Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  As they motored in, the water depth remained at 20 to 30 feet. They stopped at about midpoint, and anchored in 20 feet of water. The canal at that point was about 500 feet wide, allowing them to let out enough chain to swing in any direction, should the weather worsen.

  While Andy straightened things on deck and set the anchor chain snubber, Jesse brought out the blender, and made a batch of margaritas. They sat in the cockpit, relaxing, while the wind continued to gust and blow through the mangroves lining both sides of the canal. There, the water remained calm, except for a slight surface ripple.

  Andy looked across the canal. ‘‘It would take a direct hit by a hurricane to bother us here.’’

  Jesse smiled. ‘‘Well, I could use a few days of rest. How long do you think we’ll be here?’’

  ‘‘Two days, minimum.’’

  ‘‘What if the Guardia comes?’’

  ‘‘We’ll be polite, and explain that we are here because of the bad weather. I don’t think they’ll do anything.’’

  ‘‘Do you want to teach math today, or should I do it?’’

  ‘‘I’ll do it.’’

  ‘‘Well do it before you have another margarita, or she’ll be teaching you.’’

  Andy went below. ‘‘Time for a little math, Rachel.’’

  ‘‘Can I take a swim, first, Daddy?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Andy said, looking at the depth plotter. ‘‘The water’s 82 degrees.’’

  Andy opened the gate, and dropped the stern ladder into the dark water.

  ‘‘Is it safe in here?’’ Jesse asked.

  ‘‘Probably safer than most places we’ve swam before in the ocean. I’ll watch her.’’

  Rachel grabbed a green swim noodle, and floated alongside the boat.

  Andy must have drifted off, because, for some reason, he jerked awake, and scanned the water. Rachel was floating 20 feet from the boat. At first, he didn’t see anything, but then a ripple on the surface came toward the boat from the east side of the channel. He watched it with curiosity at first, and then, as it moved purposefully, he stood and rushed to the rail.

  ‘‘Paddle over to the boat, Rachel,’’ he shouted.

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Now!’’

  Jesse stuck her head up through the companionway. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘Something’s in the water.’’

  ‘‘Rachel, you heard your father. Get over here!’’

  Rachel, now alarmed, herself, twisted around, looking at the surrounding waters, and then she paddled closer to the boat. When the ripple came within 20 yards, Andy saw the pointed snout of a crocodile. It looked to be about 6 feet long.

  ‘‘Jesse, get up here,’’ Andy shouted as he dove over the side, and, with four powerful strokes, reached his daughter’s side.

  Rachel reacted to her father’s fear. She paled and started to cry. ‘‘You’re scaring me, Daddy.’’

  Andy placed his arm around her waist, and, in several strokes, had her back to the boat and up the ladder. Before he had a chance to ascend, the crocodile swam past him no more than 8 feet away. Rachel stood in the cockpit, shivering with fear. Jesse covered her with a towel and embraced her.

  As the crocodile’s tail propelled him away, Andy said, ‘‘I guess he’s not into white meat.’’

  Although it howled all night and throughout the next day, they remained securely at anchor.

  ‘‘I’m sure glad we’re not outside in this,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘I remember a lecture an experienced cruising couple gave at the yacht club before we departed. They said that there’s no excuse for getting caught in bad weather—just wait it out. That’s good advice for a robot, but too often, humans never learn, or create justifications for their choices.’’

  The wind howled across the canal the next day, and into the afternoon. Prophecy drifted gently around the anchor chain with the shifting wind, and remained secure.

  Rachel stood on the bridgedeck, pointing. ‘‘Something’s in the mangroves, Daddy. A boat, I think.’’

  Andy grabbed his binoculars, and scanned the area. In seconds, he saw a small rowboat with two men aboard. One had the oars, and was struggling to get the boat moving. Each time he rowed out into the canal, strong winds pushed the boat back before it moved more than fifty feet.

  He handed the binoculars to Jesse. ‘‘They’re in trouble, Andy. They’ll never escape the mangroves in this wind. Can we help?’’

  ‘‘I’m not anxious to attract Cuba’s attention, but what the hell…’’

  Andy stood on the foredeck, and waved. The men waved in return. He grabbed a boat fender, and attached several lengths of line to it, about 300 feet. He then let it drift from Prophecy toward the mangroves.

  When the large white fender came near, they rowed frantically toward it, only to have the wind push them back into the mangroves at the last second.

  Andy added 50 feet of line, and tried again. This time they rowed to the fender, dragged it into the small boat, and held onto the line as Andy pulled them in. After a few minutes, the rowboat was alongside Prophecy, and Andy helped them on deck.

  Both wore unmarked olive military-style pants and shirts. The older one looked like he was in his mid-forties, and had a dark beard; Castro-like, Andy thought. The younger one had three or four-day stubble.

  ‘‘Muchos gracias,’’ said the young man, who was probably in his early twenties.

  ‘‘Habla Inglés,’’ Andy asked.

  ‘‘Un poquito.’’

  In heavily accented English, he introduced them. ‘‘My name is Ramon Guerrero, and this is my uncle, Antonio.’’

  ‘‘Mucho gusto,’’ Andy said.

  He introduced Jesse and Rachel. When Reggie stuck her head up through the companionway, wagged her tail, and greeted the two men, Andy felt relief. She was a good judge of character, that dog.

  Ramon told them that they were from a nearby village, and were out fishing when the storm hit, leaving them stranded in the mangroves. He thanked Andy and Jesse profusely for their help.

  ‘‘Are you hungry or thirsty?’’ Jesse asked.

  ‘‘If it’s not too much trouble, Señora, a little water,’’ Antonio said.

  ‘‘I’ll make sandwiches, and we have lots of juice on board. Come below, and I’ll get things ready.’’

  Antonio shook his head vigorously. ‘‘Oh, no, Señora. We’re too dirty and smell of fish. We’ll eat up here, con su permiso.’’

  Jesse nodded and headed below.

  ‘‘We can’t thank you enough, Señor,’’ Ramon said.

  ‘‘It’s nothing. Tell me, is the Guardia anywhere nearby?’’

  ‘‘No, Señor. Don’t worry; we rarely see them in this area.’’

  ‘‘How can we help you get back to your home?’’ Andy asked. ‘‘Perhaps, we can take you there by boat.’’

  ‘‘Not possible, Señor. The water’s too shallow. We’ll wait for the weather to improve, or hail a fishing boat passing by the canal.’’

  After lunch, they sat in the cockpit, chatting. Ramon was twenty-two. He’d graduated from Universidad de La Habana with a degree in computer science.

  ‘‘There’s little work for computer specialists in Cuba,’’ Ramon said. ‘‘Our economy is not so good. I’ve been helping my uncle, Antonio, with his fishing business.’’

  ‘‘I’m not political.’’ Jesse said, ‘‘But this whole thing between the United States and Cuba is crazy.’’

  ‘‘I agree, Señora, but your government hates Castro and punishes the Cuban people. The trade restrictions only make Cubans more nationalistic. I can assure you, Señor, we aren’t overjoyed with communism.’’

  Andy smiled. ‘‘The resumption of normal relationships between our two countries may have to wait until the death of the backward-looking political dinosaurs in both countries.’’

  ‘‘No hay mal que por bien no venga,’’ Antonio said.

  Andy scratched his head. �
�‘There isn’t bad through good doesn’t go?’’

  Ramon smiled. ‘‘Not bad, Señor. It’s: ‘there is not bad from which good doesn’t come.’’’

  Rachel smiled. ‘‘Oh, well, back to Spanish classes for all of us.’’

  The next morning, the weather was clear, calm, and beautiful. The Cubans thanked Andy, Jesse, and Rachel. They insisted on giving them a large bag of fish, and then got back in their small boat and rowed away.

  Andy prepared for departure. By 9 a.m., they’d raised the anchor, and were headed back out for Florida. The winds, after the passage of the storm, were light, and they made little progress.

  ‘‘We’ll have little choice tomorrow, but to motorsail, or the passage will take three more days.’’

  At 4 a.m., Jesse shook Andy awake from deep sleep. ‘‘The radar shows something ahead. It’s barely visible at 18 miles, and it looks stationary.’’

  ‘‘Where is it relative to our heading?’’

  ‘‘We’re right on course for it.’’

  Andy looked at his watch and at their GPS speed over the ground. ‘‘We should meet up with it shortly after sunrise.’’

  ‘‘Could it be pirates?’’

  ‘‘I doubt it. Whatever’s out there looks like it’s adrift and maybe in trouble.’’

  Chapter Twelve

  When the sun inched over the horizon, Jesse Reiss stood at Prophecy’s bow with binoculars, in an attempt to view whatever had caused the radar shadow they’d been tracking for the last few hours. ‘‘I still can’t see anything.’’

  ‘‘It’s still three miles away. If it has a low profile, we may not see it until we’re much closer.’’

  At a half mile, Jesse pointed to starboard. ‘‘I see something, but I still can’t make it out.’’

  In another six minutes, the remains of a sailboat appeared.

  Andy pointed. ‘‘It’s a Hans Christian. She’s been dismasted and trashed. Bring out the starboard-side fenders, and we’ll tie up.’’

  Jesse looked at the three-foot swell. ‘‘Is it safe?’’

  ‘‘We’ll be fine. Take the helm and start the engine, while I drop the sails.’’

  When they approached the wrecked yacht, Reggie stood on deck, barking at the drifting, ghostly presence. Andy sounded the air horn to draw the attention of anyone aboard. As they came close, he used his hailer to announce that they were coming alongside.

  The boat remained silent.

  Andy leaned over the side as they approached from the rear. ‘‘Adios is her name. The port of origin is Trinidad and Tobago.’’ He turned to Rachel. ‘‘Take the helm. I’m going over. Jesse, get ready to throw me a bow and a stern line.’’

  ‘‘Be careful.’’

  As the boats came smoothly together, Andy stepped onto Adios. He grabbed the bowline and tied it to a cleat, and then rushed aft to catch the stern line.

  Andy stopped for a moment to survey the wreckage. The mast was gone, but someone had stuffed a small fender into the gaping hole where the mast once stood. The furler was intact, but all that remained of the jib was the sail’s rough edges hanging from the slot. The dodger was bent and torn, as was the small bimini covering the cockpit. Blood streaked the cockpit’s walls and congealed in the scuppers.

  ‘‘Ahoy… ahoy,’’ Andy said, as he rapped his hand against the portholes to the main saloon. When he got no response, he lifted the hatchboard over the companionway, and slid the hatch open.

  He looked into the darkness below. Warm, foul air arose, and he turned his head away in disgust. He waited a moment, and then took the five steps into the empty saloon. He moved into the aft stateroom, and shined his flashlight on a fair-skinned blonde teenage girl. He touched her, and felt her warmth. Her chest rose and fell with shallow respirations. When he shook her, she groaned.

  He moved forward, and in the portside stateroom laid a light-skinned man with similarly blond hair. Andy tried the lights, but they didn’t work.

  They look like surfers. What are these kids doing in the middle of the Caribbean?

  The man was unresponsive, and his shallow breaths and rapid heartbeat said that he wasn’t long for the world. His skin was on fire.

  Andy stuck his head up through the companionway. ‘‘We have a man and a teenage girl. They’re in pretty bad shape.’’

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘Dehydration, profound seasickness… I can’t tell shit down there, it’s too dark.’’

  ‘‘What should we do?’’

  ‘‘We’re going to have to move them over to Prophecy. Neither of them is too heavy. The three of us can do it.’’

  Jesse shook her head. ‘‘I don’t like taking people aboard, especially if they’re sick.’’

  ‘‘I know, but it’s probably dehydration. It looks like they went through hell, and without power, who knows how long they were without water.’’

  Jesse stared at the deck. ‘‘I still don’t like it. Can’t we call the Coast Guard and let them deal with this situation?’’

  ‘‘Who knows if and when they’ll come? What if they die while we wait? We don’t want that on our consciences, do we?’’

  Jesse sighed. ‘‘I’m sorry. Protecting the family is in my DNA.’’

  Andy pulled the young woman from her bed and into the main cabin. He dragged her to the steps, grabbed her under the arms, and brought her into the cockpit. When Andy opened the lifelines to pass her through, the top line and the supporting stanchion were smeared with dried blood.

  What in hell happened here?

  Reggie stood on deck, watching everything. Her tail moved in short rapid swings; not her usual slow swing of anticipation or excitement. Reggie was nervous about something.

  Andy struggled to hand the girl to Jesse and Rachel, and together, they moved her below into Prophecy’s main cabin, and placed her on the sofa. They repeated the efforts with the man, but left him above on the cockpit cushions.

  This time, Reggie dropped her tail and raised her hackles. She sniffed at the man, backed away, growled, and barked.

  ‘‘They look terrible,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘especially the man.’’

  Andy grabbed his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. The man’s pressure read 80/40, and his pulse was 156/minute. The girl was more stable, with a pressure of 98/50, and a pulse of 90/min.

  Jesse pinched his skin and lifted it; it remained tented. The man’s eyes were sunken, and his mouth and lips were dry and crusted.

  Andy turned to Rachel. ‘‘Get the medical kit. He’s going to need IV fluids before it’s too late.’’

  Andy inserted an IV, and began infusing 5% dextrose and normal saline.

  ‘‘Jesse, see if you can arouse her enough to get some fluid in by mouth.’’

  Jesse went below. She soaked a washcloth in water, and cleaned the young woman’s mouth and lips. She allowed the excess fluid to drop into her mouth. She was relieved when the girl moved her tongue, and swallowed. Soon, Jesse had her sucking on the water-saturated cloth.

  ‘‘Take it easy,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘You’re going to be fine.’’

  The girl groaned and uttered something that Jesse couldn’t understand.

  After about an hour, and after a second liter of IV fluids, the man’s blood pressure came, up and his pulse diminished. His temperature was 102 degrees.

  That’s a bit high for just dehydration, he thought. It might be anything: pneumonia, or some other infection.

  Andy got on the single sideband radio, and called the United States Coast Guard.

  ‘‘This is the sailing vessel, Prophecy,’’ He gave their call sign, latitude, and longitude. ‘‘We’re reporting a hazard to navigation, a sailboat, Adios, hailing from Trinidad and Tobago.’’

  ‘‘Anyone aboard?’’ The Coast Guard asked.

  ‘‘A man and a young woman. We found the boat adrift, dismasted, and pretty much trashed. They may have been drifting for days. Both were dehydrated, but lucky for them, I’m a physi
cian and my wife’s a nurse. Together, we’re managing to get them rehydrated.’’

  ‘‘Are you declaring an emergency, Prophecy?’’

  ‘‘No. We should be in Ft. Myers in two to three days. If the survivors get into trouble, I’ll give you a shout. You have the coordinates for the vessel adrift?’’

  ‘‘Thank you, sir. We’ll put it out.’’

  ‘‘Okay, Coast Guard, anything else?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Listen, Doc, there’s a tropical storm brewing off the coast of Belize. It may be heading for landfall, but keep an eye on it. If it starts heading north or northeast, you’d better get to shelter quickly.’’

  Before casting off from Adios, Andy went below to her navigation station, looking for the boat’s log. He found it inside the chart table when he opened it. He read the ship identifying information: its owner, Carlos Mendoza, had registered Adios in Trinidad and Tobago. In the rear of the logbook were his captain’s papers.

  Andy’s eyes scanned the room. Where are you, Captain Mendoza? He thought.

  He found a pad in the chart table and wrote, ‘‘To Whom It May Concern, we took two survivors, a young man and a teenage girl, aboard the sailing vessel, Prophecy, bound for Ft. Myers, Florida.’’ He signed and dated it.

  Andy released the dock lines from Adios, and stepped back onto Prophecy. As the boats drifted apart, Andy thought, two youngsters at sea and, Carlos Mendoza missing; blood in the cockpit and on the lifelines—what in hell happened aboard Adios?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jesse stuck her head up from the companionway, and wiped the sweat from her brow with her arm. ‘‘This feels like work. I just checked her vital signs, and managed to get some water and then pineapple juice into her. She finally opened her eyes, nodded her thanks, and dropped back to sleep.’’ She paused. ‘‘All I need is a clipboard and a scrub suit.’’

  Andy was staring at the young man still lying in the cockpit. The man groaned when stimulated, but didn’t respond purposefully to command. In the midday light, Andy took the opportunity to assess him in more detail. He turned the man’s neck to the right to check on his veins as an indication of his hydration. They were visible, a good sign. When he turned the man’s head to the left, just below the jaw line was a blood-encrusted laceration.