ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
DOC FORD SERIES
Sanibel Flats
The Heat Islands
The Man Who Invented Florida
Captiva
North of Havana
The Mangrove Coast
Ten Thousand Islands
Shark River
Twelve Mile Limit
Everglades
Tampa Burn
Dead of Night
Dark Light
Hunter’s Moon
Black Widow
Dead Silence
Deep Shadow
Night Vision
Chasing Midnight
Night Moves
Bone Deep
Cuba Straits
Deep Blue
Mangrove Lightning
HANNAH SMITH SERIES
Gone
Deceived
Haunted
Seduced
NONFICTION
Introduction to Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook: With Memories and Photos of Sanibel Island
Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book
AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY AS AN E-BOOK
Doc Ford Country: True Stories of Travel, Tomlinson, and Batfishing in the Rainforest
FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER
Key West Connection
The Deep Six
Cuban Death-Lift
The Deadlier Sex
Assassin’s Shadow
Everglades Assault
Grand Cayman Slam
FICTION AS CARL RAMM
Florida Firefight
L.A. Wars
Chicago Assault
Deadly in New York
Houston Attack
Vegas Vengeance
Detroit Combat
Terror in D.C.
Atlanta Extreme
Denver Strike
Operation Norfolk
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
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New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Randy Wayne White
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: White, Randy Wayne.
Title: Caribbean rim / Randy Wayne White.
Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2018. | Series: A Doc Ford novel; 25
Identifiers: LCCN 2018002132 | ISBN 9780735212787 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735212800 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Ford, Doc (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Marine biologists—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3573.H47473 C37 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018002132
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Version_2
For Saylor Grace White, a Floridian saltwater-born
CONTENTS
Also by Randy Wayne White
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Disclaimer
Author’s Note
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Imagine your grave on a windy winter night: you’ve been dead seventy years; it’s been fifty since a visitor last paused at your tombstone—now explain why you’re in a pissy mood today.
—S. M. TOMLINSON, One Fathom Above Sea Level
A valid point Darwin didn’t make but could have made: In most dimorphic species, males are interchangeable, so expendable. Perhaps that’s why male vertebrates inherit the war gene.
—MARION D. FORD, “Sexual Dimorphism in Gulf Fishes”
[DISCLAIMER]
Sanibel and Captiva Islands and the Bahamas are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental.
Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel was seeded many years ago on my first visit to Cat Island, Bahamas, and was augmented by a recent hopscotch seaplane journey from Sanibel Island, Florida, to Andros, then southeast to islands known and unknown. We landed as needed, and even when we didn’t need to, we landed and fished anyway. I am unaware of a more intimate way to explore a vast blue schematic of salt and karst geology, for an amphibious plane fires the wanderlust in those who inhabit remote places and brings them on the run, always equipped with advice and a wealth of local knowledge. Tales of piracy, old and new, are as common as opinions on where to eat, sleep, rent a boat, and as compelling as rumors of witchcraft—obeah, it is called—and of Spanish coins that a friend or relative came this damn close to finding. What makes it fun is, in the Bahamas, the rumors are sometimes true.
For this book, a key source of fact and lore was Captain Mark Keasler, an eco-fishing guide who has lived on Cat Island for more than thirty years. We met in 1995, and were the first to dive a spot known locally as the Horse Eating Hole because, we were told, it was where dead livestock was dragged by day, and was eaten overnight by something—a dragon, old-timers claimed. “A crocodile, more likely,” Mark suggested, and not only provided a rubber raft but joined me in the l
unacy of hacking our way to a pond that locals avoided day and night—no footpaths, no litter, no human spore of any kind. Just Mark, his brother Andy, my young son Rogan, and myself.
As I described the place in my column for Outside magazine:
Horse Eating Hole is encircled by mangroves so dense that even on a bright Bahamian day the light seems to have been leached away by shadows and stillness. It is a brackish water pond that lies off a sand trail at the north end of the island and below a network of caves from which, each day at dusk, emerge thousands of fruit bats. En masse, the bats create smoky contrails over the mangroves, ascending charcoal strokes above a tree canopy of waxen green.
Get the picture? Spooky? You bet.
We paddled out. Mark took the lead by using the anchor to sound for depth. Over and over he tossed and measured. Rarely was the water deeper than a swimming pool. But then, at a spot near the mangroves, sixty feet of line peeled through his hands, and the anchor snagged something solid below. Because exploring the pond was my idea, protocol demanded I pretend to be courageous. Worse, I had to get in the damn water. Wearing snorkel gear, I followed the anchor line down through a darkening gloom until I lost my nerve and surfaced. “Too murky,” I told my buddies. “Let’s go home.” Who were we to sneer at a century of Cat Island legend? The creature—whatever it was—could’ve been down there in its hole, seriously peeved at having been awakened by the rude thunk of our anchor.
Mark didn’t give up as easily. When he jackknifed toward the bottom, we waited for what seemed too long for a man without tanks to be down there in all that blackness. Then he came shooting to the surface, wide-eyed, yelling, “Our anchor landed right in the mouth of the cave. It’s clear, man. You get down close to the bottom, the water turns crystal clear!”
Incredible. I swam down through thirty feet of murk into a lucent world of bright-green-and-yellow rock, all domed in a huge bubble of clear saltwater. There was our anchor, sitting smack in the horse-sized mouth of the cave. Not far away there was yet another, larger cavern.
No wonder research for this book began with a phone call to Capt. Keasler, or that Cat Island became my base of operations. Uncle Mark, as he is known to every child on the island, patiently fielded questions about local history, language, and customs, and provided a key plotline hook when he explained why he started a free program to teach children how to swim—Team Barracuda, it is called. “Seventy percent of Bahamian women and almost as many men never learn,” he told me, “so they tell their kids to never wade in deeper than their waist. Generation after generation, it’s been that way. Maybe that’s why there are so many legends about monsters in places like Horse Eating Hole—a way to keep the kids safe by scaring them away from the water.”
Child by child, things are changing on Cat Island. If you’d like to fish or explore with Capt. Mark Keasler, contact him at: [email protected] or call him in the Bahamas at: (242) 474-0840.
This book has much to do with finding shipwrecks, and there is no better resource than my friend Capt. Carl Fismer, a legend in a business that has many pretenders but few true pros. During his forty-year career, Capt. Fizz, as he is known, worked over three hundred shipwrecks in Florida, the Bahamas, the Indian Ocean, and Central and South America, and recovered millions in Spanish gold, silver, jewels, and other artifacts. For years, he partnered with treasure historian Jack Haskins, and he was Mel Fisher’s choice to direct part of the salvage diving of the Santa Margarita, sister ship to the Atocha, so no surprise that he was awarded the Mel Fisher Lifetime Achievement Award in 2010. Fizz provided valuable guidance as I researched this book, and also an authentic voice (I hope) to my fictional character, Capt. Carl Fitzpatrick. While the two men share many admirable qualities, I want to make it clear that Fizz cannot be faulted for Fitzpatrick’s negative qualities (if any) nor the fictional character’s choice of language or misstatements of fact. To learn more about Capt. Fismer, I highly recommend his book Unchartered Waters: The Life and Times of Captain Fizz. Or go to http://www.carlfismer.com.
As stated, this novel is a work of fiction, but the scaffolding is based upon fact. Therefore, before thanking others who contributed their expertise or good humor during the writing of Caribbean Rim, I want to make clear that all errors, exaggerations, or misstatements are entirely my fault, not theirs.
Insights, ideas, and medical advice were provided by doctors Brian Hummel, my brother Dan White, Marybeth B. Saunders, Peggy C. Kalkounos, and my nephew, Justin P. White, Ph.D.
Pals, advisers, and/or teammates are always a help because they know firsthand that writing and writers are a pain in the ass. They are Jeff Carter, Gary and Donna Terwilliger, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, Stu Johnson, Victor Candalaria, Gene Lamont, Nick Swartz, Kerry Griner, Mike Shevlin, Jon Warden, Phil Jones, Dr. Mike Tucker, Davey Johnson, Barry Rubel, Mike Westhoff, Col. Joe Kittinger, Capt. Tony Johnson, Commander Dan O’Shea, Steve Smith, Garret Anderson, Mark Futch for seaplane advice, and behavioral guru Don Carman.
My wife, singer/songwriter Wendy Webb, not only provided support and understanding but is a trusted adviser, as are my daughters-in-law, Oceana Blue and Rachael Ketterman White. Bill Lee and his orbiting star, Diana, as always have guided me safely into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend the Reverend Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Albert Randall, Donna Terwilliger, Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB, the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner, and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity.
People I met at Cat Island’s Fernandez Bay and nearby one-room eateries—The Starlite, Hidden Treasures, and Four Brothers—were as generous with their stories as they were with local recipes. Due to my laziness and poor penmanship, I will thank them by first names only: Wendylee, Marlene, Sheena, Karen, Erica and Dan from Fern Bay, Desha Star, Dahnay and Eugene of New Bight.
Key to this novel’s plotline is the long history of Freemasonry in the Bahamas, a uniting influence that continues to join people of disparate backgrounds with trust and a potent bond. My fraternal brothers Dominique Gibson of Nassau, and Jovann O’Neil Burrows of Mount Alvernia Lodge, Cat Island, donated a lot of time, information, and fun to the writing of this book—a kindness I hope to repay.
Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to: Liz Filbrandt, Capt. Tommy, Kim McGonnell, Tyler Wussler, Tall Sean Lamont, Motown Rachel Songalewski, Boston Brian Cunningham, and Cardinals Fan Justin Harris. Chefs Sergio and Dustin, my friends Allyson, Alex, Amanda, Andy, Ashley, Becca, Brenda, Casey, Caroline, Carle, David, Gina, Heather, Jerry, Jim, Jon, Mandi, Mary, Michelle, Patti, Peter, Rachael O, Ray, Sara W, Sarah, Samuel, Scott, Tiffany, Terri, Whitney, Yamily and Yvonne, Abbie, Brian, St. James, Jim and Lisa, and hostesses Briana, Carolina, Samantha, Shelby, and Tall Cheyne Diaz.
At Doc Ford’s on Fort Myers Beach: Lovely Kandice Salvador, Reyes Ramon #1, Reyes Ramon #2, Netta Kramb, Sandy Rodriguez, Mark Hines, Stephen Hansman, Kelsey King, Brandon Cashatt, Timothy Riggs, Jessica Del Gandio, Bre Cagnoli, Drew Acord, Jaqui Engh, Karli Goodison, Reid Pietrzyk, Alex Wyatt Hall, Justin Voskulhl, Brian Westheimer, Eric Westheimer, Rachel Lane, Zeke Pietrzyk, Samantha Wylie, S’iva Goodman, Amel Hadzic, Jordan Veale, Kirby Miller, Jose Mata, Nicole Volberg, Krystian Martinez, Carly Cooper, Kelsey Collins, Denise Beckham, Rich Capo, Rocky Olah, Gabby Moschitta, Shae Conrad, James Patterson, Austin Edward, Alexis Terran-Cortez, Tony Anderson, Stevie Cooper, Mitchell Arimura, Jade Beuth, Annette Williams, Nora Billheimer, Eric Hines, Timothy Riggs, Jeff Bright, Eric Munchel, Violet Vetter, Shelby Fleshman, Ryan Schlottman, Chantel Marineau, Carlos Rios, Jessie Fox, Consuelo Parra-Hermida, Jordan Kryzk, Kassee Buonano, Edith Lopez, Lizet Leon, Tayler Glavin, Nick “The Man” Howes, Jon Healey, Raul Muniz, Hector Rodriguez, Carlos Rubi, Nick Dowling, Edgar Zapata, Daniel Castaneda, Louis Gyenese, Cody Brown, Alam Nabil, Seth Wiglesworth, Aiden Collins, Ross Pinkard,
Cadin Kin, Eroll Brackman, Nelson Rojas, Bronson Janey, Kandice Salvador, Meredith Rickards, John Goetz, Andrea Aguayo, Baltazar Lopez, Adrian Uscanga, Oralia Ramos, Enrique Hernandez, Catalina Ramirez, Nicolas Cardona, Jaime Rodriguez, Zeferino Molina, Julio Cruz, Cristian Ramos, Juan Vargas, Jose Perez, Ramon Luna, Carlos Cano, Jorge Cuevas, Jose Mixtun, Reyes Ramon, Roni Martinez, Jose Vaegas, Carlos Marcial, Luis Cuevas, Joseph Bodkin, Jose Gutierrez, Alonso Ramos, Adrian Trinidad, Evodio Lopez, Enrique Tello, David Leon, Yadiel Velazquez, Heriberto Ramos, Roberto Deleon.
At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island: Big Pappa Mario Zanolli, Joyous Joy Schawalder, Hiya Shawn Scott, Adam Traum, Alicia Rutter, Ally Llanos, Amanda Schaefer, Bob Butterfield, Chris James, Christina Teixeira, Daniel Leader, Donald Yacono, Dylan Wussler, Edgar Mena, Erica DeBacker, Heather Walk, Joey Wilson, John King, Jon Economy, Amazing Josh Kerschner, Matt Ginn, Ray Rosario, Ryan Body, Ryan Cook, Sarah Collins, Sue Baker, Shelbi Muske, Tony Foreman, Yakhyo Yakubov, Lovely Cheryl Erickson, Ko-Ko Heather O’Dell, El Capitán Steve Day, Karla Garatchea, Krystal Bovan, Skyler Muske, Adrian Medina, Garrett Hartle, Ivan Riverol, Jose Sanchez, Miguel Pieretti, Robert DelGandio, Sam Uscanga, Oscar Baltazar Ramirez, and Guitar Czar Steve Reynolds.
My sons have typed or retyped and sent the last two words of every Doc Ford novel since 1990, so once again my loving thanks go to Lee and Rogan White for helping me finish yet another book.
—Randy Wayne White
Sanibel Island, Florida
1
Marion Ford spent Friday battling traffic, romantic issues, and writing automated replies to thwart future intrusions, and by Tuesday was in the Bahamas distanced by a turquoise sea.
Isolation. He craved it at junctures, the skin-on-bone reality of a tent, zero electronics, miles of beach to run, the indifference of saltwater, tide, wind. Two books, minimal supplies, a fire starter for abundant driftwood. The process, not time, was spatial. Whatever was enough to quell his own sense of drifting, the weakness granted to sloth, pointless emotion, guilt. Love, too—if “love” existed beyond the chemical bond that, in his experience, clouded reasonable behavior.
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