Pigeon Key lay off to the right, just a little ahead of us. It was at the end of the old bridge. A section had been removed just past a ramp going down to the island. The rest of the old bridge still paralleled the new one, just off to the north, but with a section removed at both ends, the middle part was completely inaccessible and slowly deteriorating from the elements and the steady march of time.
Ahead of us about a mile, the new bridge curved to the left and the high arch over Moser Channel was visible in the distance beyond. I knew that about a mile past the arch, at the halfway point of the race, the fire department had what they call a “quint,” or quintuple combination truck staged with its ladder extending across both lanes. As the runners approached, they’d turn on the pump, sending water through misters to cool the runners. The firefighters also handed out drinking water.
The race had started at 0730, only thirty minutes after sunrise. But being the Florida Keys, even at an early hour in the spring, eighty degrees wasn’t uncommon. And it looked like this day was shaping up to be a scorcher.
“How soon will I be able to join you again?” Savannah asked.
We’d only been married for four-and-a-half months, and I was scheduled to take the helm of Ambrosia on Friday for two weeks of intense familiarization with retiring Captain Nils Hansen. I’d worked with Nils before as his acting first mate. He and I both held the same unlimited sea captain’s certification, but he had dozens of years at the helms of large ocean ships. I’d already learned a lot from the old Norseman.
“End of the month,” I replied. “But you already knew that.”
“Will you miss me?”
I glanced over at her. It wasn’t like Savannah to doubt herself.
“You know I will,” I said. “I don’t know how I ever got along without you.”
We continued running, and another cadence came into my head.
Momma told Johnny not to go downtown,
Marine Corps recruiter was a hangin’ around,
Suzy told Johnny go serve your nation,
Take a cab down to the MEPS station,
Suzy’s in the bedroom, Jodie’s at the window,
Johnny’s got his bags and he’s ready to go,
Put Johnny on a Greyhound bus,
Then there came the bends and thrusts,
Drill Instructors trained him rough and hard,
They taught him to fight, they taught him to march,
It was short but long it seemed,
Johnny had earned the title Marine.
“What’s going on up there?” Savannah asked, pointing ahead.
Several runners, none from the front of the pack, had stopped and were standing at the left side of the bridge, some pointing down into the water.
We moved over to that side of the bridge for a better view, and as we approached the group, I could see a boat just a hundred feet or so from the bridge. It looked like a beat-up old derelict, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet in length.
“Just another boat adrift,” I said, slowing my pace a little.
After Hurricane Irma, there had been reports of abandoned boats drifting on the currents all over South Florida and the Keys. Many were still afloat three years later and occasionally one would wash up on shore or be found lodged in the mangroves or aground in shoal waters.
We’d found one on my island in the Content Keys just two weeks earlier. It’d been pushed up on shore during a squall, and we came across it the next morning, wedged solidly against the north pier. It had a trailer still strapped under it. Finding the owner turned out to be pretty easy. He came out and towed it to a boat ramp at Old Wooden Bridge Marina.
There was something odd about this boat, though. For one, it didn’t look like a typical boat you’d see around here. It was crudely built and made of wood.
“There’s someone in it,” a woman yelled.
Savannah and I moved quickly to the concrete guard rail. It was an incoming tide, and the boat was drifting toward the bridge. Just as the woman had said, I could make out a small form lying on the deck in the middle, covered by a piece of canvas. A bare brown foot stuck out from under the cloth.
I looked down. The water was maybe eight or ten feet deep and the current was moving pretty fast. The boat was coming right toward where we stood.
“Rafter!” I shouted.
Without thinking, I put one hand on the rail and vaulted over it, pulling my legs up and wrapping them with my arms.
Diving into shallow water from a height of twenty feet was suicide, and going feet first would put both my legs in casts for months. Tucked into a cannonball position, it didn’t matter how I hit the water; it was going to hurt. But a cannonball lessened the depth I’d descend and I might avoid hitting the bottom.
I smacked the water on my side. The impact against my thigh was like that of a big wooden paddle and the sting almost caused me to kick my legs out early. But I didn’t. I waited until my body stopped descending, then unfolded and pushed off the bottom.
Running shoes are good on pavement but not so much in the water. I kicked them off as I rose from the bottom.
When I broke the surface, it was just in time to see someone else smack the water ten feet ahead of me. I’d already drifted back under the bridge a little. When they surfaced, I was surprised and then angered to realize that it was Savannah.
“Come on,” she shouted.
