by Matthew Rief
“We should probably go check on Jack,” Ange said. “See if he’s still up for going out on the water today.”
I chuckled as my mind drifted back to the night before and how we’d ended up practically carrying my old friend to his boat. Ange plated the leftover breakfast, and we headed up the dock toward Jack’s boat with Atticus right at our heels.
Jack Rubio was one of my oldest friends. He’d lived in the Keys all his life, loved the islands as much as anyone alive, and spent most of his time above or under the water. When he wasn’t taking people out on fishing and diving charters, he was exploring the many reefs, cuts, channels, and islands surrounding Key West.
As we approached, I saw his Conch Republic flag raised high above the pilothouse of his 45 Sea Ray and barely moving in the soft ocean breeze. I climbed aboard, then offered a hand to Ange. Inside, we found Jack in the exact place we’d left him: sprawled out facedown on the main cabin bunk. Jack was just a few inches shorter than my six foot two, but he was much leaner, only weighing about a hundred and seventy pounds. He had tanned skin from a lifetime under the twenty-fourth parallel sun and curly dirty-blond hair.
“Jack?” I said, nudging his shoulder. “You alright?”
When he didn’t budge, I moved into the galley and ran some cold water over my hand from the faucet. With my hand dripping, I stepped back into the cabin and flicked a sprinkle of cold drops on his face. He jerked his head sideways, brushed his hair out of his face, then looked at me with drowsy eyes.
“What time is it?” he said after a long sigh.
“Time to make wake,” I said. “I guess those fritters beat you after all,” I added with a grin.
The previous evening, Jack had competed in the Keys annual conch fritter eating contest. The fifteen-minute ordeal had brought challengers from across the state, including a massive lineman from the University of Miami football team as well as a former professional wrestler. Conch fritters are a specialty in the Keys. The colossal sea snail is deep-fried in a secret blend of seasonings to create a delicious ball of flavor that’s crunchy on the outside and chewy on the inside. Jack had managed to toss thirty-two of them down the hatch, defending his title for the second year in a row as the crowned king of the Conch Republic.
“It wasn’t the frits, bro,” he said. “It was what came next.”
I laughed as I recalled the countless people who’d offered him free drinks all night. The more you have, the harder it gets to say no, and I’d never seen my old friend so plastered.
“You still down for some spearfishing?”
He nodded, then glanced at Ange.
“Ange, be an angel and toss me a coconut water from the fridge?” He propped himself up on his elbows and added, “You think anything could keep me from the ocean, bro?”
Ange was about to toss a chilled can over to him, but I intervened, stopping her and snatching it from her hand.
“Not the best time to test his hand-eye coordination,” I said, stepping over and handing it to Jack.
Ten minutes later, Jack met us over on the Baia. He held a speargun and a six-foot-long wooden pole with a net attached in his right hand and a plastic grocery bag in his left. His brown backpack was slung over one shoulder.
My 22 Robalo, a center-console that I usually kept stowed over a channel in the backyard of my house, was tied off to the starboard side of the Baia. I usually opted for my bigger and more comfortable boat, but we’d decided on the Robalo since we were heading to a place where the water was shallow.
Once we had all our gear aboard, I started up the 200-hp engine. Jack and Ange took care of the lines, and I eased us away from the fenders, cruising slowly toward the opening of the harbor. Once clear of the no wake zone, I eased the helm to starboard and brought us slowly up on plane. We cruised north into Man of War Harbor, passing Wisteria Island off the port bow and Fleming Key off starboard.
Our destination was Snipe Point, on the Gulf side, and we reached it in forty-five minutes. It was a nice day out on the water. There was very little wind, and though it was barely past 0800, the temperature was in the low seventies.
I killed the engine and dropped anchor on the leeward side of the point. Snipe juts out into the Gulf, spearheading a cluster of small, flat mangrove-covered islands between Turkey Basin and Waltz Key Basin. Most of the islands are surrounded by shallow patch reefs, so we had to anchor a few hundred feet from shore.
The three of us assembled our gear on the deck.
“Alright, I have to ask,” Ange said, looking over our gear. “What exactly are you boys planning to do with a net, a coil of rope, and chicken legs?”
Jack and I both looked at each other and laughed.
“Just something we used to do when we were kids,” I said.
“Yeah, you’ll like it,” Jack added. “But for now, we’ve got muy bueno conditions, so let’s spear some lunch.”
Jack had been wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks since we’d left the marina. He quickly slipped his mask over his head, put on his fins, then grabbed his speargun and saluted us with two fingers. Without another word, he dropped backward and splashed into the water.
Ange looked over at me skeptically.
“Should I be worried?” she asked with a smile.
I waved her off.
“Not in the slightest.” I threw off my tee shirt and grabbed my mask. “Come on, we can’t let him have all the fun.”
I petted Atticus and told him to stay put. He’d be fine on the boat. I had water and food set out, along with the Bimini top extended for shade.
Ange and I donned our gear, then dropped down into the water, her on the port side and me on the starboard side to keep the Robalo stable. I relished the feeling as I splashed into warm, clear water. It was only about five feet deep, so I sank down to the sandy bottom, turned around and finned smoothly under the hull of my boat and alongside Ange.
My eyes grew wide as I took in the colorful marine life surrounding me. Tiny fish intermixed with the patches of coral, anemones, sea urchins, sponges, and jagged limestone beneath us. Looking ahead, I saw Jack swimming effortlessly over a patch of tall sea grass, his eyes trained on his first quarry of the day. Though I’ve always loved scuba, rebreather, and surface-supplied air diving, there’s something about freediving that makes me feel more in tune with the underwater world around me. Add to it the excitement of tracking and spearing delicious prey and you get one hell of a way to spend an afternoon.
Ange surfaced after a little over a minute, but I stayed down. I can hold my breath for four minutes but usually stay down for around two to minimize surface intervals. I watched as Jack snuck up behind an unsuspecting grouper and sent his steel spear piercing just behind its eyes. The fish shook violently for a few seconds before going lifeless. Less than a minute later, I had one of my own, a mutton snapper I estimated to be around fifteen pounds.
We spent a few hours swimming along the cuts and channels, through deep and shallow water, enjoying each other’s company and hauling in enough fish to last us for a week. By early afternoon, we gutted and filleted a few of the best-looking ones, then cooked them up on my portable propane grill. Adding some salt, pepper, fresh lemon juice, and cocktail sauce, we had a meal that was as good as you could get at any seafood restaurant in the world.
After lunch, the wind picked up a little, so we grabbed our gear and waded to shore. We found a good spot near the channel where the shore dropped off into slightly deeper water. Ange and Atticus watched with quizzical expressions as Jack and I cut into the drumsticks, then tied one end of the nylon rope around the narrow part of the bone. Once secured, Jack grabbed the other end of the rope with a tight grip, then coiled it up and flung the chicken leg far into the water. As it sank, we both looked back at Ange.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the water and I held a hand in the air.
“Wait for it,” I said.
After about thirty seconds had passed, I grabbed the net and Jack pulled in the
rope. The white meat appeared at the surface along with two freeloading crabs, their blue claws pinched to their too-good-to-be-true meal.
In an instant, I stepped to the edge and scooped them up with the net. Ange smiled as I stepped back, flipped the net inside out, and shook them both free into a bucket of seawater.
“Very ingenious,” she said.
“Logan and I used to do this for hours,” Jack said. “There are far easier ways to catch blues, but pots just aren’t as satisfying.”
Ange reached into the bucket and grabbed one of the small crabs, holding it by its two rear swimming legs.
“You guys know it would take about a hundred of these little guys to fill us up, right?”
“More like two hundred,” I said. “Especially for His Highness, the king of conch over here. But dip their meat in melted garlic butter and they make a tasty appetizer.”
As Jack and I continued to haul in crabs, Ange grabbed her fishing rod, tied on a lure, and walked down the beach while casting off into the channel. A few minutes later, I saw that she’d snagged on something and was about to cut the line with her dive knife.
“Hold on, Ange,” I said, my voice raised enough for her to hear me from down the beach. I snatched my mask from the sand, rinsed it out, then held it in the air. “I’ll get it.” I set the net on the ground and turned to Jack. “It’s getting hot out here anyway. I could use a dip.”
After strapping my mask over my face, I dove headfirst into the water and swam parallel with the seafloor. Rising to the surface, I freestyled smoothly across the channel.
“My hero.” I could barely hear Ange’s voice as she spoke over a soft gust of wind.
I could see the taut glistening fishing line extended down into a patch of mangroves. Taking in a deep breath, I dove down, grabbed hold of the roots to stable myself, and carefully pulled the hook free. As I turned around, I heard the unmistakable rumble of a motor and a propeller cutting through the water. Sound travels much better in water, so it was probably farther away than I thought it was. The only problem is that sound travels so fast that your ears and brain can’t work together effectively to distinguish where it’s coming from.
Keeping my body close to the mangroves, I kicked for the surface. When I reached it, I took in a breath, slid my mask down to hang around my neck, and looked around. The sound was quieter above water, but I could tell that it was coming from out in the Gulf and that it was getting louder. Looking out that direction, I spotted a small boat rocketing across the water. Seeing boats in this, or any, part of the Keys isn’t abnormal. But this one was heading full speed over shallow water, straight for a patch of tiny islands across the channel, about a quarter of a mile southwest of me.
TWO
“That boat doesn’t stop soon, it’s gonna be shredded to hell!” Jack yelled.
Without replying, I yelled at the top of my lungs, trying to get them to slow or turn. I waved my hands as high as I could and splashed in the water, trying to get their attention. Jack joined in, and Ange whistled with such intensity that I felt discomfort in my ears a few hundred feet away from her.
Despite our desperate attempts to get their attention, the boat didn’t slow or turn in the slightest. In fact, as it stormed closer, I couldn’t see anyone’s upper body rising over the bow or gunwales.
Is there anyone aboard?
Though the thought jumped into my mind, I kept yelling just in case. The roar of the engines grew louder and louder, propelling the boat at well over thirty knots over the shallows. My eyes focused as it rocketed over less than a foot of water, its speed keeping its draft minuscule and saving the hull from catastrophic damage. Seconds later, the boat crashed into a patch of sandy beach. The propeller caught on the ground and the entire engine was ripped free of the transom. It whined and roared violently as the boat’s momentum hurled it over the sand. The boat continued to slide over the sand and rock at a quick pace before crashing into thick mangroves. The hull cracked and moaned and the entire boat spun around. But somehow the boat managed to stay upright, though it jerked partly onto its side as it finally came to a stop.
Without a second’s hesitation, I slid my mask back over my face and swam as fast as I could back toward Jack and Ange on the other side of the channel. I bolted out of the water, grabbed my booties from the mesh bag, and slid them over my feet.
“There could’ve been someone on board,” I said, jumping to my feet. “We need to go help.”
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Ange said, heading toward my Robalo. “Your sat phone in your bag?”
I nodded, then turned to Jack, who’d already slid into his booties as well. Atticus was barking and jumping with excitement, and I told him to go with Ange. He froze a moment, then turned and chased after her as she whistled.
Jack and I dove side by side into the channel and swam ferociously, quickly reaching the other side. There was no easy route to the wrecked boat. Thick mangroves covered almost every inch of the islands, so a beeline was out of the question. Instead, we splashed around through the shallows and swam across two more channels before reaching the small island where the boat had crashed.
As we ran, my mind raced, wondering what we might find. I’d heard stories of boats running away on their own before but had never witnessed it firsthand. The story usually began with an inexperienced crew or a little too much alcohol, and rarely ended well. A boat without a pilot will keep cruising until it either hits something or runs out of gas.
As we ran, I heard the Robalo’s engine start up. I watched as Ange piloted it out into the Gulf, sweeping around the shallows and swooping back into the cut closest to the wrecked boat. She’d still have to drop anchor a few hundred yards from shore, but her cruising the Robalo over was a lot easier than running a quarter of a mile over sand, limestone, and overgrown mangroves. She’d made the smart choice and managed to reach the wrecked boat at the same time as us.
The three of us navigated through the thick foliage and caught our first glance of the boat up close. It was a Horizon Sunrunner, and aside from the damage, it looked pretty new. Its aluminum hull was dented and scratched to hell, but it’d managed to remain intact. In the torn tangle of roots left in the boat’s wake, I spotted a black duffle bag and a handful of small plastic containers.
The boat rested on its side, propped up with the hull facing us. As we maneuvered around, we saw the inside for the first time. My eyes grew wide and I let out a quick breath. It wasn’t empty.
“Shit!” Jack said.
There were two women resting motionless inside. One lay sprawled out against the starboard gunwale. The other was wedged between the two cockpit seats and curled into the opening under the bow. There was also another backpack on the deck, as well as a hardcase and a few scattered poly bottles. At the stern, there were two large spare gas tanks with bungee cords holding them in place.
I climbed over the starboard gunwale and crouched down beside the closest body. Hovering my ear just a few inches over her mouth, I placed two fingers softly into the side of her neck. Moments later, I let out a soft sigh of relief.
“She’s alive,” I said.
I could feel and hear her exhalations, but her pulse was weak.
Ange moved to the other side, and we carefully flipped the woman over onto her back, keeping her head braced. She was bruised and battered, and her forehead was bleeding. She looked young, maybe early twenties.
“Guys!” Jack said.
He’d crawled up toward the bow and was kneeling beside the other body. He looked over at us and held his right hand in the air. It was covered in blood. Glancing down at the woman beside him, I saw that her shirt was stained dark red.
I grabbed the backpack Ange had carried over, pulled out the first aid kit, and clicked it open. I wasn’t a trained medical professional by any means, but I’d been around and experienced enough violence to know the basics. Grabbing a few bags of Quick Clot, I stepped over to Jack and helped him straighten out the other body.
This woman was older, maybe mid-fifties. It was clear by the amount of blood and the wound to her abdomen that she’d been shot.
Carefully, I slid up her shirt, then used my teeth to tear open one of the bags of Quick Clot. She’d lost a lot of blood. Her body and the deck under her were covered in dark red. I wasn’t sure she could make it, or even if she was still alive. I prioritized stopping the flow which was still steady out from her abdomen.
In seconds, the blood stopped as I pressed the gauze. Checking her pulse, I found that she was still alive, but barely. Her breathing was shallow. It was evident that if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she’d be gone.
“Ange!” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Call the Coas—”
But she was already on it. She snatched my sat phone from my backpack and quickly punched in a few numbers. She’d also grabbed my portable GPS, and she checked our position while she waited for the line to come alive.
“This is Angelina Fox,” she said clearly and confidently. This wasn’t her first rodeo. “There’s a wrecked boat one klick southwest of Snipe Point. Two females, both injured and unconscious. One with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Request immediate medevac. I have the exact coordinates when you’re ready.”
A second later, there was a muffled reply on the other end, followed by Ange reading off the latitude and longitude of our location. I looked around and spotted a clearing of sand near the shore that looked large and flat enough to land the bird.
“Ange,” I said, pointing at the spot on the beach.
She looked over, nodded, and relayed the information to the dispatcher.
“ETA ten minutes,” she said, still holding the sat phone in her right hand.
I nodded. Coast Guard Sector Key West is just a short walk up the waterfront from the Conch Harbor Marina. The airstrip is roughly ten miles southwest of our current position, so a ten-minute response time would be impressive, even for our nation’s coastal defenders.