“Hey, look, I need to fly to Antigua, earliest arrival I can make from Marathon.”
“Hang on.”
While I waited, I grabbed my go-bag from the closet in my room. In it were two changes of clothes and necessary toiletries to get me through three days; nothing more. I opened the top chest drawer, retrieved my passport, and stuffed it into the bag. Anything else I’d need would be on Floridablanca.
“Okay,” Chyrel said, “if you can get going right now, you might be able to catch the Marathon shuttle flight to Miami. It takes off in less than two hours. You’ll have to just hang out there in Miami for about three and a half hours to catch the last flight to Antigua, arriving just after 10 pm local time. Otherwise, the next available flight arrives there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Book tonight’s flight for me,” I said. “I’m heading out the door. Thanks.”
“You got it.”
Ending the call, I shoved the cell into my pocket along with the Armstrong sat phone. That much technology in my pocket used to be a rare thing. A couple of years ago, the most high-tech thing you’d catch me with was my dive computer. The weight in my pocket reminded me to grab the chargers for both phones. I had dozens, because I was always forgetting to take them.
Jimmy was approaching the door when I stepped out into the light rain.
Crap! The charter.
He saw the bag in my hand. “Aw, man.”
“Sorry, Jimmy. I gotta be in Antigua tomorrow morning. Something just came up.”
“Dude, I just got a confirmation from Peter for a week from Monday. He said Tuesday, too, and he’d pay more if we anchored off Fort Jefferson for the night.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel,” I said, then had another thought. “No wait. Tuesday and Wednesday? I might be back by then. If I’m not, you can take them out.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You’ve got a six-pack license. Hire someone to do the monkey work—slinging and filling the tanks—and you move the boat around to the good spots and help with the image editing.”
“You sure, man?”
“Sounds like a laid-back charter. You know how Peter is. And you said yourself, the Revenge needs to get out and run. Just one thing…”
“I know, I know. The same rules even if you’re not there. Dude, I thought we were beyond that.”
“Drive down the road sometime. There’s a reminder of how fast you’re allowed to go, posted about every two or three miles.”
“Yeah, but you smoked—”
I fixed him with a stern look. “No mas, mi amigo.”
He nodded. Jimmy smoked a lot of weed. I never cared what he did on his own time, but the rule had always been clear: not on the boat. When he came to work for me on the island, the rule expanded to include that. Then I’d broken my own rule.
Finn looked anxious to go. If I were flying Island Hopper, my old amphibian, I’d take him with me. But not on a commercial hop.
“Sorry, Finn, you gotta stay here and keep an eye on Jimmy.”
“That’s harsh, man,” Jimmy said, but he smiled anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him. Not gonna say where you’re going?”
“Antigua,” I replied. “To see Sara.”
“Kim and Marty will be home this weekend.”
“Dammit, I forgot. Thanks. I’ll call her.”
My youngest daughter and her husband worked for Florida Fish and Wildlife’s Division of Law Enforcement. They also lived on the island. I’d built two identical bunkhouses years ago; identical, but mirror image to each other. The west bunkhouse was later divided, creating a small office with two bunk beds for when Chyrel was on the island, which wasn’t that often anymore.
Kim had taken over the other half of Chyrel’s bunkhouse, and I’d built a small kitchen and bedroom area for her, removing the bunks. Later, when she and Marty married, we converted it back into a bunk house, and moved her and all her stuff into the eastern bunkhouse, giving them a little more room. It now had two small bedrooms and a bathroom. They’d been on assignment up in the Everglades for the last couple of weeks, staying at a camp in Flamingo.
I patted Finn’s flank and he looked up at me, his tail wagging him. “Be good,” I told him. “I’ll be back soon.”
Then I went down to the boathouse. The sun was shining again when I opened the big spring-loaded door and idled my little Grady-White out into Harbor Channel. Turning east, I brought her up on plane and headed for the narrow cut through the shallows. As I turned into it, I glanced over to the left and saw that Mac’s boat was tied off to its piling. He must have called it an early day on account of the rain. Maybe Jimmy could hire Mac for a couple of days.
Mac Travis was probably more of a recluse than I was. He’d once worked for a guy named Woodson, who’d built or repaired many of the bridges that connect the numerous islands of the Keys. Wood owned the island, but since he’d died, it went to his daughter, Mel, Mac’s girlfriend. These days, Mac was a fisherman, diver, lobsterman, or pretty much anything else that required a boat or a strong back. It wasn’t common knowledge, but I knew that Mac had found and lost fortunes beneath the waves.
Once in deeper water, I turned south and fished my cell phone from my pocket, then ducked behind the small, tinted windscreen when Rusty answered. “I need a ride to the airport,” I said, trying to stay out of the wind. “Gotta catch the 1330 flight to Miami.”
“What the hell you wanna go there for?” my old friend asked.
“I don’t. I’m changing planes there for Antigua and I’ll be gone a few days.”
“I can’t get away,” Rusty said, “but hang on a sec.”
I heard him calling to his wife, then he muffled the phone.
“You on your way here now?” he finally asked.
“Yeah, be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Sid’s picking up her niece at the airport, arriving in less than an hour. Hammer down, bro.”
“Thanks,” I shouted.
I ended the call and pushed the throttle down a bit more.
Sidney was waiting at the dock when I idled up to the Anchor. “Thanks for waiting,” I said, as she helped me tie off the Grady.
“We gotta hurry,” she said. “Naomi’s plane arrives in thirty minutes. Wave to Rusty, now. No time for chit-chat.”
Grabbing my go-bag, I hurried after her, waving at Rusty out on the back deck. In minutes, Sidney was pulling out of the shell driveway and onto Overseas Highway, headed north. She glanced over at me, eyeing my small go-bag, as she shifted quickly and smoothly up through the gears in her BMW two-seater. “So, where are you heading this time?”
“Meeting Sara in Antigua,” I replied, as she wove through north-bound traffic.
It was always such a shock when I left my island and encountered the full press of civilization. Out on the island, we sometimes saw a boat going by out on the Gulf, and occasionally a flats guide or Mac would stop by, but visitors to my island were rare. Encountering heavy traffic put me on edge, and Sidney’s driving scared even Rusty.
She glanced over again and flashed her million-watt smile. “Booty call, huh?”
“I like the term ‘rendezvous,’” I said. “Less suggestive.”
“Oooh—how Bogey and Bacall-ish.”
Laughing as she whipped the Bimmer into the airport, I mustered my best Bogart impression. “We’ll always have Paris.”
Sidney was one of those women who refused to grow old, physically and emotionally. She was the same age as Rusty and I and had once graced the pages of Playboy magazine. She was every bit as pretty today. Her figure had filled out over the years, and she likely outweighed me by five or ten pounds, but at six feet in her bare feet, her curves were in all the right places. She was six inches taller than Rusty, but then most people were taller than him. He never let it bother him.
&n
bsp; Sidney had told me one time about the day she’d met Rusty. The first thing he’d asked her was how tall she was, and when she’d told him, he’d grinned at her lecherously and said, “I like to climb.”
They had the same zest for life, comparable moral character, and were equally passionate about a lot of the same things. The “peas and carrots” line from the Forest Gump movie played in my head.
Sidney parked the car and we hurried inside. She was wearing heels, putting her right at my height, but they didn’t slow her down any. I followed her toward the ticket counter, looking around the small terminal. “There’s Naomi now,” she said, hurrying toward a bunch of people waiting for baggage.
At the counter, I presented my driver’s license and told the agent I had a reservation. “You just made it, Mister McDermitt,” she said, handing me a boarding pass. “Go ahead through the security gate. Your flight is departing in thirty minutes.”
As I turned around, I almost ran into Sidney.
“Jesse, this is Naomi. She’s staying with us for a week. Naomi, this is Rusty’s friend, Jesse.” The woman at Sidney’s side was younger, probably in her twenties or early thirties. She had Sidney’s, height, hair color and smile. “Naomi is my niece,” Sidney added, as I shook the younger woman’s hand. “My sister’s girl.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, picking up my bag. Then to Sidney, I said, “Tell Rusty I’ll see him when I get back. I gotta run. My flight takes off in half an hour.”
“Go,” Sidney said, shooing me with her hands. “We’ll see you when you get back. Naomi’s here on a modeling assignment.”
As I went through the security check, placing my little bag on the conveyor, I glanced back at the two of them. They were pulling Naomi’s luggage from the carousel. Sidney’s niece lifted a dive bag and placed it on a small cart.
“Have a wonderful flight, sir,” a young man wearing a TSA uniform said, as he pushed my bag toward the end of the counter.
I lifted it and looked back again, just before going through the door to the waiting plane. Sidney and Naomi were pushing the little cart toward the exit.
A model carrying dive gear? I thought.
The second leg of my flight landed on the island of Antigua at 2215, only a few minutes late. I used my real passport on entering, since my boat was docked under that name. I had other passports on my boat and not all had the same name or country of origin. Having just my carry-on bag, I was out of the terminal building in minutes, approached the cab at the front of the line outside, and hopped in.
The ride from the airport on the north side of Antigua to Nelson’s Dockyard in English Harbour, on the south side, took forty minutes. The marina and docks were modern, but still had the feel of the centuries-old waterfront that was Admiral Horatio Nelson’s base of operations in the late 1700s. Though still a young man at twenty-eight, Nelson was basically unemployed after the British surrendered America’s dependence at Versailles. Nelson was posted to the Caribbean as the senior captain of the outpost. Two decades later, after commanding a decisive victory over the combined French and Spanish fleets off Cape Trafalgar, Spain, Lord Admiral Nelson was killed in action. It was rumored that his body was preserved in a rum barrel, to be returned to England for a state funeral. It was also rumored that sailors aboard the ship had unknowingly tapped Nelson’s rum keg. I didn’t know if any of that was true, but Pusser’s still bottled a fifteen-year-old dark rum called Nelson’s Blood.
Once I’d boarded the plane out of Marathon, I’d sent a text message to Sara, letting her know that I’d be on the boat by midnight. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I got a feeling that our rendezvous wasn’t going to be just pleasure.
After paying the driver, I grabbed my bag and walked out onto the long, dog-leg dock jutting out into Freeman’s Bay. Floridablanca was tied up in a premium spot at the end of the pier on the protected side. It was an eighty-foot slip and Floridablanca was only fifty feet long, but the location allowed me a fast departure, without maneuvering around the pilings or other boats. The ease of departure offset the extra cost of the premium slip.
My vessel appeared to be secure, and thanks to the technology aboard, I knew that to be true. The lights were on in the lower stateroom, filtering through the curtains that covered the three round portholes. I glanced at my watch. They’d be turning off within an hour. The stateroom lights were on a different timer than the salon lights, which came on at local sunset and went off ten minutes after the stateroom lights came on. This made it appear as if someone were aboard.
I swung a leg over the port rail and stepped over into the cockpit. The keypad next to the hatch lit and a light above the hatch came on, bathing the cockpit in a warm orange glow. I turned off the security system and glanced up to the aft corner of the overhead on the port side. A tiny red light was just visible on the face of an infrared camera mounted high in the darkened corner.
I already had my satellite phone out of my pocket when it vibrated. I touched the screen and saw that I had an incoming video message. When I touched the screen again, I was looking at myself, looking at my phone. I closed the security app and unlocked the hatch.
The air inside Floridablanca was a little musty, since I hadn’t been aboard in a few months. After dropping my bag on a lounge chair to starboard, I went about sliding the large salon portholes open.
It was a warm night, but a cool ocean breeze out of the east began to move the air around inside the salon. The musty odor would be replaced with the smell of the sea in just a few minutes.
I went forward and up to the bridge deck. A red overhead light came on automatically, illuminating the whole bridge with a subdued light. I glanced to my right, where a second camera mounted on the starboard side came on. There were motion sensors on the bridge as well as the cockpit. At the control panel, I switched on the boat’s systems.
The low hum of the air-conditioner told me that it would soon be more comfortable. I checked over the electrical system. Shore power was connected, and the batteries were all fully charged. There were no red lights on the panel to indicate a problem, water tanks and fuel tanks were all reading full, and the bilge pumps were online. Though built nearly half a century ago, Floridablanca was an antique on the outside only. Her systems were all brand-new and quite sophisticated.
I powered up the computer under the starboard desk and activated the closed-circuit security cameras located in several strategic places around the boat. The monitor filled with six images showing live video from the command bridge where I stood, from the aft cockpit, both side decks, the engine room, and the flybridge. I could again see myself, looking at the monitor.
Back down in the salon, I grabbed my bag and carried it to the lower stateroom, where I dropped it, still packed, on the deck in the hanging locker. The purpose of a go-bag was to always have something ready. I rarely opened it but did now. From inside a concealed panel in the boat’s bulkhead, I retrieved a Colt 1911 pistol and put it in the bag, then took my passport out and zipped the bag closed. I put the passport in the top drawer of the chest.
Everything I’d need for a month at sea was already aboard, with the exception of fresh food. So, the clothes and toiletries in my go-bag would remain there. There was enough canned food in the lazarette and pantry to last a month, but I’d emptied the fridge and freezer before I’d left Floridablanca, giving several fillets and some fresh vegetables to a young couple loading a tiny dinghy with groceries.
After a quick shower, I returned to the salon and closed the portholes before going up to the bridge again. I sat in the helm seat and put my feet up on the starboard desk to send Kim a text message that I wouldn’t be home this weekend. Then I set my phone on the helm and got a beer from the small refrigerator.
Movement on the monitor caught my eye. The port camera showed someone carrying a small bag walking along the dock toward my boat. When the figure stepped into the small cone of
light from one of the dock lamps, I smiled and put the beer back. It was Sara.
“Ahoy, Floridablanca,” she called from outside, as I hurried down to the salon.
I opened the hatch and stepped out into the cockpit. “I’m glad you could come early.”
Sara handed me her bag, and I helped her over the railing, vowing for the hundredth time to cut out a section and install a chain. She took her bag from my hand, dropped it on the deck and stepped into my arms. We kissed and held each other close for a few moments before Sara began to push me backward toward the hatch, her kisses becoming more passionate. I willingly obliged, and we stumbled into the salon, pawing at one another’s clothes.
“My bag,” she softly murmured, as I started to close the hatch.
I broke away from her, but not before she pulled my shirt off over my head. After retrieving her bag, I closed and locked the hatch. Within seconds, we were back at it, urgently pushing and pulling one another toward the lower stateroom like anxious teenagers, while trying to remove the rest of our clothes.
u
The air-conditioner continued to hum as we fell apart exhausted, with the sheets tangled around our legs. Sara blew at a strand of hair that lay across her face. “I’ve really missed you,” she said, her chest rising and falling heavily.
A soft glow from the lights in the marina filtered through the covered portholes, dimly lighting the stateroom. I looked over at Sara and couldn’t help but smile. “You’re like a wild animal. You know that, right?”
“You’re complaining?”
How many times had we done this? I wondered. Fallen into bed after little more than a hello. That’s how it had happened the first time.
Sara and I had an agreement. Neither of us was looking for a relationship, at least not one with all the usual emotional baggage. So, we made ourselves available to one another physically, and without strings. Monogamous, but with no promise of a future. So far, it had been a good understanding and we’d found time for each other at least once a month. If I had to guess, we’d probably had our little rendezvous close to forty times.
Rising Water Page 3