Pursuing Chase

by C J Schnier

  Kelly blushed red and attempted to smooth out her hair.

  Frank kept laughing for a good minute or two before I started to lose my patience with the joke.

  “Ok, that’s enough Frank. Let’s get on with it huh?”

  “Ok, ok,” he wheezed, trying to get himself under control.

  Kelly and I both glared at him.

  “You two are no fun,” he said finally.

  “Maybe not, but our money spends. You said seven thousand, here it is,” I said, pulling the wad of cash from my back pocket and slapping it down on the cluttered desk.

  Frank’s face changed as soon as I put the money in front of him. The mirth and easiness faded away, replaced by extreme greed. He struck me as the kind of man who you did not want to get in the way of his money. His clammy and pudgy fingers clasped the wad of bills and thumbed through the stack.

  “It’s all there, I’ll have the boys put Paramour back in the water immediately. Do you have somewhere to stay or will you need to stay in our slip for the night?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Kelly said a little too quick, obviously ready to leave.

  “If we can’t get a mooring we will just anchor. Paramour has been out of her element too long as it is,” I added.

  “It’s no skin off my teeth,” he said with a shrug. “Where are yas headed now that she’s all fixed?”

  “I thought we might head across the Gulf to Mexico,” I lied.

  “Mexico huh? Well be careful, don’t go flashing around that money. You know, I think there's another CT-35 I heard of down that way. Some kid with one of those YouTube channels or something,” he said getting up from his chair.

  “That a fact? Maybe we’ll have to look him up when we get there,” I said as Kelly and I both stood up as well.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Hawkins,” he said shaking my hand. “I’ll just follow you out.”

  Kelly left first, but before I could step out of the door, Frank grabbed my arm. Startled I spun around and stared down at his concerned face.

  “What is it?” I asked, worry starting to creep into my mind.

  “Someone was wandering around asking about you two this morning. Said he recognized the boat,” he all but whispered.

  “Did they say who they were?” I asked.

  “No, just that he was looking for Chase and Kelly. Some beaner, a Mexican or Cuban, they all look alike to me. Of course, I told him I didn't know you, and that some drunk delivery captain had brought that boat in to be worked on. I’m not sure he bought it though.”

  “Shit. Thanks for heads up Frank,” I said as panic started to brew in my gut.

  “No problem Chase, just be careful out there in Mexico, or wherever you’re going.”

  “Will do! Now let’s get this old girl in the water so I can get out of this dump huh?” I said with false exuberance and trotted down the stairs, forcing myself to put a bounce in my step for appearance sake.

  Kelly was down by Paramour staring at me as I came jogging up.

  “What was that all about?” She asked, concerned.

  “Someone was asking about us this morning. I think it’s best if we get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “Oh shit. Do you think it’s the cartel?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to stick around to find out. Have you checked the weather at all lately?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the winds are dead until 1400 and then they’re supposed to blow from the West and Southwest for a couple of days,” she replied.

  “Nothing northerly? If we get caught out in the Gulf Stream with any kind of north wind, we’re going to be in for a rough ride.”

  The Gulf Stream runs north along the east coast of the United States at an astounding four knots. When the winds are out of the north and opposing the current, it can get nightmarish. All prudent cruising boats wait for a safe weather window to cross the Stream.

  The crossing from Marathon to Bimini was about 125 nautical miles. I estimated that it would take us roughly twenty-four hours to make the trip. A two-day weather window, if accurate, should be plenty. This was our chance to be free of the drug life and to disappear.

  “Ok, we’re leaving as soon as she hits the water,” I stated.

  “Sounds good to me,” Kelly said. “Here comes the travel lift now.”

  Both the Bahamian yard-hand and the skinny white dreadlocked one came over to help hoist Paramour back into the travel lift. Placing the straps was much easier with the boat out of the water, and they had her hanging in the air within minutes. They removed all the stands and blocks of wood, and then the travel lift operator maneuvered his load into place over the empty boat slip on the canal.

  Once Paramour was over the canal slip I started to breathe easier. The operator lowered her down to the water. I expected the winches to slip at any moment and for Paramour to tumble onto the concrete, but the whole operation went smooth. Island Boatworks might look like a dump, but Frank kept his equipment in good working order.

  When she was floating in the slip Kelly and I jumped aboard and threw the mooring lines to the waiting yard hands. I then went down below and checked to make sure that none of the new thru-hulls were leaking. The bilge was clean and dry, not a drop to be found. The yard guys certainly knew their craft.

  Secured and confident that we weren’t sinking, they then disconnected one side of both slings, letting them fall into the water before fishing them back out on the other side. Once the slings were put away, the travel lift backed up off the slip and I fired up the engine. As always, the ancient little engine came to life immediately. I gave it a few minutes to warm up and then nodded to Kelly.

  “You about ready to get out of here?” I asked.

  “You bet,” she replied.

  “Alright let’s go then.”

  The yard guys threw our lines off for us, and I motored us out of the slip and down the canal toward Boot Key Harbor. As we passed the waterfront houses and vacation rentals I couldn’t help but feel that we were being watched. Someone knew we were here, and I was willing to bet that they knew we were leaving too.

  My nerves were wound so tight that I couldn’t even see the beauty of the place. I was all business. We made the turn into the deeper water of the harbor. Pushing the throttle down farther, Paramour leaped ahead, sliding through the waters at five knots. We kept this pace until we had passed the marinas and docks and had cleared the entrance channel, turning to port at marker 2.

  We threaded our way through the handful of boats anchored outside the harbor. Once clear, Kelly and I raised sails. It always amazed me how fast she learned how to work the boat. We had spent a couple days working our way down to The Keys, but that was the only experience she had on the boat. Yet, to watch her haul on the halyards and winch them tight without any instruction, was mesmerizing. There was no fear in her, she learned how to do something, and she did it. Simple as that.

  With her help, we had all three sails flying in the peaceful breeze blowing from the west. I pointed Paramour east by northeast and let the wind take us away. Settled comfortably on our tack, Kelly went below and came back with two cold beers.

  “You look like you could use this,” she said holding one out to me.

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

  “That’s a sight to see right there,” she said pointing off our port stern.

  Marathon, its adjacent keys, and even the Seven Mile Bridge was slipping away, little specs of land and concrete shrinking and eventually slipping over the horizon of an impossibly blue sea. Ahead of us was empty calm ocean, behind us, a past we’d both rather forget.

  “Good riddance,” I mumbled.

  Chapter Six

  Bimini was not the introduction to the Bahamas that either of us expected. The island, situated only sixty miles from Florida, was much more developed and busy than we had expected. A sprawling and dull looking resort seemed to cover the entire south island, and expensive homes lined the channel all the way into the harb
or on the main island. Marinas and resorts dotted the shore, and boat traffic was more substantial than I would have ever expected.

  Despite the development and large population of boaters, we couldn’t help but be awestruck by the natural beauty. Fishing boats and dinghies zipped back and forth through the clear waters of the channel, many taking the chance to run outside the protection of the harbor to visit the nearly deserted neighboring islands or fish the rocks and reefs.

  The water was surreal, clearer than anything we had seen even in the Keys. The white sandy bottom reflected the sunlight until it looked like the sea glowed in the daylight, showing off the abundance of fish and wildlife. The bright sand also alerted me to any dangers lurking underneath the surface of the water. Tropical plants and palm trees swayed in the breeze, accenting the sugar fine white sand and eroded rock that made up this little spit of land in the ocean. Bimini was gorgeous, but we had come to the Bahamas to escape civilization and to hide. The sooner we cleared in with customs, the sooner we could find a cove on a quiet deserted island and relax.

  Several cruising boats were anchored outside of the protection of the harbor, mostly on the southern tip of South Bimini. Kelly and I considered doing the same and using our new dinghy to zip into shore to clear customs. My charts pointed out the approximate location of the Customs office, but with no knowledge of where we could safely dock to access the shore and the fact that we were both tired from the crossing, we decided to pony up the cash for a night in a marina.

  Several minutes were spent in search of the quarantine flag, a small solid yellow flag that must be flown when entering a country from another. It is taken down and replaced with the national flag of the country being visited once the boat and crew clear customs and permission has been granted to enter the country. I found my courtesy and quarantine flags stuffed in a bin under the starboard settee, moldy from disuse. After raising the quarantine flag on the starboard spreader flag halyard, I piloted Paramour towards the entrance of the channel against a significant tidal flow. While we were motoring into the channel, I had Kelly contact the Bimini Bluewater Marina to inquire about a slip.

  Bluewater was my first choice of marinas, it was extremely close to customs and immigration. Even better than its proximity to Customs, it was near the entrance to the channel, meaning we could be underway and back out to sea in a hurry. After several attempts at hailing the marina on the radio, they responded that they had space for us. As we approached, a dark Bahamian dressed in a light blue polo with khaki shorts met us at the dock to help us catch lines.

  “Welcome to da Bahamas, Arthur Mosley at your service,” he said with a sweeping hand gesture once Paramour was secured.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mosley! My god, it’s so stunning here,” Kelly replied stepping onto the dock. “But you must get that all the time.”

  “No prettier place on earth miss. And please, call me Arthur,” he said smiling, flashing a set of pearly white teeth. “Will you be clearing in with customs as well?”

  “We will,” I confirmed. “But, I’m not sure what all we will need, neither of us have been to your lovely country before.”

  “Never fear, we are well equipped to take care of all da paperwork here at da Bimini Bluewater Marina. If you bring your boat’s paperwork, we can get both da slip and da clearance paperwork taken care of immediately,” he said.

  “Of course, just let me grab it real quick,” I said, climbing down the companionway stairs into the stagnant hot air of the salon.

  All of Paramour’s legal paperwork, her registration, radio license, and Coast Guard documentation were in one folder that I kept in a drawer behind the port side settee. With the folder in hand, I looked around the salon. We had done an excellent job of securing anything loose in the cabin, but as it always seemed to happen after any sail, there was a tinge of untidiness. I hoped that customs would not mind if they came aboard to search the vessel.

  Bounding up the stairs and back into the relative coolness provided by the gentle island breeze, I couldn’t help but smile at the scenery. I patted my back pocket to make sure my wallet was there and stepped onto the sun-grayed wooden dock to follow Kelly and Arthur who were already halfway to the little white and blue marina office standing just on shore. A blue sign with white letters proudly proclaimed “Home of the Hemingway Tournament” over one window. Tiny compared to the two marinas that bordered it on either side, it was precisely the kind of place I preferred. Unassuming and convenient.

  Arthur led us into the office and walked us through the several pages of paperwork required to clear into the country. He informed us that we had been smart to get a slip for the night. Apparently, Bimini had recently changed their procedures for clearing in, and the paperwork must be procured from a marina and completely filled out before arriving at the customs office. He also informed me that I would have to go alone to the customs office, as technically only the captain was allowed to go to shore before clearing in. Seeing as it was so hot, he allowed Kelly to relax in the air conditioning while she waited for me.

  Paperwork filled out, and in hand, I paid Arthur for the slip before he ushered me out the door and sent me on a short five-minute walk to customs. The customs building turned out to be a faded pink and white concrete structure that made a vague attempt at impersonating governmental architecture. The pastel colors and bizarre design made it nearly impossible to take the building seriously. The no-nonsense officials inside however reminded me that looks can be deceiving.

  Arthur had done his job well, and our paperwork passed a scrutinizing review from a humorless customs agent. I handed over our passports, which were stamped and returned to me once I paid the $150 entry fee. On her documentation papers, Paramour was just under thirty-five feet, which kept us in the cheaper entry fee bracket. Over thirty-five would have cost us $300. I was just glad the U.S. Coast Guard doesn’t count bowsprits in their vessel lengths.

  The $150 fee granted us a three-month cruising permit, fishing license, and permission to travel the island chain at will. We also had the option to extend the visa for another three months if we chose. We had officially arrived. No boat inspection, no big hassles, and no fuss. It was all quite convenient. Mission accomplished, I wandered back to the marina, dodging chickens and golf carts in the street.

  Kelly and I spent the rest of the day relaxing and preparing for our trip to the more remote out-islands of the Abacos and Exumas. Bimini, like Marathon, was a cruising crossroads. Once whoever was looking for us back in Florida saw that we were gone, it wouldn’t take much imagination to figure out our most probable destination. With direct flights out of South Florida to Bimini, it was possible that they had beaten us here. I didn’t want to make it too easy for them to find us and decided that we should leave first thing in the morning.

  Despite its unassuming looks, Bimini Bluewater Resort was not exactly the most inconspicuous place to hide. Located in the middle of Alice Town, one of Bimini’s most developed neighborhoods, we felt exposed. Worse, even in a busy crossroads such as this, Paramour stuck out of the crowd. While there were many beautiful cruising yachts and even some classics with similar lines, Paramour was such a rare boat that she couldn’t help but be noticed. Anyone who knew what they were looking for would spot her in an instant. Several people stopped by and asked about her before the sun mercifully set, giving us some anonymity. We couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  Instead of enjoying the nightlife and beauty of Bimini, we decided to stay on Paramour, top up her diesel and water tanks from the adjacent fuel dock and made sure to lock the hatch before we went to bed. Just before first light, I cranked up the old Volvo and Kelly and I motored out of the harbor amidst a fleet of center console fishing boats loaded with throngs of high paying tourists. Each one with high hopes of catching fish and perhaps even a memory of their vacation.

  Dawn broke golden yellow, the sun rising fast from the uninterrupted watery horizon. A gentle two-foot swell and a perfect light south wind greet
ed us as we exited Gabriel Channel into the Atlantic Ocean. Hoisting all sail I pointed Paramour southwest, beating into the wind for over an hour before tacking to pass through the deep water pass of Barnett Harbor.

  Being on the run from the cartel meant that we would have to pass up visiting many of the famous locations near Bimini and the other population centers in favor of the more remote islands. Passing through Barnett Harbor we could see the rotting hulk of the Sapona, and it pained me that we couldn’t stop.

  Its rusting concrete and steel skeletal remains tower upwards from the clear sea, reaching for the sky, monolithic against the vast emptiness. The Sapona is a favorite tourist attraction in the area and promises spectacular snorkeling opportunities. An opportunity that we would have to pass on for now. Instead, for us, it was a grim reminder of what could happen to Paramour if we let down our guard. We passed the shipwreck to our port, still with full sails and heeled over twenty degrees, racing along at six knots. Kelly steered while I kept a sharp lookout for shoals and rocks.

  Leaving the Sapona in our wake, we turned southeast, passing Gun Cay with its tiny white and red lighthouse to starboard and then both North and South Cat Cay. We then turned dead east, flying across the shallow Great Bahama Bank headed for Great Stirrup Cay in the Berry Islands, seventy-five nautical miles away. Seventy-Five miles to freedom.

  Chapter Seven

  Our arrival at Little Stirrup Cay coincided with a huge Royal Caribbean Cruise ship. We anchored off the southwestern tip of the island and watched the behemoth disgorge its passengers. Thousands of tourists invaded the island’s perfect white sandy beaches like an army invading a hostile country.

  Umbrellas were planted like flags in the sand, and the surf was filled with the shrill squeals of women and the hearty laughter of men. Generic reggae and beach music wafted on the breeze, reaching even us far out at anchor.