The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Batfishing in the Rainforest
DARK LIGHT
Randy Wayne White
FOR WENDY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book was begun shortly after the eye of a category 4 hurricane decimated the village where I live on the west coast of Florida. Captiva and Sanibel Island (where I was a fishing guide for many years) were also badly damaged—but not nearly as badly as portrayed in the national media. I am pleased to report that the islands are more beautiful than ever, and back to normal.
Even so, I spent most of the last year homeless, bouncing from place to place, sometimes country to country, trying to work while also juggling the details of rebuilding, and the relentless indifference of the insurance industry, and a few local bureaucrats. Happily, much good came from all the chaos, and I have many people to thank for their kindness and concern. Many dozens offered me help, even their homes. I will forever be in their debt.
Much of this book was written in public libraries, and I have become a great fan of library professionals as a result. I am especially grateful to the staff at Pine Island Public Library and also Sanibel Library. They were superb, and it was at the Sanibel Library where I found most of my information on the little-known hurricane of 1944. Many of the details in this novel, although used fictionally, are true, including Cuban fishermen who washed up on the beach, a man tragically set ablaze at his own moonshine still…and a beachside estate with its own family cemetery. The library staffs in Holmes Beach, Florida; Key West; Pioneer, Ohio; and Franklin, Tennessee, were also a great help.
Another favorite place to write was Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille. I want to thank my friends and associates Marty and Brenda Harrity, Mark and Heidi Marinello, Jean Baer, Greg Nelson, Raynauld Bentley, Marita, Brian, Maria, Liz, Jean, and Big Dan Howes. My pal Matt Asen’s Sanibel Grill at Timber’s Restaurant was another great place to work, as was the Tarpon Lodge on Pine Island.
Others who were generous beyond the expectations of friendship include Ms. Iris Tanner, Gary and Donna Terwilliger, Craig and Renee Johnson, George and Michelle Riggs, Kevin Lollar and Nadine, Moe Mollen, Dr. Amanda Evans, Tony Johnson, David Thompson, Jenny Franks, Bill Wundram, Stu Johnson, Gloria Osburn, Berry Rubel, Capt. Eric Osking, Tom and Sally Petcoff, Capt. Steve Stanley, Dr. Brian and Kristin Hummel, Capt. Craig Skaar, Bill Gutek and his Nokomis pals, the Wells family of Cabbage Key and Pineland, Bill “Spaceman” Lee, Diana, Ginny Amsler, Allan W. Eckert, Jennifer Holloway, and Dr. Corey Malcolm.
This book demanded extensive research in several fields, and I am grateful to the experts who took the time to advise me. Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, a brilliant psychopharmacologist, has once again provided behavioral profiles on some truly nasty fictional characters. Dr. James H. Peck, fellow Davenport Central (Iowa) graduate, has compiled exhaustive notes on all the Ford novels, and is due much thanks. Attorneys Tim Bruhl and Mike McHale, an admiralty law expert provide much needed information.
These people all provided valuable guidance and/or information. All errors, exaggerations, omissions, or fictionalizations are entirely the fault and the responsibility of the author.
I would especially like to thank Wendy Webb for allowing me to reprint lyrics from her original compositions. Ms. Webb was, in no way, the inspiration for the fictional character Mildred Chestra Engle, but she
Finally, I would like to thank my dear sons and buddies, Lee and Rogan White, for once again helping me finish a book.
The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn’t subdue you and make you feel abject. It’s stimulating loneliness.
I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
“And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I’ve been!”
1
Picturing his grandfather’s face the last time he’d seen him alive—six years ago?—Bern Heller sat at a table where he’d spread the contents of a briefcase sent by the executor.
There were yellowed photos of a young man, tall, blond.
His grandfather?
No resemblance, but his name was there in faded ink.
A photo of him standing beside a man identified as Henry Ford. Another of him holding a drink tray, a towel over his arm, while Henry Ford and a younger guy—my God,
On the back: Fort Myers, Florida, 1940s.
That was the time to buy property in Florida.
His grandfather had.
Miscellaneous personal items—the attorney had mentioned the briefcase a month ago at the funeral. It arrived today, smelling of nesting rodents. His grandfather had been such a vicious son of a bitch that Heller would’ve trashed it if he hadn’t seen the photos. Henry Ford and Lindbergh—valuable.
Some other interesting stuff, too: Bills of sale for acreage the old man had purchased, handwritten. A passport, German, stamped with swastikas in a couple of places. A nautical map so old the paper flaked in his hands—two sets of numbers, also in ink, near Sanibel Island.
Another old photo, this of an unidentified woman. Glamorous, like a film star from the ’40s, a PR shot. The woman in sequins after lighting a cigarette, her eyes staring through smoke into the camera.
The thought of it, a woman like this with the old man, was disgusting.
An hour later, Bern checked his watch—time to meet with the redneck Hoosier he’d hired to run the marina.
