Neville, and the other fishing guides. It was because Bill Gutek, who’d been sent to Baileys for potato chips, returned with a dozen attractive, active women in tow. The women had stopped their bachelorette limo to ask Bill if he knew a place they could all dance, and maybe go for a late swim.
He’d led them through the marina gates, into Dinkin’s Bay, and then locked the gates behind him. Which is why all the men were cheerful, and why Bill Gutek was enjoying celebrity status that exceeded the status of owning a beautifully refurbished thirty-two-foot Island Gypsy trawler that had a massage table installed in the master cabin.
I was content to drink tea because the party had all the required elements for a long and memorable evening. It would still be going when I returned from Chestra’s, and timing was an important consideration. When I saw rain clouds, though, I threw my cup in the trash, and went to get my first beer.
I’ve been a water person all my life. It’s my work, and also a refuge. It represents safety. More than once over the years, locating water, escaping into water, has saved my life.
When the hurricane hit, though, water became a new enemy. The earth, the sky, even dust molecules were saturated with the stuff. It was inescapable, seeping into every dry and precious space. Each day, I battled a leaking roof, leaky windows, footpath quagmires, sinking boats, the water-enraged tempers of friends, and temperamental pumps, all the while aware that the incursion of freshwater into salt water was also killing the bay on which I live.
In comparison, the ten days prior to the storm, which I had spent in a foreign land, had seemed undemanding despite tumbling off a rock, and cracking my head open.
Almost undemanding.
At incremental spots around the docks, Mack’s crew had placed buckets filled with ice and bottles of beer. They’d added rock salt to the ice—a trick I’d taught them—because salt water freezes at thirty degrees, not thirty- two degrees, so bottles floated in an Arctic slush.
I plucked a bottle of Coors from a bucket, popped the top, and drank until I felt the first hint of brain freeze— refreshing on this wind-hot September night. Then I walked to a corner of dock where a shepherd’s crook lamp illuminated water.
The water was green beneath the yellow light, with just enough clarity so that I could see the head and jagged teeth of an alligator gar protruding from under the dock. The fish was as long as my arm. Alligator gars are commonly found in the Everglades. Strictly a freshwater animal, but here it was.
The gar was here because inland Florida and Lake Okeechobee were flooded. The Army Corps of Engineers was opening locks, dumping metric tons of storm offal, a chemical soup of fertilizers and poisons. Now the polluted mess had reached the sea, carrying freshwater exotics with it.
Usually, the Corps dumped the offal into canals that carried it to three different regions of the state. Lately, though, they’d been routing the entire mess to the west coast of Florida.
Criminal.
Because the water was murky, I couldn’t see a killing blue algae smothering sea grasses, but I knew it was there. I couldn’t see the oil-based pesticides and insecticides used by Florida’s sugar industry, and its thousands of golf courses, but I knew they were there, too.
Laws regulating the use of such chemicals, and the treatment of water, don’t anticipate catastrophe. Nor do they address the unyielding adhesive properties of three elemental atoms in union: H2O. Once joined, they will transport poisons as dependably as they transport surfers.
I remembered Tomlinson saying that a great storm was cleansing. Something about it exposing decay.
This water was the definition of decay. The contaminants it contained were killing the bay’s own natural filtration system.
Buffett was now singing about an over-forty pirate as I took a long, slow swallow of beer, and watched the gar. The fish was a few inches below the surface, in the shadow of the dock. I considered its armor work of scales, the reptilian head and lateral fins. It was pterodactyl-like. A primitive sniper, I decided, balanced on the edge of light, waiting for a target to appear.
The imagery became less fanciful as my thoughts transitioned to fresh memory: a lone figure beneath a desert sky, clothes acidic with the odor of horse and sweat. The weight of a rifle…the weight of elbow on rock. The firefly luminescence of a night-vision scope as the figure knelt at the edge of darkness—me, the lone figure, waiting for a target. Me, holding a weapon’s scope to my eye hoping to see a human profile appear from…
“Doc! Did you hear me?”
I was so deep in thought that I fumbled my beer and dropped the bottle. When the bottle hit, there was a suctioning sound created by the sudden displacement of water.
The fish spooked, its mouth wide in the yellow light. It displayed its teeth to discourage pursuit…
I turned. Jeth was standing in the shadows where the dock T-ed. Tomlinson was gliding up behind him, both men barefoot, their voices easy to hear now because the music had stopped.
From the distance, as Rhonda called, “What do you beach bums wanna hear next?”, Jeth told me, “I want to dive the wreck tomorrow; Javier, too. We don’t care what the weather is. Tomlinson agrees.”
I glanced to see my bottle do a cobralike descent into the murk. Normally, I’d have found a net and retrieved the litter. After riding out a category 4 storm, though, I watched the thing sink. I pictured it as a good habitat for some lucky octopus or lizard fish.
I looked at the streaming clouds above us, then at the thunderheads—lightning flashing in them now. “What about a boat?
No need to finish. The boat from St. James City was so old, its deck was springy as a trampoline. Javier had begged off, so Jeth had nursed the thing back to Dinkin’s Bay alone. We couldn’t take it.
“Bill said we could use his Island Gypsy. He’s not going to be in any condition for rough water tomorrow because of the girls he met, and I’ve let him use my boat lots of times. Javier’s looking for a boat, too, but we
I asked, “Javier’s looking for a boat to borrow? I hope so, because if he goes back to Indian Harbor he’ll be in jail again.”
“I’m sure he meant borrow,” Jeth said, but he didn’t sound certain.
Borrowing another person’s boat, I wasn’t wild about the idea. Both men were looking at me. I shrugged, and said, “The last I heard, it’s supposed to blow fifteen, twenty tomorrow out of the southeast. Anchor in that slop, then get in the water?”
“We don’t care, Doc. It’s better then letting someone else get out there first.”
That was true. I agreed to go, adding, “Here’s why—”
I explained what I planned to tell Jeth, anyway: my archaeologist pal from Key West had called. It was a brief conversation—he was en route to Madrid.
“In his opinion,” I said, “the state of Florida has no claim on your wreck because it’s twelve miles offshore— outside state boundary waters. There’s a federal statute, though, called the Abandoned Shipwreck Act. If we dive the wreck, draw some diagrams, and fill out the right forms, we can file a claim in federal court. That doesn’t mean we’ll own what we find. We’ll have to deal with the boat’s previous owner, or an insurance company, and try to come to some agreement.”
Tomlinson added, “If it turns out the boat’s owned by someone we can contact and get to agree to let us salvage the things, it’s not complicated.” He’d been in the lab when I got the call, Arlis Futch still jabbering away, and had agreed to do some research on admiralty laws. “Either way, it’s important we’re the first to dive it and bring up something, in case we need to file a claim. Salvage isn’t finders keepers. But that’s the way we need to approach it.”
“If someone else doesn’t dive it first,” Jeth said, meaning Heller’s bunch. “Maybe they’ll smarten up and use seasick medicine next time.”
I ’d also told Jeth I’d done preliminary cleaning on several more pieces. It wasn’t encouraging news, but I told him, anyway: There were some brass screws and a brass bolt. Nothing spectacular. There was also a bullet, a live round, which could be interesting once I got the brass clean enough to read the manufacturer’s stamp.
“Why’s that interesting?” Jeth asked, sounding disappointed. A couple of brass screws and a bullet?
