Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  Ford caught himself before embarking on a discussion of the Taino Indios, not the Marls, and DNA evidence that suggested the Caribbean tribes were long gone. “There’s nothing to read because IPA policy prohibits exploitation of any kind,” he said. “No journalists, no Efren Donner types, and no sightseers, which includes us. Modern charts don’t show the island’s name because that’s the way they want it. The islanders are the IPA. Are you following me here?”

  “Marl Landing, is what I was told,” Tomlinson replied, unimpressed. “They’re a lovely agrarian people. We’ll pop over, grab the girl, and be gone—with enough evidence to put Donner, or whoever the schmuck is, in jail. It’ll make a good story down the road”—he grinned—“to help convince the grandkids you’re not a nerd-slash-asshole.”

  “It’s going to take more than sarcasm to convince me,” Ford said. “White Torch is the actual name, if you’re interested.”

  “Whatever, man. How about sharks?”

  “What about them?”

  “The day I was with Josiah, I saw the biggest sharks I’ve ever seen—ocean-going white tips twenty feet long. Aren’t you working on some kind of repellent based on how sharks respond to sound?”

  Ford didn’t buy it. “Oceanic white tips don’t get that big.”

  “They do around Marl Landing.” Tomlinson watched wire-rimmed glasses tilt with interest before continuing, “The island’s like a plate on a spindle—that’s the way Brother Josiah described it to me. We’re both thirty-second-degree Freemasons, by the way, so he wouldn’t lie. We took the same oath about certain obligations, so your cop buddies got it all wrong.”

  This was a rare opportunity for Ford to respond, “Whatever.”

  “You’ll like Josiah. Interesting guy, and he’d be a good source for your research project. Big-assed ocean-going white tips the size of canoes, they zoom up out of the blue within a few yards of shore.”

  The rental car slowed. “How close? Oceanic white tips are rarely found in water less than forty meters deep.”

  Tomlinson tried not to smile. His pal was like a security camera, clicking away without emotion until something pissed him off or interested him. “Close, man. I saw them with my own two baby blues. Josiah didn’t even need to chum. Just stomped his feet like he was dancing. A Pavlov’s dog sort of deal.”

  Ford, of course, wanted more details, before he conceded, “They’re conditioned to respond to sound—I’ll be damned. A wooden footbridge . . . makes sense. Wood conducts sound in the low-frequency ranges that sharks can hear, humans can’t. To them, two octaves below the lowest note on a piano is the equivalent of a siren.”

  “Dude, you should’ve seen them. But if you’ve made up your mind, no worries, I’ll go it alone.”

  The biologist didn’t hear the last part. He was somewhere in his head for a while, then decided, “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a ride out there—but now, not tonight.”

  Walking toward the old preacher, he added, “You didn’t talk me into this. If I get a boat, you’re booking a flight out tomorrow. That’s the deal.”

  16

  Ford wasn’t interested in dueling Bible verses, so he wandered off to inspect the boat Tomlinson had rented. It was a beat-up 28-foot Mako with outriggers and twin Chryslers that predated four-stroke dependability. A second concern was that most boats over 26 feet sink when flooded because manufacturers aren’t required to add flotation to the inner hull.

  This small-print detail had drowned more than a few novice mariners.

  Even so, a nice rig in its day. Tomlinson had provisioned the cooler. Twin bilge pumps worked, running lights did not. The VHF radio was passable. Safety equipment included a plastic whistle and life jackets, two of which were leaking kapok. A flashlight was used to inspect the inner hull. The stringers were mushy despite a fiberglass veneer.

  Strike three.

  Ford returned to the wharf, where the Reverend Josiah Bodden sat mending a net, and said, “I think we need a smaller boat.”

  “A minimalist”—Tomlinson chuckled—“who, I swear to god, never even saw the movie.” He was addressing the old man, who was tall and sinewy, with big hands that had memorized the weave of the net he was patching. “There’s been a development,” the hipster added, looking at Ford. “Listen to this.”

  “We been talking,” Josiah said, “and, fact is, the lady in question don’t need your help, ’cause I carried her to Arthur’s Town yesterday. Claimed to me she ain’t married to the gentleman says he rented that house. Hope I did right, sir. I got no power when womens seek me out in tears.”

  “Don’t we know it.” Tomlinson smiled. “Helped the lady despite the schmuck, whoever he is, that claims he owns the island, too.”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt Mr. Cailleach’s the one owns the place and he is a bad man to cross. Whole family been that way for years.”

  Tomlinson heard the name as Kalik. “Like the beer?”

  “Similar. Spelled different, I think. I’d have to see it on paper. I never believed she was his wife, a gentleman that old, but a man rich enough to rent that house?”—Josiah shrugged and tied another knot—“could have me jumbey-dicked, nobody’d lift an eye. But as the Book says, The name of the Lord is a strong tower that guideth the righteous. Proverbs 18:10.”

  “Damn right, you’re righteous,” Tomlinson said, then explained, “Josiah drove her to a house near Fernandez Bay, so we’ll probably see her at the bar tonight. That should be interesting. I booked a couple of rooms there.”

  Ford was dubious. “Could you be talking about an American named Efren Donner?”

  “Him? Might be he’s the gentleman rented the main house for a bit. The owner allows that sometimes, I’ve heard.”

  Ford said, “I don’t know what jumbey-dicked means, Reverend, but it doesn’t sound good. So why take the risk? You could’ve made an anonymous call to the police or some other agency if you thought she was in danger.”

  “The po-lice ain’t welcome at Marl Landing,” Josiah replied. “Reckon I ain’t welcome there myself no more. Yes, sir, what I did gonna hit me in the pocketbook. And another spot more dear than money. The cook out there, her and me are what you’d call special friends.” A locker-room smile came as naturally to his lips as the quotation that followed. “Even though the spirit be willing, the flesh of a lonely man is weak. Book of Matthew.”

  Tomlinson sensed his pal’s skepticism. “All men of God have a raven pecking at their heart. Dude, it’s called being human. I know what’s on your mind. Go ahead, ask the man.”

  “You do it,” Ford said. “Maybe I’ll learn something about myself.”

  “He’s the suspicious type, Rev. He’s concerned you made up a story about the girl to stop us from interfering. Left out details, who knows? Or so we wouldn’t piss off the people by going ashore.”

  The old man looked up at Ford. “I hear you’re a scientist, sir, that studies sharks. You’re a smart one, and you’re right. The part I left out is, folks there wanted that woman gone. The rest is true. She ’bout cried for happiness when I told her to pack her things. Just doing my godly duty at the same time.”

  “Why would the owner rent the place to Donner, or anyone, then get rid of a woman who was with him?”

  “Mr. Cailleach musta wanted his privacy,” Josiah said, pronouncing the name as Ka-LEEK-ah. “Maybe because of what happened two nights ago. A tourist jumped off the mailboat and rescued some island boys who woulda drowned if not for him. Some say he killed a big shark, too, and the Marl people, they very superstitious.”

  “What kind of shark?” Ford asked.

  “Dunno. It’s possible, sir, they didn’t want the lady to view a certain ceremony held for the tourist gentleman as thanks for his bravery. As the Scripture says, Suffer not the Prophetess Jezebel for she seduces and fornicates, and despoils all that her eyes behold.”

  �
�Book of Revelation,” Tomlinson said.

  “Ain’t he something.” Josiah cackled, then looked from Ford to the 28-foot Mako, floating bow-out from the dock. “Sir, where you’re wrong is, if I wanted to stop you, why would I rent you my own boat?”

  “That’s yours, huh? Guess I owe you an apology,” Ford said. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to come along as our guide?”

  The man considering the question was up in years but not old; still demonstrated a physical swagger in the easygoing way he moved. Like now, getting to his feet, saying, “You want to study sharks, sir, don’t even need a boat. Just chum, and I got a big block in the freezer. Your friend there will tell you.” Josiah motioned to the cleaning table.

  “He already did,” Ford said. “I want to go to the island, the place you stomped your feet and—”

  “Same as here,” Josiah said. “I dance and the deacons, they come. You’ll see.” He was walking toward a building where there was a gas pump, and conch shells piled high at the water’s edge.

  When they were alone, Tomlinson opened the trunk of the rental car, a tad dispirited. “If he wasn’t a fellow Mason, I’d wonder about the guy myself, hermano. You don’t think he backed out as our guide because he futzed with those engines somehow, do you?”

  “Kill us or leave us adrift, maybe,” Ford said, “but I’ve yet to meet a fisherman who’d damage his own boat. Besides, I’ve got an electronic device I want to test. Better here than in deep water with oceanic white tips.”

  * * *

  —

  Josiah Bodden did it, stomped his feet, until he noticed the biologist looking at his watch. “You got some place you gotta be?”

  “I’m timing the process in case they show.”

  “The deacons? It’s a little early in the day, sir, but, yeah, man, they gonna show.” He stomped and banged a pail of ground fish offal that had been frozen. A chumsicle, as it was known in the small—and misguided, in Ford’s opinion—circle of operators who specialized in shark diving trips.

  Baiting sharks for entertainment was a pet peeve. In 2001, Florida banned the practice, chasing operators to the Bahamas, where “experts on human–shark interaction” could still make a profit.

  It was the way they promoted trips that was irksome. Instead of an honest we-bait-sharks-and-sell-tickets approach, they advertised themselves as saviors of a misunderstood species. The only way to appreciate the benign nature of sharks was to observe them underwater, within stroking distance, as they fed. Some even spoke of communicating with their saltwater kindred on a deeper level—a pun entirely missed, which, in Ford’s experience, was typical.

  The first casualty of the self-righteous was humor.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t chum,” he said to Josiah.

  “Man, why not? This where we clean fish.”

  “If you had fish to clean, fine. But what interests me is, do they associate the sound of your feet with food? The connection is, have they learned to associate human activity with feeding? Or is it the chum that attracts them?”

  “Oh, fish got brains, sir. They quick to learn. Don’t you doubt that.”

  “I don’t,” Ford said, aware that his personal bias was a threat to his own objectivity. Previous studies on the cognitive abilities of fish also had to be ignored. A long list:

  Common channel catfish recognized the voice of a specific human up to five years after last being called to eat.

  Rainbow trout had been trained to press a bar to get food and remembered the process three months after the bar had been removed.

  A study on carp provided evidence of what many Florida anglers already know—fish remember stress associated with capture and become more difficult to catch. Snook and tarpon were particularly frustrating examples.

  Spatial and social learning skills had also been documented:

  Groupers solicited joint hunts with moray eels by shaking their heads near the morays’ coral hideout. The morays flushed prey from the coral and were rewarded with scraps from the frenzy that followed.

  Fish could return to a specific foraging area in an acre of coral by geometric integration. They employed a wide range of techniques to navigate, using the sun, magnetic fields, and landmarks as cognitive maps.

  The aquaria in Ford’s lab provided daily anecdotal examples. Snapper dozing in the dark became excited when he opened a cabinet where brine shrimp were stored. Sea horses and crabs responded to the sound of his footsteps. Flick on a certain light, the whole room came alive because it was feeding time.

  Years of observation had cemented his belief that fish, crustaceans, even filtering bivalves, learned cognitively. For this reason, Ford employed a maxim to keep himself on track: Belief is not science. Belief is subjective. It is an opinion—often a well-researched and considered opinion, yet accurately applied only to politics and religion and one’s own canted view of the world.

  Science was a process. It was ongoing, a discipline always to be challenged and open to review—particularly data collected by a field-worker with beliefs as deeply rooted as his own.

  Which is why when Tomlinson pointed, yelling, “Here comes a bull shark,” Ford replied, “I believe you’re right,” as a warning to himself. What he observed today, although part of the process, would prove nothing.

  The cleaning table was built over a creek, mangroves on the opposite side. The current had plowed a clear-water swath through the shallows and branched seaward in ribbons of indigo. Coming toward them was a shark, a six-footer, wide-bodied, with a head as blunt as a sledge.

  “Yeah, bull shark,” Ford said. “It’s one of the few there’s not much doubt about. I’m going in the water if it’s okay, Reverend.”

  “Wouldn’t recommend it, sir. No one swims here but fools—’cept for your friend who the Lord smiled upon once. Wouldn’t count on it twice.”

  Ford opened a small waterproof case. “I’m testing something that’s supposed to repel sharks. Take a look.”

  The old man stopped clomping long enough to examine a coil of coaxial cable connected to an ankle strap. The strap housed a battery with a red switch. He eyed the device, oddly interested, as the biologist explained that the cable emitted a continuous electronic field. Fish were not fazed, but sharks, if they came too close, received a shock because their noses were dotted with supersensitive pores.

  “A sort of gelatin in each tiny pore,” Ford said, “called the ampullae of—well, the name doesn’t matter. This is a prototype based on a concept developed in Australia. Shark Zapper, is how the designer wants to market the technology.”

  “My lord . . . Shark Zapper.” Josiah was fascinated. “Does it work? Reason I ask is, I know people who’d pay a lot of money for something that does.” He sounded serious, like a man who had unexpected connections. Then added, “But they’d want to know if it works in a chum slick. Want me to chum or just keep dancing?”

  “Just the sound of your feet for now,” Ford replied.

  He was walking away when Tomlinson pointed again. “Holy Begeezus, Doc, three more.”

  Another bull shark and two cinnamon-colored nurse sharks.

  The dock extended into the creek. It was sided by mounds of conch shells butchered over the years. Ford followed a path through rubble to a ledge below the cleaning table. He wore shorts, gloves, rubber booties, and had a dive mask around his neck. Josiah, looking down, watched him strap the cable to his ankle. “Don’t you got to flip that switch, sir?”

  “Not until the sharks have made a couple of passes,” Ford said, and stepped off the ledge into the water.

  Tomlinson was already shooting video with his phone. “And here comes a freakin’ big one,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  The advantage of diving beneath a dock is that pilings and cross struts provide protection. An open cage, of sorts. Razor barnacles were the drawback. T
hey coated the pilings, so small cuts and blood were an accepted part of the process.

  Ford held himself against the tide, breathing through a snorkel. A bull shark glided toward him with an escort of remoras. A scattering of sergeant major fish, yellow-striped, blocked his vision for an instant. The shark became a shadow that banked away. A brace of two-by-fours shielded his back—not completely, but enough for him to concentrate on the nurse sharks that followed. Buckskin tan in color, they hugged the sand similar to stingrays. Bottom-feeders with flat teeth that didn’t cut, thus the name nurse.

  The bull shark reappeared. Its pectoral fins were angled low like a jet ready for combat—a feeding display. Smell, sound, and turbulence detection lured it toward Ford, a bleeding primate. “Eddy chemotaxis,” the combination of attractants was called. A larger bull shark materialized from a veil of blue. Then a tiger shark, thick-bodied, young enough that its denticle stripes throbbed with color—another sign of feeding mode.

  Overhead, Josiah had ceased stomping. Ford lifted his head and called, “Drop some chum in. Downtide. Let’s see what happens.”

  The feeding response was immediate. Sharks tangled like snakes, following a cloud of viscera away from the dock. A frenzy of smaller fish—jacks, barracuda, and snapper—joined in.

  Again, he pushed the snorkel from his mouth. “Now uptide. And keep chumming. When they’re close enough, I’ll hit the switch. Tomlinson, you getting all this?”

  “Yeah, video. Dude, you’ve got an out, right?”

  Ford wouldn’t have risked it otherwise. With three short strokes he could be out of the water. Or he could grab an overhead strut and hang like a monkey. “Keep chumming. I’ll wave just before I zap them.”

  From the opposite side of the dock, fish heads rained down and swept past in a bloody murk of scales. For a nervous few seconds, visibility was zero, but a shock wave of displaced water indicated the sharks were coming at him en masse. He clung to a piling, freed a hand long enough to signal the men above, then twisted the switch on his ankle.