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water, in a boat that’s solid and fast.

Not everyone, though, felt as we did on this blustery, choppy day.

A mile from St. James City, as we approached the Intracoastal Waterway, Jeth lifted his head, and said, “I’ll be damned, it can’t be. But, by God…it is.”

To our right, traveling north in the channel, was a white sportfishing diesel. The person driving the boat was either cruel or a novice, because the vessel was plowing along at the worst possible speed: banging hard on waves, and throwing a mountainous wake.

“That’s the Viking from Indian Harbor Marina,” Jeth said.

“Are you sure?”

“Guarantee it. See—” He pointed. “That’s that fatass, Oswald, and Augie on the flybridge. The little creep. He’s so dang stupid, he probably tried to go offshore in this weather and fish. Either that, or—” Jeth’s expression became serious. “Hey! Either that, or they were outside trying to find my wreck. Damn it, Doc, I bet that’s what they were dah-dah-doing! Trying to steal from me. As if I don’t already have enough problems. Damn it, you think they could’ve found it? It’s possible.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“Why else would the idiot be out on a day like this? Waves offshore gotta be five or six feet. I thought I erased those GPS numbers, but maybe I didn’t. Something else I managed to screw up.” He took off his ball cap and slapped his leg. “And it’s not like they’re gonna tell us if we ask.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe they will tell us. Let’s find out.”

I turned toward the Viking, running with the wind. Used the trim tabs to flatten the bow solidly on track, then pushed the throttle forward.

“You’re not going to try and talk to them, are you?”

I shook my head, feeling the wind, focused on the white boat that looked whiter because of the gray water. “Augie’s got ego problems. He might tell us without saying a word.”

Now Jeth’s expression said, Huh?

I ran a parallel course as if to pass the much larger boat port to port, which is how it’s supposed to be done. Once the Viking was beside me, though, I turned sharply, and nudged the throttle forward, increasing speed as I steered as if to ram them. Held the course steady, seeing the boat’s size inflate…seeing Augie’s profile up there high above us on the flybridge, Oswald, too…seeing Augie turn, finally noticing us…watched Augie begin to wave both hands frantically…

“Doc?”

I said, “Just wanted to get his attention,” as I turned hard to the right, plenty of room to spare, then banked left toward the Viking’s stern. I backed the throttle, slowing for the seven-foot wake rolling toward us…powered up one side of the wave, then surfed down the other. Turned hard to port once again…so that we were directly behind the slow-moving Viking, matching her speed.

We followed for less than a minute before Jeth said, “Don’t you wish Javier could see this? Man, I wish I had a camera.” A smile in his voice for the first time in weeks.

Yes, Javier Castillo would have enjoyed seeing what we were seeing.

Bern Heller and Moe were both aboard, sitting miserably in twin fighting chairs on the stern. Both of them seasick—their pallid, glazed faces unmistakable. Too sick to notice us right away.

Jeth said, “Maybe you should sound the horn to get their attention. We gotta let them know we’re seeing this.”

“Wait. Let’s see what happens.”

A lot happened. Very soon.

We watched as Moe’s cheeks bulged suddenly. His expression was a combination of surprise and confusion. What should he do? He lunged for the transom but not in time—unfortunate for Heller, who was downwind.

Moe vomited. Wind caught it.

It took Bern a confused moment to realize what had happened. He touched fingertips to his face, sniffed… then shot Moe a murderous look before he, too, lunged for the transom.

On the flybridge, Augie was motioning for us to go away, leave them alone. He looked pissed off, frustrated.

I told Jeth, “See? There’s your answer.” Then explained that a guy with Augie’s ego, if he’d found the wreck, would have been pumping his fist, a knee raised. Or giving us the finger, at the very least. No matter how sick his crew was, Augie would have done something to tell us he’d won.

“They may have looked for your wreck, but they didn’t find it,” I told him.

“It kinda makes sense,” Jeth said. “But I’ll bet they were looking for it. Doc? We need to get out there. Soon.”

We didn’t linger in the Viking’s wake. Bern finally noticed us. Eyes wide, he stumbled into the main cabin where his gear must have been stowed, and came out waving something…Jesus, a long-barreled pistol. He gave us the same look of rage he’d flashed Moe—murderous.

“That guy’s crazy,” Jeth said.

I said, “Oh yeah, certifiable. He’s got demons.”

I pointed the Maverick’s bow toward St. James City.

14

Returning alone from St. James City, I slowed to an idle as I approached the marina basin. Because his dinghy was tied off the stern, I knew Tomlinson had returned to No Mas, the Morgan sailboat that’s been his home for years. It floated water light on the bay, a gray shell attached to its own mirror reflection, a mesa of bare mangroves behind.

No Mas was a safe, familiar presence among the storm wreckage. Tomlinson had just rigged a new mooring anchor—a buoy chained to a submerged engine block not far from the docks. The storm had taken the previous one, and it was good to see the boat near her old spot.

People who live on boats tend to be nonconformists, often weird—especially sailors—and Tomlinson’s about as unusual as they come. He’s one of those rare beings who can wear bizarre clothes, say outlandish things, roam the docks with blazing van Gogh eyes while conversing with imaginary spirits, yet he still exudes a bedrock dependability and decency. He’s commonly described as “genuine” by people who love him but can’t figure out why.

The word applies. Normalcy requires varying degrees of pretense. We all create facades of one type or another. I have built my own walls high. But Tomlinson’s incapable. Genuine. That’s him.

The man wasn’t wearing bizarre clothing now—except for the Kilner goggles. Otherwise, he was naked, sitting on the cabin roof. Singing, too, judging from the way his head was tilted, mouth wide. He looked like an animated skeleton, skin over bones, gaunt, like something lost too long in the desert. His Woodstock hair, salt- bleached, was given form by the goggles’ strap. The boat’s white fiberglass hull darkened his tan.

He saw me and waved me over. I wondered if he’d noticed that my aura had a little more spring in it after witnessing Bern Heller being seasick.

I waved and shook my head. I’ll stop later. There was something I wanted to do while it was fresh in my mind.

It is understandable that sudden change—change visited by a hurricane, for instance—causes us to reflect upon more subtle changes that give texture to our daily lives. As I approached the boat basin, I thought about friends who’d been scattered by the storm, and other friends who’d rallied because of it.

Captain Alex had taken the storm as an omen, left the charter boat business, and moved to Virginia to look after his aging parents. Sally Carmel sold her palatial home near Miami, and moved to Coconut, where she’d grown up, and where my uncle Tucker Gatrell once owned a ranch. Greg Nelson gave up his fishing schools, married Laurie, and was concentrating on being a chef. Gene LaMont, one of baseball’s managerial greats, postponed buying a new Sea Ray because of all the cleanup work, and also because his daughter Melissa was about to marry her sweetie, Clay.

The list was long, I realized, perhaps because the change was profound: A young lady I’d helped not so long ago, Shanay Money, had entered University of Florida law school, leaving her trashy father and family behind. The