“Let’s go, then.”
And we did.
CHAPTER 90
Barron was right. The lake had laid down.
We had been up pretty much all night, but it was good to be heading home. In a little over an hour, I spotted the Vermilion River Breakwater. Home. Thank God.
But there were boats. More boats than usual at that time of day. Lots of boats.
* * *
I came down off of plane as I approached the river entrance. Suddenly, I was surrounded by boats. And cameras. And reporters. Half of the contingent broke off, and headed for Barron’s boat. He was surrounded by boats, too.
These idiots didn’t seem to realize that a forty-eight-foot power boat isn’t real maneuverable. I went dead slow and turned into the river. In response to the shouted questions, I just pointed to my ear and shook my head no.
I asked Kate to call VYC, and tell them we were on our way in. In a couple of minutes, I hear her say thanks to Norman.
“Norman said, ‘Welcome home.’ He also said the Vermilion Police are keeping boats out of Ontario Lagoon, but the river is very congested, so be careful. He also, also said that the Police were keeping people off of Anchorage Way, and out of the club. But he warned that Portage Drive was a zoo.”
“Oh great.”
When we got to the lagoon, a cop standing on the foredeck of his Police Boat waved us through. The lagoon was empty. Barron and I backed in to our slips. There were several club members at our slips to help us in. And to ask questions.
Once we were secure, the four of us went ashore to face our friends. Norman was there. He kind of acted as spokesman. “Are you guys okay?”
And I kind of acted as our spokesman. “We have had hardly any sleep in the last two nights. We were boarded by terrorists. We crossed the lake under horrendous conditions. We were arrested. We were released.”
I took a deep breath; then continued. “It has been the worst boating experience of my life, and I have had some bad ones. The FBI has told us that we can’t say anything about what happened over the last few days. If we do, we’ll get arrested – again.”
Marci, the current Commodore’s wife looked like she was going to cry. “Can I hug your wife?”
Without waiting for an answer, she did. And she cried. They both cried. “Katya, come here.”
Katya joined in the group hug. She cried. I almost cried.
“I don’t know what information the FBI has released. But we are not allowed to talk about this incident. Yet. All I can say is, please believe me. Whatever you’ve heard – we’re innocent. We didn’t do this willingly.”
I thought I had probably said too much, but I had to say something. These were our friends.
Kip, the current Commodore put an end to the discussion. “Enough. You guys look like you need a drink or three. Come on up to the clubhouse.”
VYC’s Bylaws prohibit drinking on club grounds, but there are times… And this was one of them.
* * *
We sat in the clubhouse for a while. Everyone studiously avoided the proverbial elephant in the room.
We had tried sitting out on the deck, but it faces the river, and the reporters hadn’t given up.
Norman asked if he could do anything for us, or for our boats.
The FBI had gone over both boats very carefully. They removed anything that wasn’t ours. They even pumped the holding tanks. I never found out why. There are some things you just don’t ask.
Both Barron and I have used Lagoon Marine in the past. We asked Norman to call Chris, and schedule a thorough cleaning, inside and out.
After a while, it got hard to not talk about what everyone wanted to talk about. We said our goodbyes. There were lots of hugs. And some tears.
We headed home.
CHAPTER 91
Thankfully, both Barron and Katya, and Kate and I, live in gated communities. Them in Canton, us in Lorain.
Once we got through the Vermilion Lagoons, and behind our gate, we were safe. We were protected from reporters. We faced no more questioners. Except for Geoff. Every neighborhood has a Geoff. The neighborhood busy body.
Finally, I had to tell Geoff that we just couldn’t talk about it. That the FBI threatened us with jail if we did.
He reluctantly backed off.
* * *
Kate and I moved out onto our deck overlooking Lake Erie. Kate calls it our beautiful Lake Erie.
Our daughter-in-law was born and raised in south Florida. Some years ago, she stood on this deck, and looked out over Lake Erie. I’ll never forget her reaction. “This is not a lake.”
It was our first meeting. I didn’t know quite what to say. “Oh?”
“With lakes, you can see the trees on the other side. I see nothing but horizon. This is like the ocean. It even has a surf.”
“Maybe that’s why they call them the Great Lakes.”
Our Great Lakes. As boats went by, I wondered. Would they ever really be ours again?
* * *
It turned out that what I had told our friends at VYC was pretty close to what officials told the press.
The Cleveland Chief of Police held a very brief press conference. He announced that there had been an international incident near Edgewater Park. He said that three people were dead, and one was wounded. He went on to say that because of the international aspects of the incident, the FBI was in charge of the entire affair. Period.
Frank held a press conference about an hour later. He identified himself as Agent in Charge of an ongoing investigation into illegal border crossings on the Great Lakes.
He announced that they had apprehended two boats at Edgewater Yacht Club. He said that the boats carried “illegals” who were trying to enter the United States. He did not use the words “terrorists” or “immigrants.” Just “illegals.” When he was asked where they were from, he said simply, “The boats are from Vermilion, the illegals are from the Middle East.”
Frank went on to say that thirteen illegals who crossed from Canada had been arrested, and were being held without bail. He added that six others had been arrested in Ohio City, and were also being held without bail. Among those arrested was one Saif Halabi, the leader on this side of the border.
His this-side-of-the-border comment brought on a ton of questions. All he would say was that the Canadian government had arrested a number of individuals in Leamington, Ontario, and that they would probably be having a press conference of their own.
His comments about us were even more cryptic. He said that the four boaters from Vermilion had been arrested and released on bail.
He was pressed for details. His answer satisfied nobody. “This is an ongoing investigation. I have no further comments at this time.”
* * *
We had crossed on Saturday. The press conferences were on Sunday. By Tuesday, things had quieted down somewhat. But there were still a few reporters camped at the gate to our community.
Kate called Katya. They had the same situation.
I called Norman. He said that there were still a couple of boats hanging out in the river, and a couple of reporters watching the entrance to Vermilion Lagoons. We were stuck.
I called Frank on my G iPhone. “We’re trapped in our home. So are Barron and Katya. The club is surrounded. Can’t you do anything?”
“I can. And I will. But not until tomorrow. Hang in there for just a little longer. Can you pass that info on to Barron safely?”
“He still has the secure iPhone that you gave him. I’ll call that phone from this one.”
“Don’t use anything that may be compromised.”
Somewhat sarcastically. “I won’t. I’ve gotten to be quite good at playing spy…”
CHAPTER 92
At about eleven a.m. on Wednesday, my regular iPhone rang. Caller ID said it was Frank Simmons. Frank was calling on my regular, unsecure phone? “Hello? Frank?”
“Captain, I’m holding another press conference at noon. It will be on all of the Clevela
nd TV channels. You need to watch.”
“Should I call Barron?”
“I already have.”
“Oh.”
“This press conference will redefine you. You will change from suspected human traffickers to victims, and maybe even heroes.”
Again, I said one word. “Oh?”
“You may become heroes, but you will still be besieged by the press. Just for a different reason. Be careful. The judge’s ruling is still in effect. She can still revoke bail.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s meant to. The press and the public need to get their information from us, not from you.”
I was back to one word. “Oh?”
“Listen to the press conference.”
And he hung up. That was the last time I ever talked to Frank Simmons.
* * *
At noon Kate and I were sitting in front of the TV downstairs in our family room. It was tuned to Cleveland Channel 8, Fox News.
There was the expected “Breaking News” banner. Then the picture switched to a talking head in a roomful of talking heads. I assumed that the room was in Cleveland FBI Headquarters.
The talking head verified that the room was in Cleveland’s FBI Headquarters. The camera panned to the front of the room. And on to Frank Simmons standing behind a podium. Or was it a rostrum?
Frank identified himself as the FBI AIC of the recent incident concerning the apprehension of illegals attempting to cross Lake Erie into the U.S. at Edgewater.
A reporter shouted a question. “Were they terrorists?”
Frank was not ruffled. “That is not for me to say at this time. And if there are any more outbursts like that, the guilty party or parties will be ejected from this press conference.”
Mumbling. Frank waited for relative silence. “The sole purpose of this press conference is to announce that all charges against the four American boaters from Vermilion have been dropped. Their bail has been rescinded. They are innocent, and free to resume their lives.”
More mumbling. And raised hands. Frank waited. He ignored the hands. “Further investigation has revealed that they were innocent victims, not conspirators. They were threatened at gunpoint, and forced to ferry the illegals across Lake Erie during dangerously bad weather. We are not releasing their names at this time. Please respect their privacy.”
Of course, everyone knew who we were. And they were not about to respect our privacy.
“I will answer a few questions about the incident.”
It came out that our boats were commandeered in Vermilion and forced to go to Leamington.
It came out that the “illegals” showed us pictures of our children and grandchildren. That they threatened them with harm or worse if we did not do as we were ordered.
It came out that sixteen “illegals” carrying assault weapons boarded our two boats in Leamington.
It came out that one “illegal” was “washed overboard” by the storm during our crossing. And that their leaders forced us to abandon him. That his body had not been recovered.
It came out that an innocent Security Guard was shot and killed on Whiskey Island Drive by the “illegals,” and that one American boater was wounded by them.
Finally, it came out that two “illegals’ were shot and killed during the gun battles behind and inside of Edgewater Yacht Club.
Frank never called them anything other than “illegals,” but he made it very obvious that they were terrorists.
All in all, he did a great job.
We were victims. We were heroes. We were the good guys. The terrorists would be foolish to try to use us again.
* * *
On Wednesday evening we ventured out.
We had dinner at the Jackalope overlooking the Lorain Harbor.
The press bothered us for a while, but gave up when they realized that we were not going to talk to them.
* * *
By Friday, the street near our gate was empty. Phone calls to Barron and Norman indicated that things were pretty much back to normal there, too.
* * *
On Saturday, we went to VYC. Barron and Katya stayed away.
Many of our friends were there having a “normal” weekend. There were lots of hugs and handshakes.
Everyone tried very hard to avoid the proverbial elephant that was still in the room, but it was hard. They were awkward. We were awkward.
Chris and his guys did a great job on Morning Star. It looked and smelled like a new boat. But it was full of ghosts.
We puttered around for a while. About dark, we gave up and went home.
* * *
We tried again the next weekend. Everything was the same as last week.
And everything was different.
CHAPTER 93
We sat on our deck in Lorain, and watched the world go by. The world wasn’t the same. Lake Erie wasn’t the same.
We used to spend hours here reading, eating, drinking, entertaining, just living. Now we were restless. We’d go outside, sit for a while, then move inside.
I had a grill downstairs on the deck above the beach. I used to grill burgers or chicken breasts or kielbasa. And we’d eat at a little table next to the grill.
Now I grilled – and we went inside to eat. It was almost like we were hiding from the lake – and what was on it.
* * *
After another failed weekend at Vermilion Yacht Club, we decided to go down to the Florida Keys for a while.
* * *
Our home on Lower Matecumbe Key was a haven. It felt safe. Funny. Illegal border crossings, and illegals are a bigger deal down here than they are up north. But we’re not a part of it. Our beach was ours. The ocean was a vast untainted expanse. This felt like home now.
After a month, we knew that this – Florida -- was home now.
We decided to move.
* * *
But we had a problem. Actually, two problems. The Florida Keys have too much shallow water for big boats. And unless you fish a lot, or drink a lot, and we don’t, there really isn’t a lot to do in the Keys.
We loved the Keys, but it was a vacation get-away, not a place to live year-round. We decided to move.
We zeroed on the southwest coast of Florida, and searched from Naples to Venice. Right about in the middle is Fort Myers. But it’s busy – and it’s urban. It’s almost as bad as southeast Florida.
But right across the Caloosahatchee River from Fort Myers is a lovely gated community. We found our new home.
We sold our house in Lorain, said goodbye to our friends at the Vermilion Yacht Club, and moved our stuff to North Fort Myers and our boat to the Fort Myers Yacht Club.
Kate got her license, and started a new career as a Real Estate Agent. A new chapter had begun.
And we lived happily ever after.
We hoped.
Covert Crossings Page 22