Fallen Out: Jesse McDermitt Series, The Beginning

by Wayne Stinnett

  We were back at the dock just as the sun was beginning to turn the eastern sky purple and I treated the clients to breakfast at Dockside. Jimmy’s ability with both the still and video editing software was a huge hit. He wired the laptop to the high definition flat screen TV in the salon, so the divers could see much larger images and video clips. After breakfast, all three divers tipped Jimmy and Savannah a hundred dollars each and promised to feature our operation on their website.

  With an extra three bills in his pocket, Jimmy took off shortly after the clients left. “He has a lot of talent,” Savannah said over coffee. “And you seem to have carved quite a niche among the underwater photography community.”

  “Actually, that was a first,” I said. “They were referred by another group we took out a few days ago. Not sure if I want to do a lot of overnight charters, though.”

  “Well, it was fun,” she said. “But, I’ve got to get some sleep.” She got up from the table and started toward the door, where she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

  “See ya later,” I said as she waved.

  Jimmy and I had two more very successful charters that week, one of which was a direct result of the photographers mention on their website. Savannah helped out once again with that charter. She said she just enjoyed being out on the water and would be glad to help out whenever she could.

  When I broached the subject of going out on a date Saturday, she shot me down in flames. “Nothing personal,” she said. “You’re a sweet guy and good looking as all get out. But, I just got through a pretty nasty divorce a few weeks ago. This trip with Sharlee was supposed to be my celebration.” I didn’t push it anymore but did enjoy having her around and although it wasn’t a date, we sat on the bridge Saturday evening, drank a few beers and watched the sun go down.

  We had another hurricane scare at the beginning the following week, Tropical Storm Harvey. When I heard about it on the NOAA weather radio, it had just formed in the Gulf, about three hundred miles west of the Keys and was headed north-northeast, away from us. That night it turned easterly and early the next day, it was headed straight toward Marathon.

  A few boat owners began making ready to bug out by afternoon. I went over to the Anchor and everything seemed normal. Rusty and Julie weren’t making any preparations at all. I found Rusty out by the shallow canal, his back to me. As I walked up behind him, without turning he said, “Feels the same as the other day with Floyd, don’t it, Jesse.”

  I stepped up beside him and closed my eyes. He was right, the air ‘felt’ heavier and I could hear the small waves on the shoreline more than a hundred yards away. “Yeah,” I said. “It’ll turn east, won’t it?”

  When I opened my eyes he was looking at me. “But ya had to come by to make sure?”

  “I still have much to learn, Master,” I said with an overly dramatic bow.

  “One day,” he said looking out over the canal, “I think I might dredge this canal and make the basin wider. Only boats that can get up here are flats skiffs.”

  We went back inside. Julie was out shopping and Rufus was behind the bar. I hadn’t had the chance yet to meet him, being busy with the charter business.

  “You must be Rufus,” I said sitting down on a stool at the end.

  “Ya sahr,” he said with less of an accent than I would have thought, with his Jamaican heritage. “Yuh muss be Cap’n McDermitt.”

  “I am. How’d you know?”

  “It a beanie island, sahr. Wud get aroun.” Turning to Rusty he said, “Anders jest leff. He drop off some fresh hogfish. Yuh two want a sandwich?”

  “Hogfish?” Rufus nodded. “Absolutely, mon!” Turning to me Rusty said, “You’re in for a real treat.”

  “I’ve had hogfish before, Rusty.”

  “Not like this, you ain’t,” he said as Rufus headed out the back door. “Rufus just had some seasonings sent over from his cousin in Jamaica. Wait till you taste this.”

  We had coffee while we waited. The smell coming from the grill out back was making me very hungry. Rusty was right, the things Rufus could do with some simple seasonings were out of this world.

  Chapter Eight

  Over the next few weeks, Jimmy and I became inundated with requests for dive charters and had to turn several away. Jimmy went online and found not just one, but three websites promoting stories about our operation featuring some terrific underwater photos and highlighting his photo editing abilities. We had to turn quite a few down.

  Early on a Wednesday in mid-October another hurricane scare became a reality. Tropical Storm Irene formed off the western tip of the Yucatan and started moving north, threatening western Cuba.

  “Ahoy Revenge,” I heard Rusty’s voice from the dock, as I stared at the constantly changing weather radar on the Weather Channel. I stepped out into the cockpit where a light rain was falling and invited my old friend aboard. Jimmy was just a few steps behind, even though it was more than an hour before sunrise. I noticed there was a lot more activity in the marina than was normal for this hour.

  “What’s your plan?” Rusty asked.

  “I’ve decided on a 48 hour window,” I replied as Jimmy stepped aboard.

  “We’re only a couple hours from that, Skipper,” Jimmy said.

  “He’s right. It won’t be much of a blow, but when it crosses Cuba and gets into the warm waters of the Strait, it’ll become a hurricane. No telling how strong it’ll get crossing the Straits, but it is going to hit here.”

  Savannah came down the dock wearing cutoff jeans and a yellow rain slicker, bare feet as usual. She stood listening. “Will it be safe here in the harbor?” she asked.

  “Probably,” Rusty replied. “At least here at the docks. All those boats out there on the hook is a different story.”

  She looked across the harbor at the thirty or so boats tied with a single line to mooring buoys. “What if one of them breaks loose?”

  “More than one will. Seen it happen quite a few times,” Jimmy said then turned to me. “We taking her out?”

  I made my decision then and there, not willing to take the risk of a boat, adrift in high winds, slamming into my bow. “We’ll leave just after first light.”

  “You’re going to go out in this rain?” Savannah asked.

  “We’re heading north to Shark River,” I said. “It’s safer there.”

  She only thought about it a second and asked, “Mind if I follow along?”

  “Single handed? It could get pretty rough.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Rusty said. “Won’t take me more than thirty minutes to prep the bar. Rufus has been through a hundred of these, he’ll manage fine without me.”

  “What about Julie?” I asked.

  “She went up to Homestead last night. Not planning to be back for a couple of days.”

  Together, we all went over to the Anchor and helped Rusty get things ready. There really wasn’t a lot to do, he didn’t have much outside and only needed to trailer his skiff and anchor it between two trees in the yard. He had corrugated metal covers for all the windows, with anchor bolts set in the framework around each one. Within minutes, we had them all up and Rufus’ little shack buttoned up against the impending storm. Rusty brought a chainsaw out and said, “Never know when you might need to cut a tree out of the way.”

  Back at the docks, Rusty and Jimmy prepared to cast off the lines, while Savannah and I got our engines started. I keyed the VHF mic and said, “Are you on 16, Savannah?”

  “Roger, Jesse,” came her reply.

  “What’s your top speed?”

  “If it’s calm, I can make about 25 knots. You?”

  “A bit more,” I said. “Y’all take the lead, when we get into the Bay we’ll spread out a little.”

  “Are you sure about all this?”

  “Rusty’s lived here all his life and his family’s been here for over a hundred years. If he says Tarpon Bay is the place to go, I’ll take his word on it.”

  A few minutes later,
we passed the old Highway 931 bridge, now just a fishing pier, and into open water. The seas were pretty choppy with no apparent wave direction and the wind was blowing a steady twenty-five knots or so, out of the east, driving the rain under the top, into the bridge. Savannah’s Riviera had a fully enclosed aft deck and bridge, so they were at least staying dry. I noticed the name on the stern for the first time, Savannah Daydreamin’.

  “She must be a Buffett fan,” Jimmy said noticing it too.

  “Buffett? I don’t get it.”

  “From his ’76 album, Havana Daydreamin’,” he explained. “He has a daughter named Savannah Jane. A play on words.”

  I followed behind her for the next thirty minutes as Rusty guided her around Pigeon Key Banks, under the Seven Mile Bridge, through East Bahia Honda Channel, and into Florida Bay. Once we cleared Bluefish and Monkey Banks, I accelerated and came alongside her, about a hundred feet off her port side.

  It was a little calmer in the Gulf and we made good time, but it was still an hour before we reached the other side and Ponce De Leon Bay, where the Shark River flows into the Gulf of Mexico. We came down off plane and started up the river, behind another yacht. It seems Rusty’s hurricane hole wasn’t much of a secret to the cruising crowd.

  “Revenge go to 24,” Rusty’s voice came over the VHF speaker.

  I changed frequencies and said, “Go ahead, Rusty.”

  “It’ll take us about two hours to make Tarpon Bay. We’ll stick to the river, instead of the canal and enter the bay on the west side. There’s a cove just north of there that’s wide enough to lash the boats together and is sheltered on three sides by tall mangroves.”

  “Lead the way, brother.”

  Another voice came over the speaker, “This is M/V Osprey. Sorry to listen in. Are you the two yachts behind us?”

  “Ten four, Osprey,” Rusty replied. “Savannah Daydreamin’ on your stern and Gaspar’s Revenge behind us.”

  “We’re heading to Tarpon Bay, also. I have my wife and daughters aboard. Is that cove you mentioned large enough for three?”

  “What’s your draft, Osprey.”

  “We’re a thirty-four foot Mainship, with a three-foot eight draft,” he replied.

  “What do you think, Jesse? The cove’s wide enough. You have the deepest draft.”

  I keyed the mic and said, “Let’s do it.”

  “Osprey,” Rusty said, “You and I will hold off while the Revenge anchors and ties off to stern. He probably has much better ground tackle than either of us. Then we can tie off to his port and starboard and get lines out to the trees.”

  “Thank you, Savannah Daydreamin’. The name’s Alexander. Josh Alexander. We were caught flatfooted and have never weathered a hurricane afloat.”

  “Glad to help, Josh. I’m Rusty Thurman and Jesse McDermitt is aboard the Revenge.”

  When we finally got to Tarpon Bay, the wind was a bit stronger and there were white caps on the bay itself. The cove Rusty mentioned was much calmer and surrounded by tall, stately mangrove trees that have very deep roots. It was actually the mouth of a shallow creek and was a good six feet deep. Jimmy tied an orange float ball to the anchor with ten feet of line, before dropping the heavy Danforth a good hundred yards from where we wanted to tie up. The ball would allow the other two to stay clear of my anchor chain and warn anyone else coming into the bay that the cove was taken. Using the sonar pointing aft, I slowly backed toward the narrow part of the creek. When I was still thirty feet from a spot we wanted to tie off, I disengaged the clutch on the windlass and added more power to the engines to get a good bite on the bottom.

  Jimmy had the little inflatable Zodiac ready and took two lines toward the trees astern of us. Landings in this part of the Everglades isn’t permitted, so rather than go ashore and pull the lines tight, he simply tied off near the roots of two healthy, massive mangroves and rowed back, while I held position at anchor. Within minutes he had both lines tied off to the stern cleats and I called Rusty on the radio to back in.

  Rusty and Savannah did the same, dropping her largest anchor near mine and backing in. Rusty had her fenders off on the port side and she slowly maneuvered back, setting the anchor and then easing over to my rail.

  Jimmy remained on the dinghy and took more lines to more trees on her starboard side, as the Osprey began maneuvering back on my port side. By the time Josh was anchored and tied off to me, Jimmy had returned to Daydreamin’ with the lines. Then he motored around to the Osprey where he took their lines and carried them toward the opposite shore and tied off.

  We had three anchors, four lines to each side and four more to the stern of our raft. Josh introduced his wife Tonia and their two teenage daughters, Angela and Vanessa.

  “We don’t have enough lines out,” Rusty said. “Let’s put another dink in the water and add a dozen more. Everyone else should get to work removing canvas and stowing anything that’s not part of the deck inside.”

  Working together, we had all three boats as storm ready as Rusty thought necessary just before nightfall. As we all headed into the salon on the Revenge to escape the mosquitoes and decide what to do the next day, I noticed an ugly, old converted shrimp boat come into the bay from the river. At first it headed straight toward our anchorage then stopped in the middle of the bay, about a quarter mile away, before turning and motoring further east to a smaller cove.

  Once inside the salon, I took a spare set of binoculars from the hanging closet next to the hatch and looked out the portside porthole and watched as the slow moving trawler passed by. I couldn’t see clearly through the rain streaked glass, but at one point a man stepped out of the pilot house. It was the bald guy from Dockside. The big guy whose nose I’d smashed with a well-timed side kick.

  “What’s wrong?” Rusty asked, standing next to me watching the old trawler.

  “Remember that fight at Dockside I told you about a few days back. One of the guys is on that boat.”

  “Everybody has to be somewhere, bro.”

  “Yeah, not much we can do about it, I guess.”

  Rusty turned to the others and said, “Folks, we’re gonna be here at least two days, maybe longer. There’s no cell service out here and the nearest TV is probably beyond reception range.”

  “That ain’t a problem, dude,” Jimmy said. “I have a satellite internet account and Jesse has a laptop. Give me ten minutes and I can connect the big screen to his laptop, sign on, and we can get weather updates and watch internet movies.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  “Sure, man.” He lifted a bag out of the hanging closet and added, “I should have everything I need in here.” He went over to the settee, where the Alexander’s kids were sitting and started pulling out all kinds of bundled cables. Handing a CD to the oldest girl, he directed her on how to install the software and connect to the satellite service.

  “Even if this storm makes a direct hit here, we’ll be safe,” Rusty said. “Much safer than at Dockside. These mangroves have a root system like no other tree on earth. The roots can run laterally underground for hundreds of feet and sink deeper roots all along the length of the main roots. With three boats rafted together, we’ll be a lot more stable, too. Best of all, there’s no coconut palms around here.”

  “Why’s that good?” Tonia asked.

  “Well, a coconut falling on your head ain’t no good,” Rusty said with a chuckle. “Imagine one being blown through the air at a hundred miles an hour.”

  “I got the signal,” Angela said and tapped a few keys. “Here’s the Weather Channel radar,” she added, turning the laptop around so everyone could see. As we all crowded around it, the image suddenly appeared on the big screen TV above the settee.

  “Good job, Jimmy,” I said.

  The image on the radar loop kept moving steadily northward, heading straight for Isle of Youth, a large island south of and owned by Cuba, then it would jump back and loop again.

  “Can you pull up an updated prediction of w
here it’s going?” Savannah asked.

  Jimmy turned the laptop toward him and worked quickly at the keyboard. A moment later, we were watching the Weather Channel’s latest hurricane update, showing a predicted path that would cross Cuba, possibly intensify in the warm water of the Florida Straits, and was forecasted to turn northwest into the Gulf.

  Rusty frowned as he studied the weather map, “I don’t think that’s what it’s gonna do.”

  “You want to elaborate on that?” I asked.

  “It’ll turn northwest, sure,” he said. “But, once it gets into the Straits, it’s gonna turn northeast. Might miss Florida altogether, but my guess is, it’ll turn a little north of northeast.”

  Getting a chart of the western Caribbean from the chart locker, I rolled it out on the table. “This is the Isle of Youth, where they predict it’ll make landfall,” I told the group, pointing at the chart. “If Rusty’s right, and it turns a little northwest here, then northeast when it gets to the Straits, it’ll either pass the southern tip of the state, or cross the upper or middle Keys into the Gulf. That’ll put it on a straight course for where we are.”

  “Yeah, man,” Jimmy said. “But, it won’t get here until at least Friday afternoon. So, we got almost two whole days to get completely ready.”

  We prepared supper and everyone ate aboard the Revenge, while we made plans for the worsening storm. Later, after the sun had gone down, I occasionally heard music wafting from the old trawler. It seemed they were having a hurricane party.

  Josh and his family retired to their boat early. I suggested that if Savannah had room, that Rusty should bunk aboard with her. The four of us set up a 2-1/2 hour watch schedule, Jimmy took the first, then me, Rusty, and Savannah took the last watch. Although it meant getting a little wet, I suggested we use the bridge on the Revenge, as it was much higher than the other two boats, providing better visibility. Anchored in the cove as we were, the wind was pretty much blowing over the tops of the thick mangrove canopy.