She had just put her oar in the water when Tate grunted. His rod tip bent. He jerked hard on it, then casually started reeling.
“Hey, fish!” he said happily. Moonpie gave a happy bark, and in what seemed like a very short time, Tate was reeling in a fish.
“Nice one,” he said. “Three pounds, easy.”
“What kind is it?” she asked, glancing down at the silvery fish flopping around on the bottom of the boat. Moonpie bent down, sniffed, and thumped his tail in approval.
“Spot-tail,” he said. “Redfish, you’d call it. Good eating.”
“Hope so,” she said, setting her oar down. “Now it’s my turn.”
She picked up the rod he’d just discarded.
“Hey,” he protested. “That’s mine. You can’t use my stuff. It’s against the rules.”
“Screw the rules,” she said, casting out in the same direction where he’d just caught the fish. But the wind had picked up, and it blew the light line right back toward the boat, landing almost beside it.
“Hah! You fish like a girl.”
She glared at him. “You deliberately turned the boat so that would happen. Come on. Play fair.”
He shook his head and dipped his oar in the water, rowing hard to turn the boat so the wind was at their back. It had picked up considerably, and twice she had to grab her baseball cap to keep it from sailing away. She cast out again, and this time her line landed right where she wanted it.
“Take the slack out of your line,” Tate instructed. “Reel in, then let the spinner drop, so the fish’ll think it’s a wounded minnow.”
“I know how to fish,” she said, insulted. But she did as he’d instructed, remembering it was the exact same advice her daddy had always given her on their fishing trips to the coast.
She felt something bump her hook and then, suddenly, give a sharp tug, bending her rod tip sharply downward.
“Got one,” she reported happily, watching the line unspool.
“Reel!” Tate called. “Come on, reel it in, Reggie.”
She propped her feet on the side of boat to give her leverage, and reeled for all she was worth.
“It’s a big one,” she gasped, struggling for control.
“Give it a little line,” he coached, reaching forward and flipping the bail on her reel.
Line zigged out, and the fish made a run for it.
“Now, set the hook,” he told her. “Jerk it hard, then reel like you mean it.”
She flipped the bail with her thumb and yanked for all she was worth. The fish responded by zooming away.
“Reel!” he called.
“I…am…reeling.” She propped her elbows on her hip bones, leaned back, and struggled to get control of the fish, which seemed to be zigzagging away, and then, suddenly, without warning, turning and running toward the boat.
“Reel fast now,” he instructed. “Bring in the slack.” With the fish coming toward her, she was able to bring in the line, and soon she saw a flash of silver beside the boat.
“Bluefish!” Tate called. “Can you boat it by yourself?”
“Got it.” She grunted and, with an effort, jerked the fish out of the water and into the boat, where it seemed to fill the whole vessel, thrashing violently against the aluminum hull.
Moonpie barked at the fish until Tate swung around in the seat and clamped a shoe on the fish to still it.
“Holy shit, Reggie,” he said, looking up in admiration. “That’s a big damn bluefish.”
She grinned, ridiculously pleased with herself. “It is, isn’t it? How big, do you think? Ten pounds?”
“Ten!” He guffawed. “Dream on, little girl. It’s maybe eight, but that’s still a huge bluefish. You ever caught one before?”
“Never,” she admitted. “I’ve had bluefish in restaurants, of course, but this is the first time I’ve ever even seen one alive.”
She bent down and studied the fish. Its vivid blue and silver coloring were in stark contrast to the mud-streaked boat bottom. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Good eating too,” he said. “Ideally, the best-tasting ones are much smaller, but fresh-caught, grilled or pan-fried, it’s hard to beat a bluefish.”
“Grilled,” Gina said, already envisioning her menu. “I’ll brush it with some olive oil, and—”
She felt a drop of water on her shoulder and looked up, surprised. The sky had darkened another shade, and the wind-whipped whitecaps rocked the boat.
“Damn,” Tate exclaimed. A sudden sheet of rain swept over them, and the wind caught Gina’s baseball cap and sent it sailing off.
“We better get back,” he said, picking up his oar.
Gina turned around and for the first time realized she could no longer see Eutaw.
“I screwed up,” Tate said grimly. “So busy telling you how to fish I didn’t notice how far out we’d drifted.”
“But we can get back—right?”
“We can try,” he said, swinging an oar into the water.
Five minutes of furious rowing got them exactly…nowhere. The tide and the wind drew them inexorably out and away from the shore. The rain slashed down on them, and Moonpie huddled in the bottom of the boat, his snout tucked under his paws, as though he were too afraid to look.
Gina hunched her shoulders against the rain. “Now what?” she asked, trying not to let Tate see her growing fear.
“We go where the tide takes us,” he said, letting his oar rest across his knees.
“Out to sea?” she asked, panicking. “In an open boat?”
“Look over there,” he said, turning around and pointing off into the murk.
She saw the faint outline of a faint grayish green hump off in the distance. “What’s that?”
“Rattlesnake Key,” he said. “We’ll let the wind take us there, beach the boat, and see if we can sit out the storm.”
“Good,” she said, her voice saying she did not really think this was so good. “An island, right?”
“A small one,” he said. “People come out on their boats sometimes and camp overnight.”
“Good,” she repeated. “That’s a good thing to know. But what I don’t want to know is why they call it Rattlesnake Key.”
Chapter 52
Rattlesnake Key loomed before them, a forbidding-looking dark green spit ringed with a collar of grayish sand. As the rain slashed at her shoulders and hatless head, Gina was eying it with trepidation when the boat, which had been rising and falling with the pounding waves, suddenly lurched to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, panicking. The island was still several hundred yards away.
Instead of answering, Tate hopped out of the boat—into ankle-deep water. “Sandbar,” he said. “I forgot about it. Come on, jump out. We’ll have to walk it across to the deeper water.”
She hesitated.
“Come on. It’s not like you’re going to get any wetter.”
This was true. She was soaked to the skin. She stepped out, and Moonpie came right behind her, leaping with abandon into the water.
Tate didn’t look concerned. He grabbed the bow of the boat and started trudging across the sandbar, which was maybe a hundred yards wide.
“Can he swim?” She asked, glancing worriedly at Moonpie, who seemed to struggle somewhat to keep his head above water.
“Well, he’s no Chesapeake Bay retriever, but yeah, he can swim. He loves the water.”
As if to prove it, when the dog reached shallow water, he romped joyously through the waves, running alongside his master, and barking at a single seagull that swooped and called from a wind current above.
The wind tore at their clothes and the waves tossed the empty boat as, together, they walked it over the sandbar. When Tate finally pronounced the water deep enough, they climbed back into the boat and let the tide drift them onto the island.
Just as they stepped onto the beach, lighting struck behind them, a wicked, jagged bolt lighting up the deep gray sky.
“Cr
ap!” Gina cried.
“Come on,” Tate said, hoisting the boat onto the sand. “We’ve gotta pull it all the way past the high-water mark to beach her and make sure she doesn’t drift off when the tide changes again.”
They half dragged, half carried the heavy aluminum vessel onto the beach and up to a line of seaweed and dried-out seashells.
“We’re good here,” Tate decreed, dropping his side of the boat.
“Shouldn’t we drag it up there toward those trees?” she asked, hanging on and pointing toward a stand of gnarled oaks and cedars. “We could tie it to one of those trees, just in case this storm makes the tide higher than usual.”
Tate shrugged. “What? You’re that afraid of being marooned alone on an island with me?”
“I’m just being careful,” she said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s my curse. Lisa is naughty by nature. I’m, well…careful.”
Lighting zapped again, closer, so close she could have sworn it struck the sand at her feet. But Gina didn’t wait to find out. Without thinking, she dropped the boat and ran for the tree line, followed again by Moonpie.
When Tate caught up with her, she was leaning against the trunk of one of the cedars, bent over double, trying to catch her breath. The thick canopy of oak and cedar limbs seemed to shelter her somewhat from the rain. She sat down abruptly and hugged her knees to her chest.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Tired,” she said, yawning, her eyelids fluttering. “No sleep…” Without warning, she slumped back against the tree. For the first time all day, her face relaxed. A moment later, she was snoring.
While she slept, he worked. This squall, which he’d at first assumed was just one of the typical summer thunderstorms that swept through the Georgia coast and was quickly gone, did not seem to fit the stereotype.
The wind and rain lashed Rattlesnake Key and did not abate. The waves pounded the sand and crept up to the high-water mark and past, which alarmed and chagrined him—Gina had been right to worry about the boat.
Cursing, he ran through the rain, grabbed the bow rope, and dragged the boat almost to the tree line. He picked up the fish—his own spot-tail and her bluefish—and put them into the cooler he’d brought along. He’d been trying to ignore his own hunger pangs, but it was getting late in the day, and he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. If nothing else, they would at least be able to eat the fish—assuming he could find a way to make a fire. He took the fishing equipment and Gina’s cooler and his own and dropped them under the trees, not far from where she slept.
Satisfied that the boat was out of harm’s way, he stepped out of the tree line and surveyed his surroundings. Tate had fished in the waters off Rattlesnake Key for a taping previously, but he’d never actually been on the island before.
“Moonpie,” he called softly. The dog, stretched out alongside the slumbering Gina, looked up, blinked, and then looked expectantly at Tate.
“Come on, boy,” he said. “Let’s go explore.”
The dog stayed put.
“Slacker,” Tate said. He decided to let the dog stay with Gina.
He trudged through the fine white sand, down to firmer footing below the high-water mark, and headed for what looked like the tip of the island.
He stopped occasionally as he walked, stooping to pick up whatever useful bounty the waves brought his way. He found a piece of lumber resting in a tangle of seaweed and shells at the tip of the island. It was a two-by-four, maybe five feet long, sun-bleached and too soggy to be of any use for firewood, but he had another use in mind for it anyway.
He left the board and walked on, wading out once when he caught sight of an object bobbing at the water’s edge. As he got closer, he saw that it was part of a six-pack of beer—with only two cans remaining in the plastic ring pack. He grabbed it up, hoping for the best. The cans—Miller Lite—were undamaged and appeared to be full. “There is a God,” he said, pulling the cans from the plastic ring and tucking each in a pocket of his cargo shorts.
The tree line seemed to extend around to the island’s tip. He walked on and was surprised to find a small clearing in the trees. A mound of oyster shells marked the edge of the clearing, and there was a fire ring in the center of it, with a rusty metal grate that had obviously been used as a grill. He frowned when he saw what careless campers had left behind—empty plastic soda bottles, smashed beer cans, cigarette butts, and what he believed was a pile of soggy disposable diapers. His lip curled, he skirted the edge of the makeshift campground, hoping to salvage something useful from a larger trash pile.
Tossed on top of the pile was a discarded plastic inflatable raft—bright blue with a SpongeBob SquarePants design across the top. He grabbed it up and, with the toe of his shoe, stirred the pile some more. There were empty cardboard cigarette cartons, more beer cans and bottles, and a faded red plastic Zippo lighter. He picked it up and, hoping against hope, gave it a flick. A tiny flame licked out, giving him the biggest thrill of the day.
Tate pocketed the lighter and again kicked at the debris with his toe, sending a surprised lizard skittering away. When his toe hit something solid, he bent over to get a closer look. It was one of those citronella candles in a jar. The jar was soot-streaked, and held an inch of water, but when he dumped it out, he discovered there was at least two inches of candle inside.
“Excellent,” he said. He wrapped the candle and the grate in the inflatable raft and walked for another thirty minutes, occasionally stopping to add more finds to his makeshift raft-tote. Then he reversed course and headed back through the rain to the boat, stopping again to retrieve the two-by-four, which he hefted over his shoulder.
Feeling unaccountably pleased with himself, he trudged back to where he’d left Gina and Moonpie.
He gave a soft whistle, and Moonpie trotted out from the tree line.
He ruffled the dog’s damp ears. “Worthless mutt,” he said fondly.
Tate looked out at the water. The tide had receded some, but the water was still choppy, and now thunder boomed off in the distance. A steady drizzle fell.
Gina was still sleeping. He squatted down beside her and stared into her face. Her damp hair was plastered to her cheeks, and the makeup so carefully applied hours ago by D’John was mostly gone—with the exception of some dark streaks of mascara leaking from the corners of her eyes, which gave her the comic look of one of those Italian clowns. She was oddly vulnerable and completely, sweetly lovely. He put out a finger and gently wiped at one of the smudges.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” she said sleepily, sitting up.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, yawning hugely. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Maybe a couple hours,” he said. “You didn’t miss much. Rain and more rain.”
She struggled to her feet and walked to the edge of the tree line, taking in the dark skies and wind-whipped waves.
“Oh,” she said, slumping a little. “I was hoping maybe the storm had blown through. Like they do at home this time of year.”
“No such luck,” he reported. “I think it’s some kind of front, and it’s just stalled out—right on top of us. The good news is that there hasn’t been any more lightning in a while.”
Gina used the hem of her shirt to wipe her damp face. She sighed. “All right. Now, tell me the bad news. Like, how and when do we get back to Eutaw?”
He pointed out at the churning sea. “No sense in even attempting anything until the tide changes. The wind and waves would just drive us right back here to Rattlesnake. We’d literally be spitting in the wind.”
She bit her lip. “How long before the tide changes?”
“Another six hours,” he said. “But it’s three now. That would put us at nine o’clock. Nearly dark, and it’s a new moon, so no help there.”
“Six hours,” she repeated. “On this island.”
“At the very least,” he agreed. �
��Realistically? I’m thinking we’re looking at not getting back to Eutaw until tomorrow morning.”
It took her a while to process it. She wrapped her arms around herself for a little warmth. “Overnight. On this island.”
“No food, no phone, no phonograph. Not a single luxury,” he sang from memory. After all those years of Gilligan’s Island reruns, the words and tune came easily. “Like Robinson Crusoe, it’s primitive as can be.”
Chapter 53
Gina pointed at the stack of debris Tate had hauled back to their campsite. “What’s all this junk?” She picked up the SpongeBob raft. “Were you planning to blow this up so we could float back? Did you happen to notice this big gouge in the plastic?”
“This junk,” he said haughtily, “is what’s going to help shelter and feed us until we can get off this island.”
He picked up the two-by-four and began digging a hole in the sand to stand it in. “Give me a hand, will you?” he asked. “Hold this upright.”
This time she asked no questions. He dragged the johnboat over to where he’d planted the beam, laid the boat on one side, and used the beam to prop it up.
“It’s a lean-to,” he announced. “To keep out the rain.”
Gina ducked under the boat and sat in its shelter. “Not bad,” she admitted, crawling back out again.
Now Tate picked up the plastic raft.
“And what’s that supposed to be?”
Tate smoothed the raft over the wet sand. “It’s a priceless Oriental carpet,” he said testily. “I thought you might like to let your butt dry out at some point tonight.”
It dawned on her that she’d unwittingly hurt his feelings.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, scrambling back under the lean-to to test it out. “That’s a great idea, Tate. I swear, I’ve been in these wet pants so long, it feels like I’m getting diaper rash.”
He grunted and went back to his stash of treasure. He began piling up the bits of driftwood and pinecones and downed tree limbs that he’d gathered on his scavenging expedition, piling it under the far end of the lean-to. He opened his cooler and rooted around until he found what he was looking for. He brought out the map of Eutaw Island that he’d stored there the day before, and began tearing off thin strips of paper, which he twisted tightly.
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