Jake Lassiter trained the binoculars on the beach again, this time searching for a sailor in a one-piece suit, cut low in front and high over the hip. He found her, tugging on a skin-tight wet suit. Nearby, Keaka Kealia adjusted the weight of a yellow waterproof backpack that was slung across his shoulders. Lila wore an identical pack. Up and down the beach, the young competitors stood on the bleached sand, loosening up, stretching hamstrings, their minds visualizing the rough crossing, preparing for a test of body and mind in the same, silent ritual athletes have employed since the days of ancient Greece.
The starter blew the air horn, one minute until the start. The athletes, sun-darkened bodies in stark contrast to the white beach, moved to their positions. The horn sounded again, and the twenty-eight competitors grabbed their rigs and lugged them into the water, a Le Mans start. Lila struggled a bit as she beach-started, the backpack swinging free under one arm. Keaka hopped onto the board and was the first sailor through the shore break, Gary Koenigsberg three board lengths behind. Mickey Kerbel, a former Israeli paratrooper, cut upwind of Koenigsberg, stealing his air, and briefly taking second place. Leslie Weeks, an Australian woman, was next. A Canadian whose sail was emblazoned with a maple leaf was close behind, in a dead heat with Frangoise Duvalier.
Within minutes, all the boards were in open water, and the pack thinned out. The water was calm except for the wind chop. Unlike the smaller boards that become airborne on the lip of the slightest wave, the big cruising boards stayed in the water as sailors leaned back, trimmed their sails tight, and headed toward the horizon. As they neared the Gulf Stream, they routinely adjusted to the ocean swells with reflexes that had been honed on waters from the Tasman Sea to the Mediterranean. Some cursed themselves for rigging too big as the wind pounded at a steady twenty knots from the north, guaranteeing five hours of unremitting pain on shoulders, elbows, and wrists. Others yearned for more Mylar as they had rigged too small. In the front, his sail trimmed perfectly, Keaka Kealia led the pack.
Jake Lassiter watched from the stern of the Big Daddy as Keaka broke for an early lead. From the bow of the Magnum trailing the last racer, Harry Marlin watched, too, but soon lost sight of him. Harry had figured that the added weight of the coupons would drag on the Hawaiian, holding him back. Nearly every competitor carried a small pack containing water bottles and granola bars, but those, he thought, weighed far less than the coupons. The Magnum was getting reports from the ABC helicopter, and Harry learned he had been wrong — Keaka Kealia was leading the race, far out of sight of the trailing boat. Shouldn’t worry, though, where was the bastard going on that board, the Bermuda Triangle?
From the Big Daddy, Lassiter looked for Lila but couldn’t see her. Lost in the pack somewhere. He thought she would lead the women, but there was local talent Carolyn Kvajic leading with Frangoise Duvalier from France second, and Luisa Vazquez from Cuba third. Where was Lila?
Three Bloody Marys and two dozen raw oysters on an empty stomach. That is not the prescribed breakfast for someone about to cross the Gulf Stream, but Harry Marlin did not know that. Among the many other things that Harry Marlin did not know was that he was prone to seasickness. He learned this fact after slurping down oyster number six, a juicy Apalachicola.
Harry had spent some time in small motorboats lazing on the flat water of Lake Okeechobee, waiting for bass to jump aboard. It was different here, the Magnum pitching over the chop, kicking spray onto the deck. Harry decided to stay dry below, nursing a fourth Bloody Mary, sweat beading on his forehead, bile churning in his stomach.
The windsurfers were battling the chop, too, bouncing over small waves, feeling it in knees and ankles, fighting off muscle cramps, fatigue, and stiff backs from being locked into one tack for hours, straining against the wind.
“ABC says the Hawaiian’s still leading, about half a mile in front of Kerbel and Koenigsberg,” the commodore said, poking his head below to grab a cup of tea. “Hey, you feeling all right, Mr. Marlin?”
Harry nodded and mouthed the word “fine,” but his eyes were glassy and he looked as if he’d be over the rail any minute.
“Hang in there,” the commodore said. “You’ll feel better when we’re out of the Stream.”
Harry lay down on a cushioned built-in sofa and tried to I sleep, but he couldn’t. Sweat poured from him. He burped and tasted half-digested oyster. Whose idea was this, anyway? Violet’s, of course. Everything was her idea.
The Magnum was bouncing over the waves now, and Harry gritted his teeth and concentrated on keeping his stomach from somersaulting. Time passed. Slowly. Queasily. Excruciatingly.
He felt weak, disoriented, but finally the water calmed.
They were out of the Gulf Stream. Harry climbed to the deck on shaky legs. The radio crackled from the helicopter. Keaka Kealia was a mile in front, Frangoise Duvalier leading the women.
“Almost there,” the commodore told anyone who would listen. “That Hawaiian has it locked up. He’s got us for the appearance fee plus first prize, he’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.”
Despite his discomfort, Harry Marlin smiled to himself. The Hawaiian’ll be laughing all the way to the Great Bahama Bank, but I got the last laugh ‘cause that dumb-ass is doing it for 10 percent. Shit, I’d a given him a third, easy.
A mile off the coast of North Bimini, the Big Daddy pulled under a finish line strung between two barges, the checkered flag popping in the wind. Paul Flanigan killed the engines and prepared to tie up at the barge. From the stern Jake Lassiter could see Keaka Kealia a hundred yards behind them, heading for an easy victory. The ABC helicopter circled overhead, capturing the winning moment on videotape. A round of applause went up from the yacht club members on the Big Daddy — those still sober enough to bring their hands together — and Keaka nodded as he sailed by. Which is what he did, sailed right by, didn’t stop, didn’t tie up at the barge for the awards, the champagne, and the calypso band.
Jake Lassiter saw it happen: Keaka Kealia tipping the mast slightly forward, shifting weight to his front foot, falling off the wind. Heading southeast toward Turtle Rock. The trip across the Florida Straits was a beam reach, 90 degrees off the wind. Now Keaka was on a broad reach, 135 degrees off the wind, the fastest angle for the board, and with the trade winds humming at close to twenty-five knots in the open waters, he was zipping along, bouncing off small chop, the board planing now with only the stern in the water.
“Charlie, wake up and look at this!” Lassiter shouted.
Charlie Riggs opened his eyes but didn’t move from the deck; hair. A plaid blanket was tucked up under his chin. “ Quid tunc? I always get sleepy on boats.”
“The reincarnated warrior just called an audible.”
“Hmmm?”
“Called his own number, but damned if I know the play.”
On the Magnum, still two miles from the finish line, the radio crackled again with static and a voice from the helicopter. Harry Marlin couldn’t make out the words. The commodore strained to listen, then fiddled with his mustache. His face had a look of consternation. “Didn’t stop? Hell’s bells.”
“What’s wrong?” Harry Marlin asked, sensing trouble even through a haze of Stolichnaya and seasickness.
“Copter says the Hawaiian finished, just kept on going, bearing off to starboard.”
Harry’s stomach lurched, and not from the oysters. The son of a bitch was way out of sight. What was happening? Then that old feeling — fear and shame, letting Violet down — the same feeling when he came back empty-handed the first time from the theater.
Time to take control. “Let’s go get him! He double-crossed me, the bastard.”
The commodore had his thumbs in his belt and looked sideways at Harry. “Take it easy, Mr. Marlin. It’s his problem if R he doesn’t stick around for the ceremony. I’ll take it up with the board of directors. He could be disqualified for conduct unbecoming a yachtsman, might have to forfeit the first prize. ‘ This is quite unprecedented, you know.”
“Screw the prize and screw you!” Harry shouted, and the commodore blanched. This friend of Lassiter would never be admitted to the yacht club, the commodore quickly decided. Harry Marlin stood there in his camouflage
