by Glen Robins
Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Key West, Florida
June 6
“Where’s the Admiral?” shouted Collin. Each swell they plowed through sent a shower of sea spray from the leading edge of the bow. Collin’s sore ribs throbbed with each jarring thump. Wisely, Rojas had brought a large garbage bag to keep Collin’s belongings dry. Collin had cinched it tightly, then wrapped it up, and tied it down under the aluminum bench. He knelt in the front section, holding the safety rope attached to the top of the tubular rubber sides, to keep the boat more stable. Although the water was warm, the slashing wind chilled his wet skin. Before long, Collin was soaked and shivering.
The boat traffic thinned out as they cleared the protected harbors of Key West and headed into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Dozens of cabin cruiser yachts and fishing boats of all sizes, shapes, and models—some old, discolored, and barely seaworthy; others large and luxurious enough to call home—spread out in a fan shape, heading north by northwest. Amongst the motor yachts, scores of sail boats, just as varied in their dimensions and ages, unfurled only a portion of their sails to harness enough wind to drive them forward without capsizing. Many pitched and swayed violently, trying to adjust to the gusts and swells. Others plunged through the waves gracefully, gently rolling as the sails filled with wind and propelled them as if in flight.
Rojas dug a handheld device out of his pocket. It was bright yellow and made of what appeared to be a rugged, buoyant material. He checked it and adjusted their course. Using his outstretched hand, he pointed in the direction they were going. “It’s about four miles ahead,” he shouted.
“Why so far away?”
“Captain wanted to get ahead of everyone.”
“Good idea.” Collin scanned in all directions. That’s when he noticed it. On the horizon behind them, approaching quickly. He pointed to the boat and shouted, “The two dudes chasing me. They’re following us”
“Maybe,” yelled Rojas. “Watch them.”
The little dinghy continued to bounce as it bored through the one- and two-foot swells and troughs. It seemed like an eternity to Collin. He just wanted to get back on the Admiral Risty and change into dry clothes. Rojas was calm and focused. Collin was nervous and shivering with cold. The sky and the sea grew dark, angry, and threatening.
Every few swells, Collin ventured a glance behind them, only to find the pursuing boat a little closer. Unpleasant thoughts raced through his mind.
“Up ahead. That’s them,” called Rojas, pointing.
The Admiral Risty bobbed in the growing surf several hundred yards ahead. The pursuing dingy had veered off course. Collin strained his eyes to make sure. Then he saw a little boat similar to theirs with two passengers just to the south of their position, about a mile away, heading toward a large yacht.
When they got close to the Admiral Risty, Captain Sewell stood on the stern, urgently waving them in. “Toss me the line,” he called. Collin gave it a heave and the coiled rope floated a few yards in the air, then caught the wind and landed short, splashing in the water. Collin reeled it in, hand over hand, recoiling it on the floor of the dinghy. His second attempt wasn’t much better. His third attempt landed the end of the rope right at the Captain’s feet. Jaime grabbed the rope and began to pull the dinghy closer, while picking his way along the railing toward the bow. Rojas tossed a rope from the stern, and soon the dinghy was sidelong the Admiral Risty, ramming into the thick, rubber bumpers dangling from the gunwale. Collin handed the garbage bag full of his worldly possessions to Tog as he held the railing. The two boats rose and fell with each swell, water washing over the deck of the Admiral and over the sides of the dinghy, partially filling it with seawater.
After Collin and Rojas boarded the Admiral Risty safely, the other men worked quickly to pull up one side of the dinghy to drain the water. Two of them scrambled to secure a rubberized canvas cover over the small boat, one that fastened onto the bow and stretched to the stern with a heavy gauge zipper along the side rail. With the cover in place, the two men tied the dinghy’s bow rope to a cleat on the Admiral’s stern and lowered the dinghy back in the water. They gave the Captain the “Aye, aye, sir,” as they finished. Every man scurried to his post, and, at the Captain’s orders, they worked the lines and riggings, sending sails up and booms a swinging. In no time, the Admiral Risty was slicing through the waves with speed and purpose, the experienced crew making it look easy.
A mile to the south, the pursuing agents realized their mistake as soon as they caught up to the slower vessel. Neither of the two men onboard was Collin Cook. Crabtree pointed northward to the men tying off a similar, rubber boat to the back of their sailboat. McCoy punched the throttle and raced toward it. Once the sails were aloft and the sailboat began to move, Crabtree shot a look of panic at his partner, who had to deftly work the throttle. The swells had grown. At full speed, the little dinghy became airborne at the tops of each wave. If the propeller were to breach the water’s surface with the accelerator engaged, the lack of resistance could strip the gears and seize up the motor. Knowing this, McCoy backed off the throttle as they knifed through the top of each swell, causing them to land with a jolt in the trough, before he gunned it again up the next swell.
The two agents, bracing for each impact, worked their way through the waves, steadily closing on the large sailboat.
Shuddering with cold, Collin was directed by the Captain to go into the cabin and change his clothes. He was dripping wet. The wind and the water had chilled him to the bone. As he stood there shivering, momentarily trying to engage his brain, he heard commotion above. The crew was yelling and clamoring on the deck. There was a new urgency. Collin climbed the steps and held the railing, following the crew’s eyes to the dinghy racing toward them. The Captain ordered another sail to be hoisted, despite the strong winds, to help them outrun the oncoming vessel. Men ran to the forward mast and worked the lines. In no time, the Admiral Risty gained speed, and the dinghy’s progress toward them stopped. Both boats were full speed ahead through the turbulent seas, neither gaining any ground on the other.
The chase continued for over an hour, the FBI agents in the dinghy tailing the Admiral Risty, two hundred yards aft. Captain Sewell dared not hoist another sail with the wind gusting over sixty miles per hour. He and the crew had their hands full controlling the boat as it was. Luckily, the winds were blowing predominately from their back.
Captain Sewell monitored radio communications on the Coast Guard channel. He knew the FBI agents in the dinghy had called for reinforcements but that those reinforcements were busy with the evacuation of South Florida. He also knew Hurricane Abigail, currently a Category Two with sustained winds of one hundred miles per hour, had battered The Bahamas and would soon hit the Florida Keys. It was traveling quickly, averaging fifteen miles per hour across the water. He understood his advantage and the other boat’s weakness. At some point, the dinghy would run out of fuel. The experienced Captain just hoped that happened before a Coast Guard cutter intercepted them.
Forty minutes later, his wishes came true. The dinghy began slowing, then finally stopped, bobbing and tossing in the swells that had increased to three feet. The Captain listened as the pilot of the dinghy radioed a distress call. A minute later, the response the Captain did not want to hear came through. The Navy was sending help. Using the agents’ cell phones as a beacon, they had locked onto their coordinates and were full speed en route. Estimated time of arrival: nineteen minutes.
The Captain called to his men as he continued to navigate through the worsening conditions. Rain had started coming down harder and harder. The crew gathered around their Captain, intent on hearing every word. He shouted over the noise from the wind and rain, directing his comments at Collin, stabbing the air with his long index finger for emphasis.
“Look, the Navy is coming—nineteen minutes away—to pick up those two guys. They’ll run us down to capture you. We have little time and few options. You can stay here and hide a
gain. Or, you can take the dinghy and go to one of the tiny islands until the storm passes. I doubt they would find you.”
“Do you think it will work again, hiding in the compartment?” Collin shouted back.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Collin could see doubt in the Captain’s expression. Using the same trick on the same boat twice was risky. “What are my chances in the dinghy?”
“The storm is coming in hard. Visibility is very bad. They’ll never see you if you go now. Get far away from us. But this storm—it is very dangerous.”
“I’m OK with that. It’s safer for everyone if I’m gone. Where do I go?” shouted Collin.
“I know a place ten or fifteen miles from here. You can use GPS to find it, but it will take an hour or more in these conditions. Very dangerous.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Collin. “Beats the alternative.”
The Captain ordered the crew to prepare the dinghy and load it with fuel. He instructed Collin to retrieve a special, black bag from a hold under one of the bunks and load his things in it. He advised him to throw in as much food and as many water bottles as room in the bag would allow.
When Collin returned with the bag stuffed full, he found the Captain scanning the horizon through binoculars, searching for approaching vessels. The Captain showed him how to seal the bag, which was made of a thick, rubbery plastic, to make it water tight. Tough and buoyant, the Captain explained, this bag would protect his gear and food from the water.
The Captain motioned for Jaime and Rojas to pull the dinghy broadside and secure the bag to the front bench of the little boat, along with a red, plastic, five gallon gas can.
Pulling Collin by the shoulder as the wind and waves battered the Admiral, Rojas handed him the small, yellow, handheld device he had used earlier. The Captain explained to Collin how to use the GPS device to navigate. Collin figured it wouldn’t be much different than the one he used for hiking. There were a number of way points listed in a table called “Favorites,” with numbers and symbols indicating longitude and latitude, as well as a short nickname for each. Number nine on the list was labeled “spit 3.” Collin was instructed to go there.
“This is risky. Are you sure you want to do it?” asked the Captain.
“I’m sure I don’t want to put you and the crew in further danger. I also don’t want to be stuck in that compartment in these conditions,” he said, motioning at the high waves.
“You’re a brave man, Collin Cook. God’s speed,” said the Captain as he clasped Collin’s shoulder.
With that, Collin gazed pensively out at the angry sea. Wind and waves tossed the boat to and fro while rain slashed at him. Butterflies spun like a tornado in his gut. He steeled himself, grasped the railing, and stepped toward the two men holding the raft at the side of the boat.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Gulf of Mexico, West of the Florida Coast
June 6
The cover had been unzipped just enough to allow Collin a place to sit in the rear of the raft where the outboard motor was mounted. The Admiral Risty and the dinghy slammed into each other as angry waves heaved the two vessels up and down and side to side. Rain slashed in diagonal sheets, carried by the increasingly powerful winds coming from the southeast. Collin crouched next to Rojas holding the railing, surveying his options and planning his exit onto the dinghy. Without warning, a towering wave crested and broke over the side of the boat, knocking everyone off their feet. Collin lost his grip and went skittering across the deck, grabbing hold of the main mast as he did. Rojas and Jaime let go of the dinghy’s side ropes as they grabbed the railing and struggled to stay aboard the Admiral Risty.
Collin scrambled back to his feet. The dinghy was slipping away as the wind propelled the Admiral Risty one way and the waves carried the dinghy another. Knowing his time was up, he took one giant step and launched himself over the side, hurling his body toward his escape vessel. He struck the side of the dinghy near the bow with his chest, arms extended. With the tarp covering the entire bow, his arms couldn’t wrap around the tubular side. There was nothing to hold. The tarp was wet and slick. He bounced off, stunned by the sudden burst of pain from his ribs. He forgot about his ribs. He sank into the water, doubled over with his arms wrapped around his torso. Bubbles erupted around him as he screamed underwater. His instincts kicked into gear, playing out the scenario around him, reminding him that his ride was moving away from him. His eyes shot open. He ignored the pain. He had to get on that dinghy or he’d die.
As he kicked his way to the surface, he caught a glimpse of something slithering in the water nearby. It was moving away from him unsteadily, jerking up and down. He reached for it, but it slipped through his grasp. He kicked with his legs and pulled through the water with his arms until it was close again. This time he focused on grabbing it and holding on tightly. With a firm hold on the rope, he pulled himself upward, breached the surface, and refilled his burning lungs with air. He had the bow rope clutched tightly in his hand. He wasn’t about to let go.
Struggling to keep his head above water, Collin pulled the raft closer. As he did, he surveyed his surroundings. Through the sheets of rain and wind-tossed waves, he could make out the whitish form of the sailboat bobbing violently in the growing swells, accented by five dark, apprehensive figures bunched along the closest railing, peering desperately in his direction. He pushed the matted strands of hair from his eyes as he clung to the rope, rising with another wave. He mustered the strength to thrust his left arm high above his head to give them the thumbs up. Whistles and shouts, muffled and unintelligible, erupted from the distance as he struggled to maneuver himself along the side of the dinghy toward the stern.
By the time he reached the back of the boat, still holding the bow rope, he could see the sixty-foot mainsail of the Admiral Risty in the distance, surging westward. The crew had no time to help him; they had a Navy rescue ship to outrun. And so did Collin.
As he and the dinghy slid down the face of a swell, Collin used the momentum from the wave to swing his right leg over the rear gunwale, his right hand braced against the side of the outboard engine. Collin kept his head low in the water and swung the rest of his body around clockwise to avoid the propeller and outdrive. His legs found purchase so he could leverage the rest of his body into the boat.
He knew he had no time to spare. He pushed through exhaustion and pain that shot like bolts of lightning through his body, starting at his ribs. The boat was unstable with too much weight in the back and heavy seas tossing it about. Ignoring the searing pain, Collin maneuvered himself into a position where he could kneel in front of the rear bench and still reach the motor. Hoping and praying for a miracle, he yanked on the pull cord to start the engine. Nothing. Exerting all of his strength, he yanked again and again and again, until the motor finally turned over once, then died. He tried again. It turned over once more. Then, with one more mighty pull, the little motor spit and coughed and came to life.
Collin jammed it into gear and twisted the throttle hard. The little engine whined and screamed, but the boat hardly moved. Collin repositioned his hand on the throttle and twisted more, giving it all the gas the throttle would allow. The propeller started to gain traction, and the little boat began to plow its way forward. Water flowed to the rear of the boat. Even with the tarp covering the bow, the dinghy had taken on a substantial amount of water, the weight of which was creating drag and throwing the center of balance too far aft. The nose of the dinghy bobbed precariously out of the water as it climbed up the face of a swell. Collin leaned as far forward as he could while still holding the throttle. The dinghy crested the wave; Collin’s weight was just enough to keep it from flipping over backward. He had no time to improve his center of balance before the next wave hit. All he could do was ease off the throttle before he reached the top and lean forward. In the troughs, he scooped and paddled with his free hand, but that did little to solve his weight imbalance.
After several minut
es, he realized he had no idea what direction he was headed. He had to stabilize the boat first, then worry about navigating. If he didn’t, he would capsize and have little hope of surviving. Desperately, Collin struggled to keep the little boat from turning over. Between waves, he checked the water level at the back. That’s when he saw it. His salvation in the form of a white, one-gallon bucket tied to a string, floating in the back of the boat. Collin grabbed it and scooped as fast as he could with his free hand until he neared the top of a wave, then he pitched his body forward on top of the cover to hold the nose down. On the back side of the wave, he bailed out as much water as he could. He repeated this process until the boat was stable enough to ride the waves without fear of being blown over backward.
As he maneuvered through the waves, he managed to pull out the encased GPS unit from the Velcro pocket of his cargo shorts and tighten the strap to his wrist. “Spit 3” was already highlighted, so he punched “Go.” The map resolved and showed his location as a blinking red dot with a line jutting out from it at the eight o’clock position, behind and to the left of his current course. He turned the dinghy gradually until he pointed in the right direction. The danger now was it required traveling crosswise to the waves, but he soon figured out how to negotiate the swells to prevent being flipped over by pointing the nose of the dinghy into the crest of each wave, then toward his destination on the downhill side until he was halfway up the next one.
He made slow and steady progress, inching ever closer to spit 3, as the storm intensified. The spit displayed as a lone speck at the bottom of a steel-gray screen. The GPS said he was nine miles away, traveling at a speed of 3.8 knots. Over two hours to get there. He’d never make it in time. The storm would sink him for sure. Collin decided to risk it and increase his speed. With less weight in the boat and more stability, he found he could manage 6.5 knots without too much trouble. Now he had a better chance of arriving on the tiny island before the front edge of the storm hit full-force, he hoped.