Dark Cay

by Douglas Pratt

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Dark Cay

  Douglas Pratt

  Dark Cay is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Douglas Pratt

  Cover art by

  Ryan Schwarz

  The Cover Designer

  www.thecoverdesigner.com

  All rights reserved.

  1

  The antennae retreated under the coral head. Three swift kicks propelled me down to the seafloor. Twisting my body, I hung upside down in the water less than a foot above the sandy bottom.

  The water in the Grand Bahama Bank was as clear as it gets. The mid-morning sun cast dancing lights over the dark coral. A sea fan waved in the current at a passing four-eye butterflyfish. The end of my spear pole slipped under the jagged outcropping. I coaxed the Spanish lobster from his hiding place. When it emerged warily into the sunlight, I caught it behind his antennae. He slipped easily into the bag, hanging off my weight belt with the smaller lobster I caught only minutes earlier. Neither were large, but they’d make a good dinner with enough leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

  Looking to the surface, I felt the burn beginning in my chest, begging for air. The timer in my head told me I had been down for almost four minutes, give or take a few seconds. A red lionfish swam along the small reef about ten feet from me. I considered if I could spare a few seconds to take a shot at the invasive species.

  Grasping the rubber band that hung off the end of the spear pole, I pulled the rod back and clasped it higher up on the metal spear. I aimed and released my grip. The spear pole whipped through the water, missing its mark; the feathery fish nimbly darting away. I let out a burst of bubbles as I kicked toward the surface.

  I was irritated by my aim. It was rushed. Trying to set up the pole and fire in just a second or two wasn’t proving to be effective. I like a speargun for those quick shots, but the regulations in the Bahamas call for no spearfishing with spearguns or the use of scuba gear. It’s a smart law that prevents sports divers from devastating the fish population of the islands.

  Unfortunately, that red lionfish would survive another day. While the lionfish is a tasty fish, it’s also as dangerous to the reef as the over-fishing. The venomous fish appeared in the 80s and 90s, likely from an aquarium. The decades since have allowed their numbers to grow. The lionfish will prey on the other native species with no abandon. Their invasion has prompted the lionfish to become a no-limit bounty in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, the efforts to reduce their numbers in these waters hasn’t been able to stop them.

  My head burst through the surface. The sun was directly overhead, and the light was bouncing off the water at every angle. Squinting and turning in a circle, I found I was only a few feet from my dinghy. I pedaled my feet toward the 10-foot wooden boat.

  The hard-chined boat was rotting in an old man’s yard when he passed away. A regular at the bar I was working at pointed me in its direction. The wood was mostly solid, but she needed a lot of love and a few leaks repaired. After a bit of horse-trading with the old sailor’s widow, I replaced a couple of the stringers and reinforced the transom. The total restoration took me a few weeks. Once the boat was water-tight, a good two days of sanding and sealing left me a beautiful canvas to paint. The hull was a deep blue with white gunwales. The inside was all white. The name Beth was painted in bright red letters on the bow. Most people assume it was an homage to some woman in my life, but the truth was I was a fan of KISS.

  My right thumb slipped behind my ankle and pulled the strap back on my fin so that my foot could slip out. When I had them both removed, I slung them into the dinghy. The rope ladder I used to climb back aboard was a homemade contraption that kept the boat balanced while I hauled myself into the dinghy. Two ropes stretched under the boat and hooked to the opposite gunwale, so my weight on the ladder would simultaneously pull at both sides.

  As soon as I pulled my mask and snorkel off, I grabbed the bottle of water I left tied to the stern and floating in the water. The trick kept the bottled water from heating up in the sun. The cool water washed the salt from my lips.

  I brushed my wet hair back and off my forehead. The outboard motor fired to life. I hoisted the anchor off the sandy bottom and stowed it in the anchor locker, one of the only small additions I made to the boat.

  Carina was anchored half a mile north of me. She was picturesque, floating on the blue water with a few low hanging clouds in the background. To the east of my Tartan 40-foot sailboat was the newly formed cay. The growth of rock and sand rose from the ocean last year after two hurricanes, only weeks apart, dredged the shallow waters of the Grand Bahama Bank. The desolate island was only 120 square feet, and if a palm tree ever decided to grow there, it would resemble every cartoon depiction of a deserted island ever drawn.

  The waters around the cay were teeming with sea life. Tiny reefs like the one I was just snorkeling were scattered around the area. Rays, turtles, and loads of reef sharks showed up every day. There wasn’t an inhabited island within 20 miles. I was making two or three snorkeling excursions every day, and my spear pole was helping me fill the refrigerator with seafood.

  A couple of cruising friends of mine told me about it last month, and I knew I wanted to visit, if for no other reason than the extreme isolation. The first day I was here, a small pod of dolphins started a feeding frenzy 20 feet off my bow. After that, I knew I was going to enjoy this particular anchorage.

  For two weeks, the only thing on the horizon was the little island until a Beneteau showed up one day.

  The 50-foot sailboat arrived at dusk, and I was surprised to see the little anchor light in the dark. We greeted each other over the radio, but that was the only contact we had.

  Aiming the bow toward Carina, I motored back. The wind was coming out of the east, and it was creating a slight chop in the water. Keeping the speed down, I was able to rise and fall on the crest of each wave smoothly.

  My concentration was disrupted when a high-pitched whine sounded, and I released the throttle on the 10 hp outboard. My first thought was the outboard was making an odd noise. With the motor only idling, I could distinguish two engines screaming over the surface of the water.

  I searched for a second before I saw two large cigarette boats racing toward the Beneteau. They were too far away to tell what kind they were, but both were longer than Carina. The two boats were moving fast, and they only backed off at the last second. This isolated anchorage was getting crowded. Maybe the peace had ended, and it was time to pull anchor and head south.

  Th
e bow nudged against Carina’s hull. I tied the painter, the line attached to the bow of the dinghy, to the aft cleat. When I’m at anchor, the easiest thing during fair weather is to secure Beth and let her float aimlessly. Tossing my gear and fresh lunch into the cockpit, I grabbed the boarding ladder and climbed aboard.

  The engine noise died down as the two cigarette boats came alongside the Beneteau. Sighing, I was grateful that there was a return to quiet in my peaceful anchorage. Stepping down below, I grabbed a cold Pink Sands beer from the cooler and popped the top off it. Swallowing a gulp, I went back on deck to clean my lunch.

  The grill on the side stanchion was ready for me to light. Once I had the flames going, I positioned the lobster on the grates and lowered the lid. Once they were done, I’d shell them and make a lobster roll out of some sourdough bread I made yesterday.

  Leaning back on the cockpit seat, I closed my eyes and sipped my beer. The silence was again interrupted by one of the cigarette boat’s engines coming to life. My eyes opened and looked toward the three boats; three or four figures moved about the Beneteau’s cockpit. It appeared as though there was a struggle. Two men were dragging another into one of the speed boats. After a few seconds, the figures were all in both of the cigarette boats.

  The Beneteau was moving off its anchorage on a northerly heading. The two go-fast boats drifted away for a few seconds before each revved up and raced toward the east.

  The sails were all down on the Beneteau, and I couldn’t see anyone in the cockpit. Glancing at the sizzling grill, I went below and grabbed a pair of binoculars.

  The helm of the Beneteau was unmanned, but the captain could have gone below for a second. She was moving slowly at about five or six knots. I watched for a full minute with no one coming back on deck.

  My gut twisted. I reached over and cut the gas off to the grill; lunch would have to wait.

  Untying the painter, I dropped into the dingy. The little boat rocked as I balanced myself. Beth could make about 15 knots in this water. The choppy water meant she was bashing along. The outboard whirred every time the dinghy crested a wave and raised the majority of the motor out of the water.

  After a quarter of an hour of bouncing forward, I approached the Beneteau. The stern was a sugar scoop transom that was called that because of its resemblance to a scoop. The cockpit opened at the stern to a swimmer’s platform with a boarding ladder in the center.

  There was still no one visible on board. I shouted over the motor, trying to alert anyone below. No one appeared.

  I grabbed the looped end of the dinghy painter and closed the distance between Beth and Madge. When I was within an arm’s reach, I slowed the throttle. The tiller on the motor fought me as the displaced sea from Madge’s hull pushed the little dinghy away. I increased the speed so that I was out-pacing the Beneteau by a fraction of her speed. Holding the painter’s loop, I stretched my right hand out and grabbed the stanchion.

  My arm felt like it was being pulled out of its socket as it fought to pull the dinghy against the sailboat’s wake. I released the throttle and used my left hand to grab the railing. As soon as I did, I came out of the dinghy. My right hand released the rail and slipped the painter around the cleat.

  With the outboard only idling, Beth dropped behind. Luckily, the loop held my little boat. My feet were dragging the water, and I pulled myself up before I lost my grip.

  Once I got my feet on the deck, I climbed over the lifelines and dropped into the cockpit.

  The companionway was open. I peeked in and saw an empty cabin.

  I pulled my dinghy up alongside and secured her with a better knot.

  The cockpit floor was splattered with blood. Not enough to be life-threatening, but a substantial wound was inflicted.

  I followed the blood splatter around the cockpit to the companionway. The cockpit cushions were sprayed in dried blood.

  A severed finger lay on the deck.

  2

  Clicking from the helm caught my attention. The autopilot was compensating for a slight course change by adjusting the wheel a few degrees until the course was corrected. The waves pushed the bow starboard, and the helm moved to correct. The process was unending, especially while the Beneteau was under motor. The wind and waves cooperate differently when a vessel is under sail.

  “Hello,” I stuck my face in the companionway and shouted below. “Is everyone alright?”

  The only answer was the wind rattling the halyards. The Beneteau was chugging along at eight knots, according to the chart plotter. She was taking a northeastern tack that would take the vessel out of the Bahama Banks and into the Atlantic Ocean. The next landfall would be somewhere in Europe.

  The pit of my stomach was lead. That gnawing sense that everything I was seeing was wrong. That prescient anxiety was often on the nose. I learned to trust it.

  Pulling back on the throttle, I wanted to take the engine out of gear. The current began to push the hull as soon as the prop stopped turning.

  The winch handle, used for raising and adjusting the sails, was holstered in a canvas pocket under the depth gauge and anemometer mounted on the helm. I pulled the heavy handle free. The eighteen inches of carbon fiber felt weightless in my grip.

  That’s how things are made now. Light but effective. Manufacturers want life to be easy. Make everything seem simple; make it cheap; make it idiot-proof. Electric windlasses and winches make sailing effortless. Don’t worry when they break, we have a newer model for less than a grand. Old-time sailors got by with the stars and their brawn. Now, a 12-year-old can handle everything on a boat. Every year, the record is broken for the youngest person to circumnavigate until one year, it will be a fetus voyaging along, its brave journey documented on one social media site or another.

  The feather-light handle did its job; I felt a bit more confident as I stepped through the companionway. The cabin below was in disarray. A stainless-steel French press rocked back and forth on the galley counter—the black pool of coffee ran one way before turning back with the next wave.

  My feet splashed onto the sole of the cabin. Three inches of water was covering the floor; the gurgling of water echoed off the bulkheads.

  That lead brick in my stomach just got heavier. I found the instrument panel over the nav station. The bilge was off.

  When things go south on a boat, time is of the essence. There isn’t time to think or panic. It’s all about reaction. The right reaction.

  My first instinct, after turning on the bilge, was to stop the boat. Scrambling back into the cockpit, I cut the engine. The forward momentum slowed, and in a few seconds, Madge would be subject to the will of the sea. The waves would push and shove the hull wherever they wished.

  That wouldn’t matter yet. The boat was still in the Bank, and while the water could get choppy, it was still shallow. An hour or two from now, she would have been subject to the Atlantic’s rage.

  The sea was still filling the cabin, and stopping that flow was now my priority. I was lucky. In all my time on boats, I had avoided breaking the main rule of boating: keep the ocean on the outside of the ship.

  Carina has three seacocks that can be opened to let water into the vessel’s system. They pull seawater into the head, the two sinks, the shower, and the engine’s cooling system. Beneteau’s would have a similar system.

  The problem with sailboats, even larger ones like Madge and Carina, is a lack of space. That means that all the systems are crammed in nooks and crannies.

  The engine room was the obvious choice. Even without the seacocks, there are ample places for water to come in. The obvious one was immediately evident. A hose was sliced into two pieces, and seawater was heaving from the hose. Closing that seacock, I stopped the water flow.

  The water pump on Carina was under the galley sink. Madge’s was the same. Another hose pulled loose from the reverse-osmosis desalination system. Close that seacock.

  The whir of the bilge was working on getting the ocean off the boat. The seacock in
the aft head was open, but the hoses were still connected to the toilet.

  Sloshing forward, I found the forward head. The shower was on, and I turned it off.

  Releasing a sigh of relief, I stood ankle-deep in the boat, wondering what the hell happened here.

  The boat lurched as a wave pushed it sideways. With the flooding hopefully under control, I climbed back on deck. The windlass that raised and lowered the anchor was wired for control from the helm. The depth gauge read 23 feet. I dropped the anchor. The digital read-out clicked off how many feet of chain were being fed out. When 40 feet were out, I stopped the windlass. That would give me enough scope to prevent too much rocking.

  Beth was still secure. She was drifting about ten feet off the stern of Madge. I glanced south to see Carina floating majestically against the blue backdrop. She made me feel better, just sitting there.

  Dropping back into the cabin, I couldn’t tell if the water was draining. The sound of the pump still filled the cabin. It was still doing its job, only needing time.

  The VHF radio was hanging from the nav station. The red and white wires were pulled free from the table. Someone didn’t want anyone to use it. I clicked it, but the display remained dark.

  It would take an hour or more to get back to Carina to use the VHF. The damage inflicted on this radio was minimal. Half an hour tops, I thought. If I can find a screwdriver and some electrical tape.

  Convenience is a weakness all humans have. Maybe it’s not convenience, but habit mixed with laziness. Every boat I have been aboard had a screwdriver in the nav table. It was the easiest place to stick something when the job was done. The screwdriver was the most used tool in the world. I make it a habit to pick up a set of cheap screwdrivers every chance I get. Any place I might use a screwdriver has a pouch that is attached out of sight with three or four varieties of straight and Phillips head. Most sailors weren’t that fastidious, although I consider it the extra effort to be lazy. I don’t have to go far to get what I need or to put them back.