Flotilla

by Daniel Haight

  “You do,” Dad replied. “Courtesy your mom and step-dad. Me, I pay into their little scheme and hope I don’t get a disease they don’t cover.” I turned to go back inside where Dad prepared two man-sized steaks for the grill as our last dinner. Steak was rare in the Colony where everyone just ate what they were growing. Dad skipped the culture-grown stuff and had gone to the trouble of getting an on-the-hoof steak from shore. He took fussy care in mixing a grill rub and making some fresh guacamole. Our last meal together was nicer than anything else Dad had done for me. He even cleaned up the top deck and set out a real table with a cloth and non-plastic silverware. “No dishes for you tonight, boyo,” Dad said. The dinner was great and I could see why people liked my dad despite his weirdness.

  I was running some last minute computer calls for people on the Colony who knew I was going home that night. Little things came up that could probably wait but I wanted to get it out of the way until Mitch was fully functional. After that, I was packing up back at the Horner when Miguel stopped by with something interesting to tell us. As I entered the lounge, both Dad and Miguel were standing over a ratty old map of the California coast line. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Buried treasure,” Dad said, grinning.

  Buried treasure? Images of pirates and gold doubloons danced in my head.

  “Not quite,” Miguel said. He tapped a point on the map and made the paper rattle. “The kids have a scam they asked us for help on ... they want to take you with them as part of the deal.”

  “Which kids?” I asked.

  “Your friend, Mitch,” Dad replied. I was surprised: Mitch hadn’t said a word to me about this. “He and a buddy are making a trip to drop some electronics off.”

  “He wants me to go?”

  “Sure. Says he wants to run you back to the mainland as part of the deal. I thought it’d get me out of having to pay for a trip,” Dad explained. “What do you think?” None of this smelled right to me – why didn't Mitch say anything about this before? Plus, I knew him: he's always one step ahead of everyone else. For him to offer to do something like run I back to shore, well ... there had to be a catch. Right?

  I didn’t get much of a chance to think it over. Mitch had appeared and was knocking at salon door. Dad let him in. “Did they tell you?” he asked me. “I got some electronics coming in and Miguel loaned me my boat. I’m going to clean up on this one – maybe open a video arcade out here.”

  Mitch was really amped up talking about the deal … someone was unloading a bunch of old game machines and other junk. He had finally hit the big time … maybe I picked the wrong time to leave.

  I never did get to sleep. Dad and Miguel were up late discussing the scam, I had to finish packing and we were set to leave around midnight. I promised myself that I would be visiting the Colony again next summer. I cleaned my stateroom and I even left most of my clothes, the semi-clean ones, in a drawer next to my bed. The rest of my stuff was tossed into an ancient sea bag that Dad had given me. As the finishing touch, I left a note on the door: “Don't change anything – this is my room now.” I smiled thinking about what Dad was going to do when he saw that.

  Still, I had to admit: The plan was fuzzy. Miguel had loaned his boat and Mitch was bringing in a bunch of 'electronics'. He had conned his ‘friend’ into driving. The pickup was some beach by a Naval Air Station and I was going to ride along. Additionally, the boat that Miguel donated was one of his secret projects. You couldn't haul big bulky stuff in it … Mitch had to know that. There was a lot he wasn't saying.

  I put it out of my mind. Riding in Miguel's boat was worth the trip by itself. It looked like an old wakeboarding or ski boat but inside, Miguel had made some modifications. It was fitted out with extra-large fuel tanks, sonar, an illegally tuned radar mast and a supercharger on the old Chevy marine V8. It was a smuggler’s boat – built for fast runs along the coast and away from the Coast Guard, shallow enough to go where their big cutters couldn’t follow.

  I had been shown all the features during a lazy afternoon while Miguel spun tales about working marine salvage down in Key West with some guy named Fisher. Until now, the boat had remained under wraps at the Cho’s empty boat garage. “I have to find a new place for it,” Miguel said before leaving. “This’ll help me pay for a new berth.”

  I was happy, though. This would end my summer in style. A fast run to the coast in a hot ship to pick up illicit cargo. Who would even consider doing something like that in this day and age? Dozens of happy thoughts ran through my head. My ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ essay would blow the doors off of any other entry – how could I lose?

  Like I said, I never slept. I guess Dad didn't either. He was up when I yanked the sea bag up from my room to the salon where Dad was enjoying a beer and a cigarette while reading a Mickey Spillane novel. We sat together on the couch in the Salon, watching the feed and waiting for the other person to speak.

  Dad finally broke the ice. “It’ll be quiet around here.” He didn’t say anything about whether he’d miss me or how much he enjoyed having me around. If he felt anything at all, it was news to me.

  “I had fun,” I said cautiously. I never get straight answers out of my Dad about how he feels. I didn’t know if I deserved one but it might be nice to hear my dad say something. It wasn’t going to happen today.

  Dad stood, finished his beer and carefully placed his butt into the can. “Well,” he said, holding his hand out like I was a long-time roommate off to a new place. “Take care of yourself. Gimme a call when you arrive.”

  Maybe that’s as good as I was ever going to get from him. I decided to not to make a big deal out of it. “Sure thing, Dad.” He smiled and swatted me lightly on my head.

  “Don’t get all stupid once you get back on shore,” he said. “I know where you live.” I grinned, hoping we could get out of this before it got mushy. Dad apparently had the same idea. “You gonna stand there all day? Get moving!” That had been my rallying cry when we were working on something on the boat. It meant 'do what you were supposed to be doing' or maybe 'wherever you’re supposed to be, here isn’t it.' I used it to make a clean break, running for the Barco de Alma and Mitch’s treasure run.

  This weird guy, Yusef, was sitting on a couch in the lounge when I arrived. I had seen him from time to time. He was a dark, silent man who sold fish larvae on the A Ring. Mitch never talked about him and until last night I didn’t realize they were in business together. Before now, they never acknowledged each other’s presence. Mitch was at the bar working the controls on a handheld GPS and sipping chai from a large steel mug. Miguel still asleep, I guess … I didn't get a chance to say good-bye. We exited the Gun Range from the back deck where Miguel’s boat was tied up. I noticed that he finally added a name on the back: RumRunner.

  “Cute,” I commented to Mitch who was settling in at the console. He saw the named and grinned. Yusef glanced around briefly and then cranked the engine into life. We cast off and he started moving away from the dock. He kept the motor throttled back to keep the noise and wake levels to a minimum. That is, until the quarter-mile mark was reached. When we reached it, Yusef punched it up to a nasty growl and we were off.

  The trip was fun and I enjoyed it – the boat was making 40 knots without a problem – it might have gone faster but the choppy waves prevented it. They were heading north to some pick-up point and I would help them unload.

  They were vague on when I’d be dropped back at the pier in Long Beach. I was supposed to call Mom when we were on our way. I wasn’t too worried about it, though … they had the whole thing worked out with Dad, right? We continued far out to sea for over two hours, before turning slightly toward land. I was getting kind of nervous – I had never been this far out to sea before.

  “Relax,” Mitch said, not taking his eyes off of the radar screen. “The pickup is at a place called Point Mugu and we’re just loading up from the truck. After that I’ll get you back to your mom.” I knew that Mugu was up by Ma
libu so I guess that made some kind of sense. Still, Mitch sounded kind of snotty about it and I realized suddenly why I didn't like him: He took every opportunity to bust my balls.

  “Actually, we’re not going to Mugu,” Yusef suddenly said. It was the first time he said anything around me and I jumped a little. “Mugu is a naval air station. Not exactly where you want to be picking up a bunch of stolen merchandise.” He smiled at his own joke. “There’s a piece of the old highway out on the road and we’ll be landing there. Shouldn’t take longer than 20 or 30 minutes.” He made a slight course correction and looked closely at Mitch’s GPS unit. “We should be there in another hour so try and get some rest now.”

  That killed conversation until we were within sight of the drop-off point. It was Mugu Rock, created when the highway department carved a route for the PCH out of the hillside. The highway used to go around it and the last pieces of it were still visible like a highway for ghosts. This was what they were using as a ‘rendezvous point’. It was a dank night; the wind and fog were driving the cold straight into my bones. Yusef spoke quietly to Mitch as approached the shoreline, asking for position checks and readings on the depth finder every few seconds. He spun the wheel and tweaked the throttle to keep us away from hidden dangers under the water. I started freaking out because I couldn’t really tell what was going on. On either side of us, I could see rocks or reefs … what if we bottomed-out on some rocks and I had to swim for it?

  Yusef must have been thinking the same thing. After ten minutes of trying to figure out how to tie up to the rocks in the dark without bashing into them, he suddenly gunned the motor in reverse and pulled us away. “I’m an idiot for not thinking of it,” he shouted. “We’ll beach on that point over there.” He pointed to a small beach just to the north and pulled out his cell phone. He told their contact about the change but whoever it was, wasn’t happy about it. Yusef had to argue with him in some language until we were almost up on shore.

  Finally, he hung up and said, “He’s on his way … let’s take her in.” Yusef killed the motor and allowed the waves to take us in. I could hear the sand hiss under the boat hull when we touched the shore. Nobody made a move to get out … we sat in the darkness listening to the waves chuckle and push us into the sand.

  A few minutes later, I saw some headlights stabbing the fog. A panel van pulled into a parking lot about 50 yards away from us. The contact guy was an old Portuguese guy and he was pretty grumpy about changing what he called his contact position. Yusef shrugged and gestured for us to get started.

  The 'merchandise' everyone was so weird about turned out to be a bunch of rotting cardboard boxes ... the same kind of trash I had just finished going through for Crazy Addie. I was glad I didn’t have to inventory and fix this truckload. Let Mitch do it – he needs the experience.

  The entire van was stacked full of junk. Box after box of old circuit boards and dusty plastic left over from when TRON, the first one, was a big hit. I took about twenty trips with large, sagging boxes of junk across the sand to where Yusef was stacking them on board the RumRunner. I was getting exhausted … walking in sand takes a lot out of you.

  I stumbled with one box and dropped it. I swore under my breath and started picking things up. Then I thought I saw something strange. I had a small flashlight … Dad had given it to me at some point and I stuck it in a pocket last night so it wouldn't get lost. I twisted it to life so I could see what I was doing. It didn’t feel like metal and plastic. Neat, double-freezer bags full of blue pills. A few other ones had white, pink or red capsules. There were no labels but I didn't need them. What a shock … Mitch’s ‘buried treasure’ scam was nothing more than a badly-disguised drug run.

  This place never gets better … It only gets worse, I thought. Mitch had borrowed Miguel’s boat to run drugs to the Colony. I had nothing to do with it but I knew no one would believe that … not even my probation officer. The other boxes were probably full of drugs, too. I was suddenly terrified at what I had gotten myself into.

  Did Dad know? Probably not … hopefully not … not after that run down to Ensenada. He swore to me that stuff like that would never happen again but here I was, up to my neck again in trouble. I wasn’t among friends and I was a long way from home. What was I going to do?

  The decision was about to be made for me. The old guy had noticed the light and walked over. “What are you doing?” he demanded. He snatched up the light and hurled it into the breakers where it shorted and died immediately. Guess it wasn’t waterproof, I thought absently. He grabbed me by my shirtfront and hurled me backward to the sand six feet away. He was yelling at me while picking up the stuff that had fallen out. Mitch and Yusef had seen the commotion and came running up.

  “What’s going on?” Yusef asked harshly.

  “Snoopy here … Probably wanted some for himself.” Yusef didn’t bother to ask my side of the story and he went off on me and Dad.

  Yusef and the old guy took turns screaming while they finished loading up the boat. Mitch turned to stone. I looked several times in his direction hoping that he would do something, defend me or put a call in to Dad. All he did was sit in the pilots chair and ignore what was happening five feet away. I had no idea what I should do at that point so I finally sat down on the sand a few yards away and waited for it to be over.

  Every time I think I’ve seen it all, these bums managed to outdo themselves. It’s really amazing. The weirdness dipped into dangerous, borderline psychotic, behavior on a regular basis. Everyone just accepts it on the Colony and I guess that’s how they deal with life on land, too. The gray, foggy sky had lightened – dawn was approaching and they needed to be on their way. I just wanted to get back to my mom and forget this night ever happened.

  They were heaving against the boat, trying to get it deep enough to use the motor and off the sandy beach. Yusef waved me over to give them a hand and with all three of us pushing while Mitch worked the throttle, we managed to get it deep enough to where he could put the prop down and pull the boat free.

  Yusef heaved it into deeper water and pulled himself up over the lip of the bow to land on a few boxes. I was ankle-deep in the wash and wondering how I could get aboard without getting soaked. It turns out that they already had an answer for that.

  The engine was growling and the boat pulling further into the surf. At first, I was confused – were they going to make me swim out to it? Was that their idea of fun? There wasn’t a dock in sight…it’s the beach after all. The boat began to nose around to head for deeper water. I was running into the small breakers and shouting for them with my heart sinking – this wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “Sorry, kid,” Yusef yelled to me. “I guess we’re too heavy to take you back. Emil will take you back to your mom.” Emil, I guessed, was the angry old man. I’d rather ride with an angry wolverine. “What about my mom?” Yusef’s answer was to shrug.

  “You guys were supposed to take me back,” I hollered.

  “I was supposed to, and then you started poking your nose in where it didn’t belong. That was right about the time I realized we were too heavy to take you.”

  The subtlety wasn’t lost on me – Yusef was pissed because I figured out what was going on and this was his way of pointing it out. It was a rotten thing to do … maybe Mitch didn’t agree with it but he wasn’t saying anything. I could barely see him over the dash of the boat but he was looking out to sea like there was absolutely nothing more fascinating than a gray, foggy sky at 5:30 in the morning.

  So there I was, standing in cold salt water up to my knees and screaming for a ride. I never felt more pathetic or lost in my life. What kind of a jackass takes a kid for a boat ride, promising his Dad to deliver him home safely and then leaves him on a beach somewhere?

  The other thing that made it so surreal for me, now that I think about it, is this. When you're thirteen or fourteen, you have no idea what to do when the adults you’re with suddenly turn on you. That moment of ‘it’s-gonna-be-oka
y’ that suddenly turns into ‘Oh-my-God-no-it’s-not’. It's awful. “What am I supposed to do?” I screamed.

  “I guess you’ll figure something out,” Yusef shouted. “Good luck.” The boat was pulling out into the water and I had to strain to hear the last thing he said to me. “Hurry up, kid ... I think Emil’s leaving.”

  I turned around to see the insult added to the injury: Emil’s headlights were on and he was slowly backing out of the parking space. I splashed out of the water and made a run for Emil who was preparing to leave 75 yards away in the predawn darkness. My sneakers were squishing with water and sand was sugaring my feet and wet pants. Just as I reached the broken asphalt edge of the parking area, Emil was pulling out into the traffic of the PCH.

  “Wait! Wait!” I screamed and it was debatable whether Emil heard me or not. Maybe he did hear and decided to leave anyway. The kind of guy he was, it makes more sense. I was panicking, running after the van that was speeding away and my breaths began to sob in my chest as I realized that yes, this was happening and yes, I was stuck in some god-forsaken stretch of road in the middle of nowhere with no one to contact and no way to get home.

  I was sobbing as I stopped to catch my breath. I took a page from Mitch and started screaming a bunch of oaths standing there on the side of the road. It was the kind of cursing that the good people at the Naval Air Station nearby would have applauded. My voice was cracking and my face was red from crying and running – I thundered violent epithets with all the emotion of a preacher in a church tent revival. It made no difference at the moment but it made I feel better for some reason.

  The taillights of Emil’s van disappeared around a bend in the distance and eventually I ran out of things to scream. My breath rasped in my throat and, looking to my right, Mugu Rock loomed overhead in the gloom.