“Oh yeah?”
“According to my granddad, the original Benjamin Baker was a captain here in Key West in the late nineteenth century. He had a wrecking schooner named the Rapid. I’ve named my fishing boat after his schooner, and my schooner is named after the man himself—his nickname was Hawkeye. He salvaged over forty wrecks in twenty years.”
“I love learning about the history of this place. Makes me feel like I’m a part of this long line of Florida salvers. Last time I was here in Key West, I went to that Wreckers’ Museum in Old Town.”
“Yeah, they’ve got pictures of old Hawkeye in there. And I agree with you about the history. That’s a big part of what I like about living here. This town cherishes its history. In fact, today’s the first race of the Wreckers’ Cup series. I’m getting the boat ready now for a charter. We’re going to race. If you’re not doing anything, you’re welcome to come along.”
“The Wreckers’ Cup?”
“Actually, what they win is a bottle of Captain Morgan rum and a night’s bar tab at the Schooner Wharf Bar. We race out to Sand Key Light. It’s only seven and a half miles. It’s really a lark of a race—like a reenactment of the heyday of the wrecking business here in Key West. You know, back when the wrecking schooners would race out to the reef, hoping to arrive at a new wreck first so the skipper would become Wreck Master. Most of the charter boats go if the weather’s right. People wear costumes, and there are all sorts of shenanigans that go on. It’s lots of fun.”
I shook my head. “That sounds tempting, but I’m here on business and I’ve got to get back to my boat.”
“You’re here on Gorda?”
“Yeah, a friend of mine asked me to help tow his boat back to Lauderdale.”
“What happened?”
“He put her aground not too far outside the Key West Harbor entrance. He was driving this ninety-some-footer at speed in a squall,” I said, shaking my head.
“I heard about that,” Ben said. “I was listening to the VHF when he called for a towboat. It’s pretty well marked out there. What happened?”
“To hear him tell it, it wasn’t his fault. He thinks there was some kind of problem with his navigation equipment. He’s got this friend who’s a super hotshot in electronics coming down to check it out. He’s determined to go to court if he has to. He’s that kind of guy—stubborn and determined to clear his name. I think the world of this guy—I’ve known him for years, and it’s breaking my heart to see him in trouble like this. But if you ask me, his friend is making the trip for nothing. Nestor just needs to own up to it and try to get beyond it. These young captains rely too much on electronics.”
Ben nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. I saw it all the time during my years in the service.”
At that point we both grew quiet. I figured we’d just about exhausted the Nestor topic and damned if I knew what else to say to him. This man, in whose company I’d spent thousands of hours as a kid, now made me feel extremely self-conscious. I kept sneaking looks at him, seeing the eyes of that fat boy in the handsome face of this man.
“Look,” I started to say just at the same time he started to speak. We both stopped, then laughed, then started to speak at the same time again. “Hold it,” I said, raising my hand like a traffic cop. “I’ll go first. I’ve really got to be going.”
“Right,” he said, “That’s what I was starting to say, too. My charter guests are due here any minute, and I’ve still got a few chores to take care of on the boat.”
“Well, this was really a weird coincidence running into you on the dock in Key West.”
“Yup. Small world, eh?”
“It was great seeing you again, Ben.”
“Same here,” he said.
I waited, hoping he was going to offer an invitation for a drink or dinner later, but none came.
“You take care of yourself, Seychelle. See you around.” He strode off down the pier back to his shiny black schooner.
I watched him for a few seconds. Man, I thought, and he had a nice ass, too. Given that the male in my life was off with one of my best friends studying childbirth, a big tall handsome boatman with a nice ass looked pretty damn good to me about now.
I turned and made my way down the dock. I didn’t want him to see me watching him with the sort of weird fascination I felt. Once I’d realized it was Ben, I could see the resemblance, but I wouldn’t have recognized him on the street in a million years. Old Glub, the biggest nerd in high school, had turned into some great-looking guy who owned a spectacular classic boat. Now, that’s one I never would have bet on.
Back at the dinghy dock in front of the Turtle Kraals Restaurant, I pushed aside the crowd of small boats to pull in my little inflatable. Now that I was here in Key West, I wished I had my Boston Whaler with me, but I’d decided against towing it all those miles. The inflatable fit inside the aft deck box along with the little six-horse Nissan outboard, but it made for a wet ride going back and forth to the anchorage out off Christmas Tree Island in these strong winter winds. The outboard was running really ragged, and though she eventually warmed up and smoothed out, the popping and sputtering continued. If I wasn’t hauling any cargo and the water was fairly flat, I could get it up onto a plane, but today wasn’t going to be one of those days.
The wind was blowing out of the west at fifteen to eighteen knots, and I was motoring right into a nasty chop. The small waves broke over the pontoons, drenching my pants and forcing me to throttle down to an agonizingly slow pace.
By the time I got to the boat, my black Lab, Abaco, was leaping for joy and trying to crawl down into the dinghy with me. I kept a piece of Astroturf tied to a length of line on deck for emergencies, but she hated to use it. She’d get this guilty look and slink off to the foredeck in shame whenever nature forced her to relieve herself on board. I never wanted to put her through that. She needed to get to shore quickly, but all I could think about was getting aboard and getting out of my now wet clothes.
There were dozens of boats flanking the west side of Christmas Tree Island anchored along the edge of the Northwest Channel, the best route for heading to the Dry Tortugas. Most were cruising sailboats, although there was one big classic motor yacht at the opposite end of the anchorage that I’d heard this morning belonged to some Danish heiress. A giant brown dog, hard to tell what breed from this distance, strolled the decks and barked at boats that came too close. I’d yet to see anyone aboard take that dog ashore, I thought as I hurried below to change.
When I stepped out of the deckhouse about twenty minutes later, I saw a parade of schooners charging past, hard on the wind, making for the outer channel. There must have been nearly a dozen of them, from the smallest—a little 30-some-footer with gaff-rigged tanbark sails—to the grand 130-foot Western Union, Key West’s own flagship. They all had full sails flying and were having to tack their way out of the harbor, not an easy feat with all those gaffs and topsails and square sails. They had just crossed the starting line off the beam of my tug, and Hawkeye was in the lead. I could see costumed characters on nearly all the boats, eye patches, head scarves, and striped pantaloons marking the pirate-like gear most of the crews sported. Abaco startled when a loud boom and a puff of smoke heralded a cannon shot from the schooner Wolf. The wharf ashore was lined with spectators, and, like good Floridians, a few of them hit the dirt at the sound of the gunfire, while the rest laughed and pointed at the picturesque boats pretending to battle for first rights to the wreck. The Appledore responded with another cannon shot as she attempted to overtake the Western Union, and the tourist charter guests on the big schooner responded with applause.
Over on Hawkeye, though, there was no sign of the usual Key West craziness—no costumed blokes hanging from the rigging waving mugs of grog. I reached into the wheelhouse and pulled out my binoculars. Through them, I watched Ben at the wheel, hunched forward, as though urging his boat on. He wore a yellow foul-weather jacket and a dark baseball cap pulled low over his face so
I couldn’t really even see his profile. He nodded once, then spun the wheel around to execute a near-perfect tack. He had a young kid crewing for him, cranking on the winches. His charter guests sat huddled around the front of the oval cockpit watching the two men handle the big schooner with almost graceful precision. The Wreckers’ Race wasn’t really much of a race, but it appeared Ben Baker took competition of any kind very seriously.
That afternoon, I took my dog ashore on the little spoil island and threw sticks down the narrow beach so she could run and splash into the water. She sometimes found it torture out on the boat—surrounded by all that water and not allowed to jump in. She was a Lab, after all. Australian pines and palmettos grew so thick in the center of the island that when I threw her stick inland, she disappeared into the bush. I called her name. The third time, when I was starting to feel just a little worried, I saw a flock of doves take wing and Abaco came charging out of the brush, the stick in her mouth and her eyes alight with mischief.
When we got back to the boat, I had a long list of projects waiting. I soon found myself dismantling the accumulator in my freshwater pressure system, which was leaking and causing the pump to tick over several times an hour and keeping me awake through the quiet hours of the night. I kept the radio on, as usual, tuned to channel sixteen, listening to the chatter of the racers and the fishermen and the charter boat captains. Late in the afternoon, I heard the shouts and laughter, the rush of water and creak of rigging, as the schooners returned from their race to Sand Key. I stepped out on deck to see Hawkeye sail by very close to Gorda, and her captain swept off his baseball hat and bowed to me like a swashbuckling hero as they passed.
“Cute,” I said aloud, even though he was out of earshot. “Very cute.” And I meant it. “Now that the competition is over, he can relax and have fun. Boy, has he changed.”
Abaco looked up at me and cocked her head.
“Never mind, girl. I’m just talking to myself,” I said as I watched Ben work the foredeck, furling sails. I found myself hoping he would glance my way again. There was something about the way he sailed and worked his boat that spoke of his love of the sea, and that I found even more attractive than his great new body.
I laughed out loud. Ben Baker? What was I thinking?
I watched the sailboats motoring and sailing back to the marina, all in a hurry now for the best part of racing—the party in the bar. Through the boats, I could see the crowd gathering for the nightly sunset celebration on Mallory Pier. The various street performers were erecting their high wires or setting up perches for their performing cats and dogs. The vendors were open and selling their piña coladas, carved coconuts, and shell necklaces, and though the sun wouldn’t set for another hour or so, the pier was already packed with tourists.
I left the rail and returned to clean up and put away my tools in preparation for the afternoon’s first beer. I was just reaching for an iced Corona when I heard the panic in the voice that seemed to explode from the radio.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday! Attention all vessels in Key West Harbor. There’s an overdue windsurfer from the Casa Marina beach rentals. Anybody who can help search, please assist.”
IV
I immediately thought of Nestor. Had Catalina convinced him to go windsurfing after all? I looked at the clock. It was four forty-five. The sun would set at five thirty. After sundown, there would be maybe another thirty minutes in which a downed windsurfing sail might be visible in the light of the waning dusk. After that, forget it. The missing person would spend the night at sea, in the water, and at this time of year that probably meant death. I was sitting by the radio, listening to the Key West Coast Guard marine operator quizzing the kid from the beach rental about the possible location of the missing windsurfer, when I started hearing boat engines.
Out on deck, the scene before me was remarkable. There were charter fishing skiffs, muscle boats, big sport-fishermen, sailboats, and runabouts of all kinds charging out the channel. They were all headed toward Sand Key, the place the kid at the windsurfer rental shack had said his customer was headed for. One thing I had to say about the boating community: when someone was in a jam, they came together. It was kind of like the old days, really. The scene playing out was more reminiscent of the onetime wreckers than their namesake race had been.
I was considering lifting the anchor and heading out on Gorda when I spotted a white-hulled center-console run-about coming at me from the other side—out of the north. The operator was waving at me. I waved back, and when he turned to approach my boat, I saw the name t/t Power Play in blue paint on the bow. It was the tender to the big Sunseeker, and I now recognized the man standing at the helm. As he drew close, Ted Berger shouted, “I could use another set of eyes. Want to come?”
“Sure,” I shouted back. In less than a minute, I’d grabbed my rain jacket off the hook inside the wheelhouse, slipped the strap for my binoculars over my head, closed up Gorda, and jumped aboard Berger’s boat. Abaco whined, pleading to come along, but I told her to stay. Somehow I didn’t think Berger would appreciate dog hair all over his immaculate tender.
Ted pushed the throttle forward and the big two-hundred-horse four-stroke Honda engine pushed the boat up onto an easy plane. We probably wouldn’t be able to hold that speed once we hit the open ocean outside, but for now he was eating up the water in a way my little tug would never manage.
“I was on my way back from fishing Bluefish Channel when I heard,” he shouted. As we came out from behind Sunset Key, Berger whistled. “Damn. Look at all the boats.”
He was right. There must have been at least thirty boats all steaming out toward Sand Key.
On the center console of Berger’s boat, he pointed to the large-screen color GPS chart plotter, which displayed a chart of the Key West entrance channel out to Sand Key Light.
“I’m not going to head out toward Eastern Dry Rocks. Looks like all the others are already working that area. Let’s start from the midpoint channel markers and work a search pattern east from there,” Ted hollered over the roar of the outboard. “You keep watch on the starboard side, I’ll watch the port.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I alternated searching with the naked eye and peering through the glasses. The breeze was dying down a bit, but the wind waves were still confused and choppy. Patchy gray clouds had blown in from the west and now covered the sun and half the horizon. The sea reflected the colorless sky; it was difficult enough to make out the channel markers, much less spot a small sail floating on the surface of the water.
My watch told me the sun had just set, but the clouds had hidden the event. We had been searching for what seemed like hours and were now due south of Key West, over a mile offshore from Smathers Beach. The radio had been depressingly quiet except for the Coast Guard operator, who was continuing to seek information from the young man on the beach. He worked at the rental shack at the Casa Marina Resort and when his client, who’d rented the windsurfer for two hours, hadn’t returned by three pm, the kid went out in his Boston Whaler to search for the man. He’d had no luck. When he realized darkness was fast approaching, he decided to get on the radio and call for help.
My eyes kept playing tricks on me. I would think I saw something, then when I blinked or tried to steady the binoculars, I’d look back and it would be gone. In fact, it was never there in the first place. That was why I didn’t believe it the first time I saw the flash of yellow in the water. When I squeezed my eyes shut that time, I thought it had disappeared, but then the patch of yellow rose again on a choppy swell.
“Over there,” I shouted, pointing with my right arm while I held the glasses in one hand, keeping my eyes fastened on that spot of color. “I saw something in the water.” I shifted my position, swinging my arm around as Berger turned the boat. I couldn’t take my eyes off that spot.
At first, the wet suit was indistinguishable from the dark water. The sail was blue with a small horizontal stripe of yellow, and it wasn’t until we wer
e nearly on top of him that I realized a man’s shadowy form lay facedown and half submerged across the sail. I knew before we pulled alongside and I touched his cold wrist to feel for a pulse that it was Nestor and he was dead.
V
“Oh, great,” Berger said and rubbed his hand across his mouth.
I couldn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the horizon like a seasick person who feared she was going to vomit. The idling outboard filled the boat with fumes, but it was neither that nor the sight of Nestor that made me feel ill. It had been Berger’s voice. He’d sounded about as emotionless as the computerized voice that reads the NOAA weather on the Coast Guard radio.
We got a line onto the windsurfer’s boom and stood by waiting for the Coast Guard to arrive on the scene. Berger and I didn’t say much as the last streaks of light evaporated from the western sky and a few stars began to blink between the swift-moving clouds overhead. I moved up to the bow of the open runabout and sat on the padded seat that ran in front of the center console. I thought about Catalina and how fresh and alive and in love they had been that morning at breakfast. I didn’t want to break down and bawl in front of this asshole, but I felt like my chest and throat were pulled in so tight and hard that I was going to suffocate if I didn’t let it out. I wanted to hit something and scream curses at the stars. At nature. At fate. At God. Why Nestor? I pulled my knees to my chest and gritted my teeth, but when I pictured Nestor smiling behind Catalina, his arms wrapped around her waist and patting the bulge that would be their child, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I let go.
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