked toward the back of the house to look again at the approaching line of menacing clouds. The sight caused her to shiver with concern.
~3~
Rhonda replaced the phone receiver in the cradle and sat on one of the three bar stools that lined the eating counter in the kitchen. It was the middle of July. Hurricanes didn’t usually form until later in the summer. Most of the bad storms in recent years had actually occurred in late September or October. This was certainly bad luck, especially with Morgan stuck in Florida. But Rhonda was not unaccustomed to dealing with dangerous situations.
“Turn off the television,” Rhonda called to Warren. “We have a lot to do if this hurricane is going to pay us a visit.”
Warren pushed the POWER button on the remote and walked into the kitchen. “I wonder
if anybody else on the island knows about the storm, Mom. Maybe I should get on my bike and ride around and tell people to start getting ready.”
Rhonda nodded. “That’s a wonderful idea, honey,” she said. “You and Conch head down to the settlement and let everybody know. I’ll start preparing inside until you return. At some point, before it gets too dark, we have to deal with your boat.”
“I’ll be back in less than an hour,” Warren said. “I only need to tell some of the people. The ones I tell can call others to save time. But I want to help old Mrs. Rolle with her shutters. I’m not sure she can get them closed all by herself.”
Rhonda smiled and felt her heart swell with pride. She and Morgan had raised a wonderfully thoughtful young man. “Go on, then,” she said with a playful pat on Warren’s head. “I’ve got things to do while you’re running around the island.”
* * *
Rhonda closed the drain on the kitchen sink and began to run the water. She planned to do the same with the bathroom sinks and bathtub. Fresh water on the island was a precious commodity, not to be taken for granted. If the electricity failed, which was a distinct possibility, there would be no water forthcoming from the island’s reverse osmosis plant.
Rhonda checked the drawers in the kitchen and found a supply of candles. She chuckled to herself. The cottage owners’ hurricane lanterns hanging in the porch apparently were more than just decorations.
The pantry contained several cans of tuna fish, peanut butter and a full loaf of bread. If the electricity went out, cold meals would have to suffice but they wouldn’t starve. Fortunately, six cans of dog food remained from the last shopping trip. Conchshell wouldn’t be neglected.
The refrigerator hummed happily with sandwich meats, mayonnaise, juice, fruits and lettuce chilling on the shelves. Rhonda made a mental note to fill a cooler with ice and transfer the food if the power went out.
Satisfied that she had thought of all the things she could do inside, Rhonda walked out on the porch. The daylight was fading fast as the cloud cover thickened to bury the sun that was still high in the summer sky. The slap of waves on the beach below increased in intensity. White caps speckled the flat, and the normally smooth horizon appeared lumpy as the approaching storm began to mound the deeper water with significant swells. The wind rattled the broad fronds of the coconut palm trees and whistled sharply as gusts pulsed toward the island.
“Mom, where are you?” Warren called as he battled to keep the front door from slamming shut in the intensifying breeze.
“I’m on the porch, honey,” Rhonda yelled over the increasing noise. “Come back here. We need to secure our windows and deal with your boat.”
Warren and Conchshell skidded to a halt. “I helped old Mrs. Rolle close all her shutters,” he said with maturity beyond his age. “She was real thankful.”
“I’ll bet she was,” Rhonda agreed. “Now let’s get going on our shutters. The wind is building quickly.”
Rhonda and Warren exited the porch and walked to the closest wooden shutter. Conchshell, unusually fidgety, whined a protest to further excursions outside the house, but dutifully followed her master as he began to secure the first window from the wind and flying debris.
“Don’t worry, Shelly girl,” Warren comforted. “We’ll be safe inside as soon as Mom and I get these shutters closed.”
The blonde Labrador barked her pleasure that they would soon be back in the house and out of the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions. To punctuate Conchshell’s point, rain began to spit from the lowering sky, and the light dimmed significantly although the sun was four hours from setting.
“How many of the other islanders were you able to warn about the storm?” Rhonda asked as they hustled around the outside of the house, swinging the shutters on the first floor closed and locking them in place.
“I stopped at everyone’s house between here and the gabby bench,” Warren replied, referring to the popular sitting area near the center of the settlement where residents sat to pass the time of day. “The Saunders and Pindars and Sawyers had noticed the weather was dropping, but they didn’t know we were in for a real hurricane. They appreciated that I told them.”
When the last shutter on the second floor was closed and secure, Warren and Rhonda hurried down the stairs and walked quickly off the porch toward the beach. Conchshell hunched down on her front legs with her nose close to the ground and moaned loudly.
“We’ve got to get the boat secure, girl,” Warren explained. “You don’t want your boat to float away, do you?”
The rain thickened and fat drops splattered on the sand turning the white beach dark. Increasingly larger waves mounded, their crests peaking in the deepening water before crashing and rolling ashore.
Rhonda stood for several moments looking at Warren’s fourteen-foot wooden sailing dory bobbing at anchor twenty yards from the shore. The navy blue hull, usually glistening in broad sunshine, appeared dull in the muted light. The centerboard, rudder and tiller were stowed forward, allowing the boat to be pulled into very shallow water. The mast was in place and the boom was strapped down with the sail properly lashed along its length. The long oar used for propelling the boat across shallow sand bars was tucked along the keel. Warren had left the boat exactly as Morgan had instructed after his last sailing adventure.
“We need to pull the boat on the beach, honey,” Rhonda concluded. “I’m not sure she’ll last the night at anchor. The wind is really going to blow.”
Warren wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “How are you and I going to pull the boat on the beach?” he asked. “We’re not strong enough.”
“You know those three small poles by the side of the house?” Rhonda prompted. “Go get them and I’ll show you.”
Warren ran eagerly up the hill toward the house and grasped one of the five-foot long poles. Conchshell scampered alongside and clamped her jaw on the end of a second pole. The boy dragged his pole down the sandy rise and placed it at the water’s edge. The dog’s efforts to pull the other pole were unsuccessful.
“I appreciate the help, Conch,” Warren said. “But maybe you better let me get it for you.” With Conchshell barking encouragement, Warren towed the two remaining poles to the beach and arranged them in front of the first.
The black cloud that initially smudged a far corner of the horizon now covered half the sky. Warren looked upward and felt as if a thick, roiling blanket were being pulled over his head. Much of the sky was now the color of coal, and the rain had increased to a steady downpour. His shirt and short pants were soaked and stuck uncomfortably to his skin.
“Let’s wade out to the boat,” Rhonda called over the howl of the wind. “I’ll lift the anchor and together we’ll pull the boat toward the poles.”
“Stay, girl,” Warren said firmly. “We’re not going for a sail.”
Conchshell shook her head to clear the rain from her eyes and yelped acknowledgement. Her normally luxurious blonde coat hung limply on her shivering body.
“The water’s getting deeper quickly,” Rhonda called as she pulled the anchor from the bottom and set it on the small teak deck of the dory. “The wind is pushing water across the flats right up on the island.”
“How high can it get, Mom?” Warren yelled as he stood waist deep beside the dory and pushed it toward land.
Rhonda looked toward the shore and tried to judge the height of the ridge where their cottage sat. “I don’t know, honey,” she called back. “Let’s hope it doesn’t make it to the house.”
In the few minutes required for Rhonda and Warren to pull the boat to the shore, the water level had raised enough to float the first of the poles.
“Grab that pole and place it ahead of the others,” Rhonda instructed. “Then let’s give the boat as big a push as we can right over the poles.”
Together, with the help of
the wind and waves tumbling on the beach, Rhonda and Warren managed to shove the dory up and over the first pole before it came to rest sitting on the next two.
Rhonda quickly grabbed the first pole, now free behind the hull, dashed around the boat and placed in line. “Push again, honey,” she shouted. “Let’s see if we can roll the boat over all three poles. We’ve got to get the boat as high as possible on the beach.”
Straining with all their strength, Rhonda and Warren heaved the boat across the poles as the wind roared toward the island and the rain pelted down on their saturated clothes. Three times the free pole was repositioned ahead of the dory, and three times mother and son shoved the boat higher on the beach.
Finally, exhausted, panting breathlessly, and chilled by the driving rain and rapidly descending air temperature, Rhonda and Warren collapsed on all fours in the sand.
“That will have to do,” Rhonda gasped as her head hung low and her hair draped against her face. “We’ll set the anchor and tie the boat to a tree, but we can’t get it any higher up this slope.”
“I think we did pretty well,” Warren said as he wiped rain from his eyes and surveyed their work. “If the water gets this high . . .” He paused and shook his head as if the thought were too difficult to imagine.
Conchshell whimpered her displeasure at the cold rain, screaming wind and rising water. She released a mournful howl and looked longingly at the house sitting dry and safe on the rise.
Warm light filtered through the windows, around the closed, imperfectly fitted, wooden shutters, and leaked down toward the beach. Warren took a step in the direction of the porch, anxious to shed his thoroughly saturated clothes, jump in a hot shower and dress in cozy, dry pants and a sweater.
Suddenly, the interior lights flickered once and went out. The house stood dark and cold in the driving rain. “Come on, Mom,” he called against the wind. “Let’s go inside and light some candles. I’m freezing.”