by C J Schnier
But it didn’t go far before it stopped and the bow took a sudden and unexpected turn into the dock. I flipped the throttles back to neutral and looked over the side. I had forgotten one line, tied to a piling on the port side.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I all but screamed, my heart racing in my throat. I raced down to the main deck to cast the offending line off. Taking a brief moment to make sure nothing else would stop me from leaving, I ran back upstairs and slipped the throttles into reverse yet again.
This time the boat did what it was supposed to and effortlessly glided backward until I was well clear of the dock. I slipped the throttles into neutral for a few seconds and then pushed them forward with a satisfying click. The large yacht slowed and then stopped backing up. A moment later it began moving forward. Reaching down I grabbed the mic for the VHF and switched it to channel 09.
“Boca Inlet Bridge, Boca Inlet Bridge, this is motor yacht Aquaholic,” I said into the mic.
Several moments passed as I slipped closer and closer to the bridge. Finally, a sleepy voice replied.
“Aquaholic, this is Boca Inlet Bridge, what can I do for you today, captain?”
“Aquaholic back, do you have any traffic coming through or on the Atlantic side of the bridge that you can see? I’d prefer not to meet anyone in that shallow inlet, over.”
“You’re the only one who has called me all night captain. There does look to be one boat near the jetty, but he is right over the shoal. Probably a fisherman, you should have a clear shot. Will you be needing an opening?” the bridge tender asked.
“No, I can fit under just fine without an opening, I just didn’t want to have any surprises once I got there. Thank you for the information, Aquaholic out,” I said and switched the radio back to channel 16.
Using the little GPS, I followed the prearranged track that we had made. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 0040. The tide would be falling. If I ran aground and couldn’t power the boat off, my boat thieving career would be over before it started.
Being extra cautious I kept the big yacht moving forward, keeping one eye on the GPS and one on the depth sounder. The depth alarm sounded, but the big boat never touched bottom, and we passed under the bridge without incident. Making the 90 degree left turn I followed the track out past the small jetty where there was indeed a small boat floating over the shoal just as the bridge tender had said.
The boat had the same basic shape as a center console fishing boat, but emblazoned down its side was the reflective words “Sheriff’s Department.” Time ground nearly to a halt as I idled past him. I was sure that at any second his blue lights would come on and I would be headed to jail. Instead, the deputy waved to me as I passed by, and forcing myself to look calm, I held my hand up in return.
Three hundred feet later the depth sounder read twenty-five feet and I punched the throttles forward. With an ear-piercing whine the turbos spooled up, and the colossal yacht leaped forward into the night. Now all I had to do was get up the Miami River before anyone noticed a missing superyacht.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Aquaholic sped through the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean leaving a trail of shimmering foam in her wake. I made sure to stay a half mile off the coast, far enough to allow for shallow water and close enough to reduce transit time as much as possible. The never-ending lights of metropolitan southern Florida slipped by at an astonishing speed. For such a large vessel, the yacht showed no signs of struggle at the high RPMs. Happy with her performance, I pushed the throttles all the way forward to their stops.
The boat leaped forward, moving even faster through the darkness. The run south was about thirty-five nautical miles, a distance that would take Paramour seven hours at her top speed. Aquaholic covered it in just over an hour. Occasionally, the VHF radio would squawk, and my heart would skip a beat, sure that my theft had been reported. But no report had come by the time I had swung a hard right and sped up the shipping channel towards the Miami River. When I was in the first large turning basin, I veered left and shot down the southern fairway.
Huge cranes attached to massive docks and gargantuan ships, all bathed in harsh yellow industrial lighting towered over me, covering the entire shore in a metallic and concrete jungle. Paying little heed to the massive accomplishments of industry, I let it all slide by as I continued to race past at breakneck speed, aware that these docks were also equipped with dozens of security cameras. A slight grin crept across my face and for a moment I allowed myself to indulge in an absurd fantasy that I was no longer living real life but instead starring in an episode of Miami Vice. All that was missing was a tacky linen suit and the large splayed collar of a silk shirt. Oh, and a case full of money.
Finally reaching the end of the industrial portion of the port, I pulled the throttles back and plowed my way to the entrance of the river. Immediately I was thankful for Aquaholic’s low bridge clearance. Bridges crossed the river every couple hundred yards, and most of them were little more than twenty feet tall. There was no way that Paramour would ever be coming up this river.
While most of the bridges were low, the yacht’s sleek design kept the openings to a minimum, and only a couple times did I have to wait for a sleepy bridge tender to open a bridge and let me pass. None of them seemed particularly concerned with the name of the boat, and no swarm of blue lights descended upon me. In fact, despite my nerves, the trip up the river was rather enjoyable. There had been no boat traffic to contend with, and the yacht handled the confines of the narrow river excellently.
Passing under the last bridge, I saw Valentine’s huge steel building sitting over the water, its bay doors open. A handful of people were milling about on the metal dock, one of which I could make out as Kelly. They all perked up when they saw the bow of Aquaholic heading toward them. Once the stern was clear of the bay doors, a man in a yellow hard hat shouted out to me to turn around and dock stern first.
There was not much room inside the building, but Aquaholic wouldn’t require much. I stopped her forward progress, shifted the port engine into reverse while moving the starboard one into forward. The colossal boat began to turn in a nearly perfect circle. I added a few short bursts from the bow thruster and had her lined up for a stern first docking.
Gingerly backing the boat straight astern, I brought her alongside the metal dock like I had driven the boat for years. The workers threw waiting lines around each of her cleats and had her secured in seconds, as the substantial bay doors groaned and crept shut, hiding us from prying eyes. Happy with myself, I gathered all of my supplies and stuffed them back into the dry bag before going down below and killing the engines.
When I stepped back out on deck, Kelly was waiting for me on the dock.
“You did it!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and down with excitement, “Valentine’s guy says that nobody has even noticed yet. There have been no notices from the police. You did it!”
“I got lucky then. That wasn’t the smoothest boat heist ever,” I trailed off, aware that my heart rate was finally starting to slow back to something approaching normal.
“It still worked,” she said, hugging me. “Come on, Valentine’s guy is over in the office. Let’s get paid.”
Kelly led me towards the back wall of the large building where a handful of shabby offices overlooked the operation. We climbed a set of yellow metal stairs and were met by an impeccably dressed man holding a leather briefcase. The man’s hair was slicked back and neatly trimmed. His navy blue suit stood out in such a stark industrial setting, and I couldn’t help but notice the gleam of silver cuff links as he shot his hand out towards me.
“Well done Mr. Hawkins, well done indeed,” he said with a beaming smile. “I have the agreed upon compensation from Mr. Valentine here in this suitcase. We are both most impressed with your abilities. Most impressed. Would you be interested in some future work perhaps? Mr. Valentine is always in need of dependable people.”
“Uh, I don’t know about that.
I’m sorry, but who are you?” I asked, taken aback by his enthusiasm.
“Oh of course, how rude of me not to introduce myself. My name is Ames, Harcott Ames. At your service,” he said with a slight bow.
“Mr. Ames,” I started after a brief pause, “boat theft is not really my strong suit. So if you don’t mind, I think we’ll just take our payment and be on our way.”
“Of course, of course!” he replied jovially, slamming the suitcase down on the nearest desk.
Harcott Ames fiddled with the combination for a moment before the latches opened with a metallic “Snick.” He opened the top of the case and spun it around so that it faced us. Kelly gasped, and even I had to take a second to appreciate the money laying before us. Arranged in perfect rows lay two hundred bundles of crisp $100 bills.
Willing my hand to remain steady, I plucked a couple of bundles from the case and flipped through them. I felt foolish and cliche thumbing randomly through the, but I expected that anyone used to this sort of deal would do the same. My previous feelings of living an episode of Miami Vice returned, and I had a moment to wonder how in the hell I ended up living this life.
“It’s all there I assure you. Of course, you can count it if you wish,” Ames said.
“It makes that money from the Keys look like chump change doesn’t it, Chase?” Kelly asked in a hushed and awed tone.
I just nodded my head in silent agreement.
Kelly and I took a few minutes to rifle through a few more bundles and make a count of them. There were, in fact, two hundred bundles, a cool two million dollars. That was it, we had done it, we could finally get the cartel off our backs. Replacing all the bundles, I snapped the lid shut.
“What’s the code?” I asked before spinning the little combination wheels.
“Why it’s Valentine’s day of course. 214.” Ames answered with a smirk.
“That should be easy enough to remember,” I said, scooping up the briefcase by the handle. “Now if you don’t mind, I believe Ms. Walsh and I should be leaving.”
“Of course,” he said good-naturedly, gesturing towards the door, “after you.”
I grabbed the suitcase by the handle and nearly fell over when I dragged it off the table. Two million dollars in cash weighed a lot. It almost felt like I was hauling a five-gallon jug of water.
Noticing my fumbling attempts, Ames smiled. “I should have warned you. Two million dollars and that suitcase weigh almost fifty pounds. So do be careful carrying it down the stairs.”
I thanked him for the warning and Kelly led us through the door and down the stairs. At the bottom, I paused and looked at Aquaholic and then back to Harcott Ames.
“Mr. Ames, I should tell you that there is at least one security camera on the boat with a wireless antenna. I’m sure there are others. You may want to disable that right away.”
“Not to worry Captain Hawkins, we will pick apart this whole boat before it is over with, and if it does transmit to an outside source, it will have a difficult time doing so in here. The building is shielded you see. Cell phones do not even work here. No signals get in, and no signals get out. Rest assured, nobody will find this boat until we want them to.”
“Just thought you should know,” I said, turning back to Kelly.
“Goodbye, Ms. Walsh, Captain Hawkins,” he said before turning around and heading to the back of the office.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Kelly said, grabbing my wrist to pull me out of the office.
Once outside the building and seated in the waiting BMW I turned to look at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Is it me, or was that just too easy?”
“Maybe you’re just good at being a criminal Chase. Ever think of a career change?”
Chapter Twenty Nine
“Hurricane Irma is plowing through the Caribbean, causing total devastation to Puerto Rico in a two-part assault; devastating 185 miles per hour winds and unrelenting pounding rains,” said the young reporter on the TV.
She was dressed in stereotypical yellow rain gear with waves crashing into the battlements of San Juan harbor. The storm had passed, but the skies were still slate gray. Destruction was visible behind her, but Puerto Rico had been spared a direct hit at least, the eye passing forty miles north of the island. Still, the damage was appalling.
“Jesus, Chase, look at that projected path, “Kelly said, starring in horror at the TV mounted in the outdoor kitchen, “it’s headed right for Florida. It doesn’t even look like Cuba will slow it down any. Half the islands in the Caribbean have been destroyed. We’ve got to evacuate, we have to get out of here. I don’t know if you’ve been through a bad hurricane but I was here when Andrew hit Miami, and trust me, this is not a place we want to be.”
“I know. We can’t stay here, but I can’t leave Paramour either. This damned storm’s projected path keeps moving. It’s like they don’t have a clue where this thing is going. Two days ago they had it going to the panhandle, yesterday it was up the east coast,” I despaired, more annoyed at the lack of an accurate prediction than the need to leave.
“Regardless of where it hits, and I’m sure we can agree it will hit Florida, we’re too far north. I just don’t see it missing us. It looks like the Keys are most likely going to get hit with a category five or at least a strong four. They can’t handle that, they’ll be wiped out completely, and we don’t have the time to run around to our home waters. Hell, even if we did make it back over to St. Pete or Bradenton, it could just as likely hit us there, and we certainly don’t have time to go hole up with Andy. He was smart for getting out of here when he did.” she said, pacing back and forth.
“Even Andy is going to be cutting it close to get up a river in time. We don’t have much of a choice. We have to go north, south and west are out, and so is east. Charleston maybe? We might still get hit, but we could make the trip pretty fast if we ride the Gulf Stream up. With any luck, the storm will go west and we’ll be fine. Worst case, we get hit, but Florida should suck up a lot of its strength,” I replied, knowing that we had no choice.
“What about Shark River? If we go back far enough, there are plenty of big mangroves.”
“We could do Shark River, but I’m willing to bet half the boats in the keys have already holed up in there. Besides, I’d rather take my chances running north than deal with those mosquitoes for a week,” I said with a chuckle, hoping to dispel some of the tension.
“Alright, let’s go north. But what about the cartel?” Kelly asked.
“They’ll just have to wait a few more days for their money. Besides, Charleston is basically my home turf, I’d feel a lot more comfortable making the exchange there than in Florida where they’re well established. For two million dollars they can make a short trip. We can let your uncle know and do the exchange there. But Kelly, you’re right, we’re running out of time. We should have left yesterday.”
“I say we go now then. The boat is packed, we have plenty of supplies, and the tanks are all full. There is no point in sticking around if we’re not doing the exchange. How long is this going to take? I’m all for saving the boat, but I don’t want to be stuck out on the ocean with that big-ass storm coming for us.”
“I looked on the charts yesterday, it is about four hundred miles. If we can stay in The Stream then we could make it in two or three days,” I said, knowing that I was giving her an optimistic estimate.
“That is cutting it close Chase, there’s no room for error,” she said, worry lying just under the surface of her sternness.
I sighed, torn by the need to make a tough decision. “I know.”
After a moment of silence, she looked at me. Panic started to betray itself on her face. “So, what are we going to do? Are we running in the boat or fleeing by land? We have to decide. Like right the fuck now!”
I glanced up at the TV, a graphic of the storm kept running in the bottom corner while scenes of destruction and devastation flashed on the screen.
This storm was no joke and our little foray into boat theft may have cost us too much valuable time.
Fight or flight. Do I roll the dice and run for Charleston, only to arrive a scant day before Florida was to be pounded by the worst storm to hit the US in over a decade. Or leave my dream, my boat, and my life to certain destruction in South Florida, but escape to safety with my love.
The first option carried with it the risk of death at sea, however, the second option seemed bleaker still. With no insurance policy and a two million dollar debt to a drug cartel, I’d be starting over with less than nothing. Being stuck on land, with no money was both terrifying and the only outcome of choosing safety. Despite all my feelings and adoration for Kelly, I knew deep down that I would always choose to save the boat if possible. But that did not mean I had to put her at risk too.
“I’m taking Paramour to Charleston, and I’m leaving right after I check the local weather. I can’t ask you to go with me, Kelly. If anything goes wrong I might not make it back to port,” I said at last.
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m going with you. What are you going to do, hand steer for three days? You’re exhausted as it is, staying up all night stealing yachts and all that. Get whatever you need, but I’m coming with you. Once we’re out in the ocean, I’ll take the first watch. And don’t argue with me, you may be the captain, but I’m your girlfriend, and that means I outrank you.”
I had opened my mouth to protest but closed it again as I stared at her, studying her determination and fearlessness that had stricken the panic from her face. Maybe I was wrong, for her, I just might give up Paramour.
I pushed that thought from my head just in case the boat was physic and listening. Like most mariners, I had certain superstitions about boats, and I always thought of them as living entities. Jealous, feminine, living entities. Very jealous.
“Aye aye, Admiral Walsh! We’ll be ready to leave within the hour. I’ll go over the weather reports. You call your uncle and let him know we have his money but we’re running for Charleston, and then we can both make sure everything is secure. Oh, and it may not be a fun passage. I plan to stay in the Gulf Stream as much as possible. We need to make as many miles as we can.”
