“Guys are always stepping over the guardrail and peeing off the back. Will could have done that, a wave hits the boat, even a small one, and he could lose his balance. It’s too easy. Like I say, the ocean wins.”
Lenny spoke but kept his eyes on the water. “So you knew he was gone when the Coast Guard called?”
“Yes. I felt the motion of the boat change, clearly the wind had shifted, so I was awake, and I heard the buzz, but Ron was sleeping in the galley and took it. I came out and he said something like the Coast Guard is saying Will’s in the water , and I jumped up on deck and there was no one there. Not a soul.” She seemed lost for a moment, maybe out at sea, maybe on that night. Then she snapped back.
“Let’s get this main up,” she said. “Grab a winch handle in that bag there,” she said to Lenny. He pulled a plastic handle from a mesh bag, and slotted it into a hole in the middle of a gleaming chrome winch. Amy turned the boat as he was getting in place and pointed us back toward the south, and I noted for the first time that the wind was coming from that direction, where it had definitely been coming out of the north the day Toxic Assets came home one short. Amy pointed the yacht into the wind and told Lenny to winch. He started winding the handle around, and the sail that was wrapped up on top of the boom reached skyward.
“Put some effort into it,” she said, and Lenny responded by winding harder, and the sail went up, up, up, until it hit the top of the mast. “Going round,” she said, and she turned the wheel and the yacht spun back toward the north, and the wind collected into the sail and it whipped across the deck, right above our heads, and I saw what she meant about getting hit by it. In the cockpit it went safely overhead. Up on the deck was a different matter.
“Trim the sheet,” she called to me, and I gave her a blank face like she had just said batter up to a Masai warrior. “The sheet,” she repeated. “The red one. Uncleat it and let it out.”
The red rope was wound in a figure eight around a cleat, so I unwound it, and as soon as I did the wind drove the sail out and pulled the rope through my fingers.
“Don’t let it go,” called Amy, calm but forceful.
I grabbed the rope and it slid through my fingers, burning me, until Amy pulled the wheel back and the sail flapped loose and the rope went lax.
“Use the winch to wind it back in,” she said. I found a winch handle like Lenny had used and I slotted it into the winch and turned, but the rope didn’t move. Amy leaned over and grabbed the tail end of the rope and pulled on it, then I wound again and it bit, and the sail stopped flapping. Amy pointed the yacht back up the Intracoastal and the wind pulled the boom back away from the side of the boat, but my rope stopped it going too far.
“Okay, now take hold of the sheet first, then ease it out.”
I did as I was told, and the boom eased out over the side and the sail opened flat against the wind that was coming from behind us. We seemed to stop moving.
“Feels like we’ve stopped,” I said.
Amy looked at the screen on the console beside her, and smiled. “That’s relative velocity. We’re moving with the wind and the waves, so it feels like our motion has slowed. In fact, we’re doing ten knots. ”
“Is that good?”
“Pretty good.” She smiled. “And it means the new telemetry is working.”
I frowned and she nodded toward the top of the mast. “We just installed new electronics on her. Upgraded GPS, vane.”
I nodded like this all sounded very nice, when in fact it all sounded like babble. But Amy looked pleased and Lenny looked like a Labrador with its head out a car window, so I figured all was good.
“So you think it was an accident. Will, I mean,” I said, slipping back into my seat.
“I guess. Yes.”
“You guess. What does that mean?”
She moved the wheel ever so slightly and glanced at me. “It never occurred it could be anything but an accident. A failure of procedure. But then Ron got arrested and it got me thinking.”
“About what?”
“Our heading.”
“What do you mean?”
“Heading. The direction we were sailing.” I must have given her another blank stare because she explained. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, right?”
I nodded.
“Except in sailing that’s only true if the wind is directly behind you. From any other direction the wind is partly driving you forward, but partially driving you to the side. You’re leeing. Imagine a river with current. To cross the river to a set point, you need to start upriver from that point because part of your motion will be across the river, but the current will be pushing you down river. You can’t go across in a direct line. ”
“Okay, I see that. So?”
“So the Gulf Stream is a current. Biggest current in the world. It’s like a river in the ocean. Water warms up in the Gulf of Mexico and off the coast of Africa, and is pushed through the Caribbean and meets up in the Florida Straights, and then it rushes up the east coast, south to north. The flow is driven through what is essentially a massive channel, between the Florida coast and the Bahama Banks.”
“So?”
“So like the river, you can’t cross the Gulf Stream directly. It pushes you north. If the prevailing wind is in the same direction, a southernly, then you have wind and current working for you and you can go very fast on a northerly heading. But if the wind is from the north, then it is going against the current.”
“And you go slow.”
“More than that. The wind against the current means big waves. Bad seas. Some of the worst. Crossing the Gulf Stream in a predominant northerly is a bad idea. Yachts this size sometimes wait weeks for the right window to make the crossing. East-west wind is hard. South is easy. North can be deadly.”
“So how was it blowing that night?”
“South, to southeast, as we came across the banks. Moving southeast as we got to the western edge of the bank.”
“So good?”
“Yes, good. Will made the call to keep going.” She pursed her lips.
“You wouldn’t have done that?”
“It was a judgment call. We had all been on for the best part of two days to race over to Nassau. We had a night partying in Nassau, and the plan was to take it easy going back. We were going to call in to the Biminis, moor there, get some rest. Everyone was very tired, and tired crew make mistakes.”
“But Will wanted to keep going?”
“He said he had business to attend to.”
“But you didn’t agree?”
“I didn’t disagree. Maybe I should have. But the weather was in our favor. A sou’easter, and we were heading northwest. Like we are doing now, the wind at our backs means we get home faster. So from that point of view it made sense.”
“So what was the problem?”
“When the Coast Guard called, Ron gave our coordinates. From Bimini we were on more of a westerly heading.”
“So you were crossing the river in a straight line?”
She smiled and nodded, happy I had gotten the point of her story. “Right. We weren’t using the prevailing conditions well at all. It was like we were trying to make way to Miami, rather than heading to Palm Beach.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Not bad, just not smart. In another wind, sure, you might just try to get across the Stream as quick as you can, and then head up the coast or even inside the Intracoastal, if the weather's bad. But we had almost optimal conditions to head straight for Palm Beach.”
“It didn’t seem optimal to me, the day you came in. It seemed cold and rough.”
She nodded. “Let’s go about. Get ready to pull in your sheet.” She turned the wheel and the yacht moved around on the breeze until we were heading back down toward the yacht club, roughly to the south. The mainsail flapped a bit until I wound the rope, or sheet back in, and it snapped tight against the breeze.
“So the day we came in,” Amy said, cont
inuing where we had left off. “You’re right, it wasn’t that good. About the time of the Coast Guard call the weather started to turn from the southeast to the northeast. Anything with a north in your wind direction means rougher seas across the Stream. So we cut northwest, got across as far as Hillsboro Inlet, then we came the rest of the way under motor up the Intracoastal.”
“When did the weather turn?”
“I think the wind shift was what woke me. The boat was under autopilot, and the trim was off when the wind shifted, and I felt that.”
“Autopilot? Boats have autopilots?”
“Sure. There’s a couple of variations, but in this case, it’s linked to the GPS system. It essentially keeps you heading toward a predetermined point via GPS, but if the wind shifts significantly it won’t work—you need to reset and retrim.”
“Why would the autopilot be on if Will was on deck?”
“Best guess, laziness. People put it on so they don’t have to pay attention to the trim so much. Okay, guys, let's pull the main down. Lenny, is it? Can you let the halyard out, and Miami, can you jump up there and fold the sail over the boom as it comes down?” Amy pointed the yacht into the wind and the life went out of the sail. Lenny dropped the rope, which in my yachtie knowledge I assumed was the halyard, and the sail dropped down. I folded like a madman in a laundry, securing the mainsail in a very sloppy fashion across the top of the boom. Amy motored us back into the dock and expertly reversed the boat into its slot. Lenny and I dropped the fenders over the side, and then Lenny stepped onto the dock and tied us up .
“Can I ask you—the state attorney thinks Ron had good opportunity to push Will overboard because he was sleeping in the galley. Was there a reason he was sleeping there?”
“Luck of the draw. All the cabins on the Oceanis 523 are doubles, and for that race there were only three. So technically that meant one odd man out.”
“Technically?”
“Like I said, there should have been two, preferably three bodies on deck at all times. That means only four bodies asleep in six bunks. But it doesn’t always work like that. Michael and Drew took one aft cabin, Felicity and I the other. Will had the stateroom, the fore cabin, but being Will he had it to himself. So that meant Ron and Alec shared the sofa in the galley, so they’d always be on opposite shifts.”
“So not really Ron’s choice.”
She shook her head as she jumped off the yacht onto the dock. “Ron liked a good bed like the rest of us. But he could sleep anywhere, was my experience.”
I nodded.
“Is it normal to have more crew than sleeping berths?” asked Lenny.
“No, it’s not. On a racing yacht, sure. I’ve been on some that use hammocks, and some guys sleep on folded-up sails. But not this kind of boat.”
“What do you mean this kind of boat ?” I asked.
“You haven’t been on Will’s boat?”
We both shook our heads.
“Come with me.” Amy walked us down the dock to another boat and stepped across a small gangway onto the transom. I followed, and noted the name of the boat painted there was Sudden Thunder .
“I thought Will’s boat was called Toxic Assets ? ”
Amy gave a guttural laugh. “It is.” She took out a new-looking phone and brought up a photo on the screen. It was a picture of the crew at the back of Toxic Assets , except someone had put a large orange bag on the transom, so the name read Toxic Ass .
“Toxic Ass ?” I asked.
Amy looked at the picture and frowned. “Huh, I hadn’t noticed that. Fitting for Will.”
“Where was this photo taken?” I asked.
“Nassau, just before we came back. But you see how it looks like this one?”
“Aha.”
“Well, this isn’t Will’s boat, but it’s the same model. A Beneteau Oceanis 523. This, like Will’s, is the latest model, the 2007.” She opened the hatch at the rear of the cockpit and stepped down the ladder-like steps. I followed her down, and Lenny brought up the rear. Below there was lots of polished wood. On the right was a small kitchen area, and forward of that a couple of plush cream-colored seats. On the other side was a long lounge, also cream, with a table set up like a banquette. Forward of that was a small desk, where someone could read charts, or use the marine radio.
“Behind us there are two double berths, one either side,” said Amy.
I opened one of the doors and looked into the cabin. There was a wedge-shaped mattress and room for not much else. It was enough space for two people to sleep, but they would want to be pretty good friends. Amy took us forward, to a door at the front end of the boat.
“This is the main cabin,” she said, flicking the door open. This one had more space, enough to stand up and swing a very tiny cat.
“Each cabin has an en suite head,” she added. “There is another cabin further forward of the main cabin, but it is only accessible via a hatch on the foredeck. For the Palm Beach-Nassau race Will pulled the mattresses out and used that cabin for sail storage.”
“Is that usual?” I asked.
“Usual enough,” she said. “Like I said, sometimes crew will sleep on top of the sails, but that’s usually on a longer race.”
“It’s fancier than my house,” said Lenny.
“Mine too,” I added.
“Mine also,” said Amy. “They’re really cruisers, for pleasure sailing. But the Beneteau is a good enough boat to do a decent race as well.”
Amy led us back up onto the deck, locked up the hatch and we stepped back onto the dock.
“So where is Will’s boat?” I asked.
“Impounded. It got moved to the boatyards in Riviera Beach, I believe.”
We thanked Amy for her help, and for the sailing lesson in my case.
“One last thing,” said Lenny. “You said the autopilot was set. Who would know how to do that? Apart from Will.”
“It’s not that complicated, but I suppose in that crew? Probably just me and Drew.”
“Drew Keck?”
“That’s right.”
“You have any idea where we might find him?” he asked.
“Funny you should ask. He has a boat maintenance business. Runs it out of the boatyards.”
“Which boatyards?”
“Riviera Beach.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE BOATYARD IN question sat next to the Port of Palm Beach, tucked in behind Peanut Island. Lenny pulled in off Route 1 and drove down a short street flanked on one side by shipping containers and on the other by what looked like a boat graveyard. Rusted hulls, discarded anchors and the broken bones of ocean vessels littered the view through the hurricane wire fences. Lenny parked on the street and we walked into a wide concourse that housed an assortment of large boats up on stands. If we had ambled into an upmarket shopping mall in Palm Beach, we would have had a team of security guards following our every move, but in a boatyard we looked the part. We wandered down to the water, where a motorboat that was a good fifty feet long was being lifted out of the water by a large crane. A group of men stood around watching, cigarettes in hand. I thought Lenny might ask after Drew Keck but he didn’t, choosing to take a good look around unfettered before questions earned us quizzical looks and an invitation to leave.
We wandered around a large warehouse where several more boats stood, their hulls being cleaned or sprayed. At the end of the warehouse was another hurricane wire fence, with several boats on the other side, like sleeping lions in a zoo. One of the yachts up on a stand was a blue-hulled beauty, and I noticed a ladder alongside it. As my eyes reached the deck high above, I realized it was Toxic Assets . Yellow police tape of the Do Not Cross variety was strung around the yacht. As we looked the yacht over, a man in a dark suit and red tie appeared on the deck. It was like some kind of modern art installation: a yacht up on dry land, being helmed by a man dressed like a banker. I couldn’t even begin to guess what that kind of thing might mean. But the man paid us no mind, carefully stepping
over the guardrail and climbing down the long ladder to the ground. It was once he hit terra firma that he noticed us.
“Help you?”
Lenny nodded. “You from the sheriff’s office?”
“No,” he said. He was in a nice suit that wasn’t expensive but fit well, and his hair looked like it had been cut that morning. “Who are you?”
“Lenny Cox. And you?”
The guy looked Lenny over nice and slow, and then he gave me the treatment. It was one of those conversations where everyone holds their cards close and no one wants to give away anything, and I couldn’t figure out what the purpose of it all was. We weren’t looking to buy a damned boat. The guy must have come to the same decision, because he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a wallet and flipped open an ID.
“Special Agent Moss, FBI.” He gave us a moment to look at his ID, and then he flipped it closed in a well-practiced move that saw it land back inside his coat pocket. “And your interest in the boat is?”
“We’re investigators for one of the crew members. Looking into the disappearance of the skipper.”
“Which crew member? ”
“The one in jail,” said Lenny.
Special Agent Moss just frowned, as if he didn’t know what Lenny was talking about.
“Ron Bennett,” said Lenny.
The FBI man nodded. “Right. The missing persons thing.”
“That isn’t your interest in the boat?” asked Lenny.
“That’s a local matter.”
“So why is the FBI crawling all over a local matter?” Lenny nodded toward the yacht.
“We have impounded the yacht.”
“Why?”
“Can’t say.”
“Bud, we’re talking about a guy in jail who, trust me, shouldn’t be there.”
“Like I said, that’s a local matter.”
“Did you serve a warrant to impound the boat?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” he said without a frown.
Crash Tack Page 8
