by Matthew Rief
Reaching to the inner part of my right ankle, I slid out my dive knife. I held the guy as steady as I could, then reached and slashed at the nylon strap. On the second try, the tough fabric snapped free, and he bobbed up with the next wave.
I sheathed my knife, wiped the water from my eyes, and coughed as I grabbed and pulled him up onto the board.
“Hang in there, man,” I said, patting him on the chest. “You’re gonna make it.”
I turned us around and paddled with everything I had left away from the shallows. The board wasn’t designed for two, so I shifted back so that only my upper body was out of the water and kicked like hell.
By the time I made it back to the Robalo, I was exhausted. But I fought through it and helped Jack lift the big unconscious guy out of the water. It wasn’t until we had his body over the side and onto the deck that I realized he had a deep gash in his left thigh. Blood flowed out and quickly pooled on the white fiberglass.
“Michael!” the woman shouted hysterically. She was still bleeding herself, though not as bad.
We propped up the guy and ignored his bleeding leg at first. I brought my head in close, hovering my ear over his mouth. He wasn’t breathing, and his face was a dangerous shade of purple.
“Is he going to be okay?” the woman said, hovering over him.
The truth was that I didn’t know. How could I? I didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious; didn’t know how long he’d gone without breathing. Five minutes was all he had from the moment he’d stopped. After that amount of time, lack of oxygen causes irreversible damage to the brain. At six minutes, death is nearly certain. But I’ve learned that when focusing on the future, optimism is usually the best lens.
I checked his pulse. It was weak, but there. He was still alive.
“Yes,” I said.
But the clock was ticking on his life. I could feel it. Every second that passed made his resuscitation less and less likely.
I quickly went to work. Grabbing the guy’s head, I tilted it to the side and propped his lower body up to drain the water from his mouth. Once the water flowed out, I straightened his head and pressed down into his chest at a steady rate, letting the chest rise completely between compressions. After I reached thirty, I hovered my ear over his mouth again. Still not breathing. I opened his airway by tilting his head back and lifting his chin. The woman cried frantically, and Ange had to hold her back. My heart was pounding, but I needed to stay focused.
I pinched his nose, then gave him two quick breaths, watching his chest rise. Then I did another set of thirty compressions. Still nothing. Holding on to a thread of hope, I performed the sequence again. Two breaths followed by compressions. On the twenty-eighth compression, seawater gurgled from his mouth. He coughed and gagged and struggled for air. I watched his life return, then let out a sigh of relief as his eyes shot open and he breathed frantically.
“It’s alright,” I said, pressing a hand against his shoulder. “You’re alright.”
He coughed up more water and gathered himself. He’d been an inch away from death but had come back.
I moved away from him, and Ange let go of the woman. She fell over him and hugged him, tears streaking down her face. Ange hugged me, and we went to work on his leg. I had a small first aid kit aboard and we bandaged it up as best we could for the time being.
“Thank you,” the woman cried. She hugged me as well.
Still in an intense zone of focus, I helped Jack strap down the boards, then he darted to the helm. Even though the man was breathing and coherent, it was important for us to get him to a hospital as soon as possible. There was a good chance that he still had water in his lungs, which could prove problematic or even fatal if not cared for properly.
I called the emergency number for Fisherman’s Community Hospital in Marathon. After telling them the situation and requesting that they have an ambulance meet us at Marathon Marina, I ended the call. Jack quickly accelerated us to the Robalo’s top speed of just over forty knots.
“Hold on!” he shouted as he piloted us over the rough seas, heading toward the shore.
We propped ourselves up against the front of the windscreen and helped stabilize the two drowning victims. Ange attended to the woman’s cut while she continued to cry and apologize.
“It’s all my fault,” she said, throwing her hands in her face. “I wanted to go out on a kayak. On our way back, we were exhausted fighting the wind. Then a wave knocked us off the boat and we lost it in the current.” She gazed her tear-filled eyes at Michael, then added, “He said it was too rough, but I wanted to. I—”
“Hey,” Ange said. “It’s alright. It happened and we’re gonna get you both to safety.”
She cried more and hugged the guy tight.
“Thank God for you both,” she said.
We held on as we bounced violently up and down, rocketing toward the shore. Jack kept his eyes forward, his face focused. My beach bum friend was usually more relaxed than a sea snail, but he could pull it together and man up with the best of them when he needed to.
When we bounced into the harbor and pulled up to a long wooden dock, Michael was still delirious from the ordeal. I spotted an ambulance parked beside the dock. A pack of EMTs were wheeling a stretcher down the planks, ignoring the strong winds and splashing spraying waves.
I hopped onto the dock and tied us off, and we carefully loaded Michael from the boat onto the stretcher. It happened in a blur. I gave the EMTs a two-sentence rundown. Before we knew it, he was being carted off, with the frantic woman keeping up beside them.
I watched until the ambulance drove out of view, then climbed back onto the Robalo. Staggering for the stern, I plopped down onto the aft bench seat and let out a long exhale. I was soaking wet and tired, and my shorts were bloodstained.
Jack grabbed a hose from the dock, brought it over to the Robalo, and washed the pools of red off the deck.
Ange walked over and sat beside me, catching her breath as well.
“Yeah, I feel ya, both,” Jack said, cutting off the hose and leaning against the cockpit. He looked over his shoulder, toward a cluster of structures hugging the water to the east. “As much as I love Ange’s snacks, I think a hot meal’s in order. After hours of surfing, then playing lifeguard, I think we’ve earned it.”
FIVE
After a short boat ride deeper into Boot Key Harbor, we tied off in front of Captain Mac’s Restaurant. I grabbed a few towels and we dried off before throwing on T-shirts and stepping onto the dock.
Like many restaurants in the archipelago, the place was conveniently located right on the water. It was nestled between the main marina buildings and pool on one side and a small hotel on the other. The place had a big deck with a thatched palm roof. It was a great place to spend an afternoon or a fun evening, when the weather was good.
The sky was clearing, allowing glimpses of the sun’s rays, but the wind remained steady, so we opted for an inside booth with a large glass window that gave us a view of the docks and harbor.
I asked the waitress to bring over a pitcher of water and a pot of coffee, then plopped down onto the cushion and let out a deep breath. My adrenaline was finally starting to wear off from the ordeal. The unfortunate guy’s life had hung in the balance for a few intense minutes, and I was glad we’d been able to revive him. I took in another calming breath. It felt good to relax after the long and eventful day we’d already had.
The waitress brought our drinks and I quickly downed two glasses of water and a mug of coffee.
“You alright, Hasselhoff?” Jack said.
I chuckled. “Just tired and dehydrated. Nothing these can’t fix.”
I raised the mug and glass, then drank some more of each. I could feel the caffeine coursing through my body. It felt good. The warm beverage was just what my body needed.
We looked over the menu and ordered.
While waiting and trying my best to ignore my grumbling stomach, I looked out through the window and w
atched the goings-on in the marina. I spent most of my time at Conch Harbor Marina in Key West, where I moored my boat, so it was fun to take in a different scene. Every marina in the Keys seems so different, and yet so similar at the same time.
There was everything from million-dollar yachts to small sailboats long past the golden years of their lives. With the strong wind, there wasn’t a lot to see. A few people lumbering about. A guy spraying down his deck here, a group hauling their catch onto the dock there. It was normal life in the islands.
It’s tough to beat eating at a marina, I thought. Food, a view, and always good people watching.
It wasn’t long before the waitress returned, balancing a full tray. She smiled as she set each plate down in front of us, though her smile couldn’t match ours. We’d ordered only appetizers, a thing we liked to do when everything sounded good and we were really hungry. The succulent small dishes always came out quicker than the main course items.
My mouth watered as I looked upon the assortment of food. There were plates with bacon-wrapped shrimp, mahi reuben, cheeseburger sliders, oysters on the half shell, clams in garlic butter, steamed shrimp drowned in Old Bay, and a large pile of their fresh hand-cut fries. We were in island cuisine heaven.
Having properly hydrated ourselves, we ordered a few cold Paradise Sunset beers to wash it all down and to help take the edge off. The combination of sweet, salty, fried, and fresh seafood was ecstasy for my taste buds.
I slumped back into my chair after a particularly delicious bite. The food was so good that I had to force myself to take it easy, to savor each bite and not scarf it all down like a hungry puppy.
When we finished, Jack went to use the head and Ange leaned in closer to me. She was wearing a T-shirt that was a few sizes too big for her and damp. She also had on a pair of torn denim shorts and a faded Rays ball cap. But that didn’t matter with Ange. She always looked amazing.
Smiling and batting her vibrant blue eyes at me, she said, “It was cool watching you today.”
I laughed. “I was a little out of practice. Been a while since my weekend surf sessions in San Diego.”
“That’s not what I meant, though that was fun to watch as well.” She paused a moment. “I meant watching you save that guy.”
I shrugged. “Wasn’t a big deal. Most people would’ve done the same.”
“Most people would’ve tried, but you made it look easy.”
“Well, thank you. I’m glad I made it look that way.”
Ange laughed. “Your attempts at modesty are futile, Dodge. You ever miss it?”
I shook my head. “Miss what?”
She took a long pull that polished off the rest of her beer, then wiped the residue from her mouth.
“That was our first taste of real excitement around here in six months,” she said. “I know you love living here, but it seems like you miss the action. I can see it in your eyes. Most people scurry or duck for cover or call for help when trouble comes. But you light up and face it head-on.” She wrapped an arm around me and kissed my cheek. “Something I’ve always loved about you.”
“Look who’s talking, Ange. You don’t exactly hesitate yourself.” I took a sip and added, “And I do miss it. But the moderation is nice. Plus, we’ve been occupied with other tasks lately.”
She nodded. “Yes, we have,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Getting close now.”
Back in August, we’d saved a fifteen-year-old girl named Scarlett after she’d been abducted by sex traffickers. Ange and I had taken a strong liking to her and had eventually decided that we wanted to adopt her. Though she only had a few years until adulthood, we hoped to do what we could to set her on a positive course.
We were in the homestretch of the long adoption process—just a few months away from being able to make her an official part of the family. We were both excited, but also a little scared. We’d both gone after some very bad people in our lives without a second thought. But being a parent to a teenager? We knew that would be a whole other adventure entirely.
After lunch, we hopped back aboard the Robalo and motored home to Key West. The wind died down a little and the sky opened up even more. By the time we made it back, the skies were more blue than gray. Even being a crummy winter day by locals’ standards, it was in the low seventies and a paradise compared to what most of the country considered crummy. Especially for the month of February.
We stored the Robalo in the boathouse along the channel in our backyard. After unloading, we helped Jack take the surfboards and gear back to his Jeep, which was still parked in the driveway.
“See you at Pete’s tonight?” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Salty Pete’s was one of my favorite restaurants in the world. I’d celebrated my past two birthdays there, so it was becoming sort of a tradition.
“Wouldn’t think of going anywhere else,” I replied.
He smiled, gave us another hang loose sign, then drove out of the lot.
Never a dull moment with my beach bum friend.
SIX
Ange and I headed inside. We played with a restless Atticus for half an hour, then enjoyed a long hot shower. We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around the house. We tossed Atticus’s tennis ball in the yard, lounged in the hammocks, and played a few intense games of chess.
Growing restless after a while, we went for a run down along the waterfront. Skirting the edges of downtown, we passed by the southernmost point, then looped around Fort Zachary Taylor and back toward home.
Sufficiently warmed up, we did a thirty-minute workout in the space under our stilted house. I had a decent setup including a row of kettlebells, a pull-up bar, battle ropes, and a heavy bag. When the thirty minutes was up, we collapsed onto a rubber mat, our clothes drenched in sweat.
Eventually, we mustered the energy to head back inside. We shared another hot shower, then downed a few protein shakes. Then it was back to lounging in the yard. Ange was right. I did miss the action sometimes. But I smiled a big happy smile as I watched her and Atticus swing back and forth in the hammock beside mine. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a day.
Life was good.
At 2000, we climbed into my black Tacoma four-by-four and drove west. A few blocks from the rip-roaring Duval Street, we crunched onto a seashell driveway with just a few empty spots. Killing the engine, we hopped out and followed the sound of live music to the front door with a small sign above it that read Salty Pete’s Bar, Restaurant, and Museum.
Atticus trotted over to his usual spot under a gumbo-limbo tree to the right of the door. He liked hanging out there, watching passersby and greeting the occasional dog lover.
“I’ll have them bring you some grouper, boy,” I said, scratching the side of his head.
Ange and I headed inside. We were greeted by a bell, and the happy chatter of locals and tourists alike. The place was well renovated but retained its classic charm. Nets, old pictures, a large mounted sailfish, a few old helms, and various other island memorabilia covered the walls. Booths lined the sides; tables littered the middle. The place was well lit and smelled of freshly grilled fish, tequila, and cocktail sauce.
“Pete’s upstairs, you guys,” the floor manager, Mia, said moments after we stepped inside. The pretty dark-haired twenty-six-year-old handled the chaos of a busy restaurant like a pro.
We thanked her, then headed for the large wooden staircase at the back of the main dining area. The second story is the museum part, with rows of exhibits featuring artifacts from all over the Keys. Pete Jameson, the owner, had spent most of his sixty-something years exploring, fishing, and collecting every trinket he could get his hands on. I spotted the old sea devil out on the balcony as we walked toward the large sliding glass door.
He smiled and bounced toward us with the agility of a much younger man. Pete was slightly below average height, with a round belly, tan leathery skin, and a bald head. He also had a hook where his right hand used to be. He’d lost
it in a shark attack, or a scuffle with an alligator, or something like that. I didn’t really know for certain since the story often changed depending on his mood or how much he’d had to drink.
“Well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” he said in his rough but friendly voice as he brought us both in for a big hug.
He’d cleaned up a little, at least for him. He had on his finest T-shirt and a pair of blue shorts with just a few visible tears. And he only carried the slight stench of fish, instead of his usual overwhelming aroma.
Ange laughed. “We ate here yesterday,” she said.
“Well, at my age, everything starts to blend somewhat. Is there any… special occasion bringing you here tonight?” He grinned at Ange, then glanced at me.
“It’s Logan’s birthday, remember?” Ange said playfully.
“Oh, that’s right,” Pete said slowly. “It is your birthday today. How could I forget?” He shot me a sly look, and I raised my hands in the air.
“We’re just looking for a normal dinner, Pete,” I said. “Nothing crazy.”
He chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry kid. I wouldn’t think of embarrassing you.”
He motioned toward two empty seats that were saved for us, then sauntered to greet another group, leaving me wholly unconvinced.
We sat and ordered while a band finished setting up on the far side of the balcony. They were a new band, a reggae group from Jamaica who called themselves We Be Jammin. Three guys with dreadlocks and dressed in Rasta attire.
They kicked off the night just as our drinks showed up. They started with their own version of Damian Marley’s “Welcome to Jamrock,” then transitioned into a few originals. They were good, but I wasn’t surprised. Pete had a good ear for music.
As we enjoyed the drinks and music, Pete stood up to greet and usher a couple to our table. I recognized them right away as Key West’s mayor, Elijah Crawford, and his wife, Bernadette. Mayor Crawford was in his early sixties, with tanned skin, thinning gray hair, a clean-shaven face, and glasses. He wore Dockers sandals, shorts, and a green Hawaiian shirt.
