“To hell with this shit, get the rifle, and hurry.” Milo scrambled to get my Colt carbine from the storage locker below deck.
The shark bit again, shaking violently side to side. My old boat couldn’t take the punishment. The hull split along the keel. The ripping sound nearly drowned out Milo’s shout. “Bilge pumps failed.”
Water gushed from below to the aft deck, washing empty tequila bottles past my feet. Oh shit. We’re going down.
The boat shuddered and groaned as we listed to starboard. The shark stopped chewing on the transom, but the damage was done.
I tried to release the chair harness. “Damn … the buckle’s jammed.” I looked around for some help, but Milo and Jake were nowhere in sight.
I grabbed a fillet knife from the side pocket on the chair. Before I could cut the harness, both engines exploded, seconds apart, like a double barrel shot gun. The force of the blast snapped the pedestal mount and catapulted me and the chair clear of the hull. The knife slipped from my grasp mid-flight.
Stunned after a belly-flop landing, still strapped in the chair, I rolled myself upright and called out, “Jake … Milo, can you hear me?” No answer. All I heard was ringing in my ears. I hoped they got clear before the engines blew.
I watched my boat founder and break in two. The pieces tilted bow up, posed for one last photo op and slipped beneath the waves.
Spilled diesel had caught fire when hot fragments of engine metal rained back to the water. Smoke obscured my view as the waves washed over me, serving a foul soup of oil and chum bait. I gagged at the taste and spat it out.
I finally loosened the harness and reached behind me. Pushing on the footrest for leverage, I twisted around and switched on the EPIRB emergency beacon. It was mounted in a rod tube on the chair’s back shelf. No problemo. Just needed to stay alive till the Coast Guard arrived.
I stuck my hand in the water to open the tackle drawer underneath the shelf and grabbed a bottle of tequila. It survived the blast and best of all, it was full. Unfortunately, no lime or ice. Plenty of salt, though. If you don’t mind the chummy diesel aftertaste.
The seat cushions sandwiched between my butt and the chair kept me above the water line, but not by much. My legs dangled over the sides.
I took a few swallows of tequila. My palate cleansed of oil and chum, I focused on the bigger problem. Where the hell was the shark? I felt something slide against my leg and yanked it out, half-expecting to see a bloody stub. Negatory, just a hunk of seaweed wrapped around my ankle.
The wind shifted, pushing patches of fire in my direction. The smoke stung my eyes. I wiped them with my sleeve and looked up to see a fin rise between the swells. A very large dorsal fin with a tail fin trailing twenty feet behind. Definitely a big shark. I’ve been trained to stay cool under stress, but I didn’t see a way out. The Taliban couldn’t break me, but this shark certainly will, into bite sized pieces. I pulled my other leg out of the water, wrapped my arms around my knees and hoped the beast was just curious.
She cruised up to the chair at half throttle and bumped the bottom. The stainless-steel spindle vibrated when sandpaper skin scraped past. Evidently, she had a thing for metal and clamped on to it after she turned and made a second pass. I filled my lungs one last time before she dove deep.
Here we go, Nantucket sleigh ride, except this one required holding my breath. My choice was abandon chair or hang on and hope for the best.
Well, sometimes hope does deliver the best. I looked over the edge of the chair and spotted a gap between her teeth. Big enough to fit the bottle I still clutched in my hand. I reached down and shoved the half-gallon of Gran Patron Platinum between her jaws. She bit harder and shattered the bottle, swallowing its contents. That’s nearly three dozen shots of 90-proof tequila, accounting for the few pulls I partook earlier. Even a 4000-pound fish can’t handle that much alcohol in one gulp.
She released the chair, and I bobbed to the surface. The shark just floated nearby, stunned by the jolt of alcohol. I craned my neck looking for Jake and Milo. Still no one in sight. They’re both strong swimmers. If a rescue party comes soon, they may have a chance.
I heard the drumming of rotary blades before I spotted the Coast Guard rescue helicopter. It was locked on a beeline straight at me. Thank the fishing gods for EPIRB beacons.
The CG boys circled once before dropping a rescue litter. I kissed my chair goodbye and scrambled into the basket. A hundred feet up, swaying in the breeze, I scanned the area for Jake and Milo. Still no sign of them. I looked down and saw the shark thrashing around the chair. Her tequila buzz must have worn off. Maybe there’ll be enough left to salvage but the boat’s gone for good I’m afraid. I hope Yacht Insurance of Paraguay pays up.
Once I got aboard, I discovered the chopper co-pilot was my buddy Hawk Handy. He would have been on my boat if he hadn’t pulled Search & Rescue duty this morning. Lucky for both of us. It’s not the first time Hawk’s saved my bacon. I owe him my life after what happened in Afghanistan during our final tour. I still have nightmares.
We continued to circle the area in a spiral search pattern. After five minutes we swooped toward some wreckage Hawk spotted a half mile east. As we got closer, I saw arms waving frantically. Milo and Jake were clinging to a single life preserver.
After we lifted the boys aboard, I begged the chopper pilot, “Take us back around. Can’t we winch up my chair? It cost me eighteen grand.”
The pilot looked at Hawk, who just shook his head and shrugged.
The pilot turned to me. “Sorry Charley, no room, no can do.”
DEATH CHAIR
HAROLD ‘HAWK’ HANDY is the best. Anything for a SEAL teammate. He didn’t hesitate a second when I asked him to bring me back out in his Fountain open bow, Triple H. I was soaked to the bone from my swim with Jawselle, but no big deal. BUD/S training with the SEALs was a lot worse. It was still early but I wanted to get the chair before salvage pirates scooped it up. Plus, a fog bank was rolling in from the west. If it gets too thick, we’ll have to turn back.
My chair floated a hundred yards off the port bow. A few patches of fog limited visibility, but the main bank stayed west of us. The EPIRB beacon made finding it a snap. The shark was nowhere in sight but somehow, the chair picked up a new passenger, and he wasn’t moving.
“Where did this guy come from?”
Hawk shrugged. “Didn’t see him when we circled the wreckage this morning.”
We pulled alongside. I leaned over the gunwale for a closer look. The face was contorted, teeth bared, eyes wide open. The scalp was riddled with slices, exposing skull bone. More cuts covered the chest, arms and legs.
“Someone wanted this dude to suffer some serious pain.” I looked back at Hawk. “How the hell did he get out here?”
Hawk grunted and looked to the south. “Maybe a drug cartel boat dumped him.”
I pointed at the bone white wounds. “He must have bled out fast with all those cuts. I’m surprised the sharks didn’t get him before he climbed into the chair.”
“What do you want to do, CJ?” Hawk always called me CJ, a moniker that stuck from our SEAL days. Everyone else called me Charley … good-time Charley.
The cursor on the boat’s GPS screen blinked over a spot north of Deadman Cays. The chair had drifted several miles northeast since my encounter with Jawselle.
“We’re in international waters, close to Cuban and Bahamian jurisdictions. I don’t want to mess with authorities from either country. Bad enough my boat’s a thousand feet down. I just want is my chair.”
Hawk just looked at me, so I egged him on. “You’re in the Coast Guard, for Christ’s sake. That gives you authority to retrieve the body, right? And I have the right to recover my own property.”
“I better radio in, get an okay from Marathon CGHQ first.”
Two minutes later, after Hawk explained the situation to his commander, we had permission to retrieve the chair and body. Just needed some photos with Hawk’s cell phone whi
le the body was still in the water.
After snapping some beauty shots, we hauled the chair into the boat with the dinghy winch. Kept the body in the chair, touching as little as possible. It fit in the empty dinghy bed on the forward deck.
I secured the load while Hawk scanned the horizon. “We better move. I don’t like being this close to Cuba with a dead man on the deck.” He keyed the return waypoint for Marathon into the GPS. I climbed into the passenger seat.
The rising sun had burned off the rest of the fog. I shielded my eyes from the glare. Turning my head away, I caught a glint of light to the west. There are dozens of uninhabited cays in that direction. I’ve fished most of the Bank and know there’s a lighthouse, abandoned in the 1940s, on the largest of the group called Elbow Cays. Until the late seventies it was used as a lookout for spotting drug smugglers and a waypoint for Cuban refugees fleeing across the straits. Built almost two hundred years ago by the English, the stone structure was in serious disrepair, barely safe to climb. There was another flash. It came from the top of the tower. “Someone’s watching us.”
Hawk followed my gaze, raised an eyebrow and shoved the throttles forward. “Let’s get out of here.”
~~~
WE DROPPED THE BODY off at the Key Vaca Coast Guard Station in Marathon. The local law met us when we arrived. Deputy Sheriff Vince Walker was part of a Marine direct-action group our sniper team had over-watched in Iraq.
“Hooyah, Vince. Found a stowaway on my fishing chair. Looks like he ran into a chain saw.”
“Hey, CJ … Hawk. I heard the story from Commander Ryan. That chair of yours attracts trouble. We’ll need statement briefs from both of you.”
Vince motioned to the CSI Tech to board us and do her thing before they removed the body from the chair.
More photos were taken, everything was inspected for prints, blood and possible DNA evidence. An hour later they released the chair after body-bagging the stiff for transport to the Miami-Dade coroner.
I invited everyone off-duty to join Hawk and me at the Blue Parrot for drinks and lunch, paradise-style. Too bad for the dead man, but I owed the crew that saved my butt this morning. Maybe my tours in Iraq and Afghanistan have tempered my feelings about death. I live each day like it’s my last. Take whatever fate delivers. I was alive and so was my crew. The dude was dead. Shit happens.
~~~
HAWK TIED UP at the dock in front of the bar and we went inside. The regulars had already gathered around, including Jake and Milo, joined a few minutes later by the Coast Guard. With free drinks, even my sister’s main squeeze, Hilly, showed up. Jonesy, the bartender, asked me for the details of my shark adventure. Never shy about spinning a yarn, I took a drink and began my tale.
“There I was, adrift near Cay Sal Bank, a thousand feet of ocean below me. My boat was gone. No sign of Jake or Milo. All I had to stay afloat was my fish-fighting chair and a bottle of tequila to keep me company.”
Everyone cheered. Not for me or my missing crew. They were delighted I had a drink to sustain me. That’s the way drinking buddies think. Before I continued, I rubbed my bruised stomach where the harness had dug in.
Hilly snorted, “Is this another fish tale? I’ll bet you sunk your old boat for the insurance money.”
I chose to ignore Hilly’s dig. A groan filtered through the bar as I looked at my mates’ raised eyebrows. I just smiled and shrugged.
Each man, except Hilly, licked salt from the back of his hand, tossed back a shot, and bit into a slice of lime. Hilly sipped his SoCo and sulked. He never believed my stories. I was used to it. Mostly I amused myself anyway. I looked around once more. “Shall I go on, boys?”
Hawk slammed his empty glass on the bar. “Back up, CJ. Tell ‘em how you got in the water.”
I knocked back another shot and continued, “My boat went down within a minute of the strike. I had hooked a twenty-foot Great White near the Wall. She took offense and ripped open the transom of my boat. I was strapped into my new fishing chair when the old boat broke apart and the engines blew. Lucky for me, the chair-spindle snapped away from the deck, catapulting me clear of the hull.”
I smiled at Jonesy. “The teak tackle drawer and ladder-back options you recommended helped me stay afloat. I know, I know. I thought the price was too steep. Eighteen grand for the whole kit. Thanks. Money well-spent, especially the drawer that held a bottle of tequila. It turned out to be a lifesaver.”
Hilly interrupted, “I’ll bet the shark was really a piece of driftwood caught in the props.”
I let out a sigh, “Come on, Hilly. Let me tell my story.”
Hilly smirked and sipped his SoCo.
I continued, “A dorsal fin rose between the swells headed straight for me. The shark nudged the side of the chair and turned. I could hear her teeth click against the stainless-steel spindle. I had to choose abandoning my chair-lifeboat or hang on and fight.
“So, I shoved the half-gallon bottle of Gran Patron Platinum between her jaws. Nearly three dozen shots, not counting what I’d already drank. When the bottle shattered between Jawselle’s teeth she just floated there with a smile that rivaled Julia Roberts’ Pretty Woman.”
I looked around at a dozen skeptical faces. Hawk rolled his eyes. I continued. “Lucky fisherman that I am, when she released the chair, I bobbed to the surface just in time to flag down Hawk in the Coast Guard chopper.”
A rousing cheer resounded off the walls—for my rescuers, certainly not for me—followed by the sound of empty glasses smacking the bar. That’s how the late morning sloshed into mid-afternoon at the Blue Parrot, fueled by a case of Gran Patron.
Hilly wasn’t finished taunting me and threw another barb. “Hey Charley, didn’t you and Hawk find a body in your precious chair when you went back to get it?”
“You really know how to throw a wet towel on a good fish story, Hilly. The stiff came out of nowhere. Not my concern. He’s on his way to the Miami-Dade morgue. Let them figure it out.”
Hilly just scowled and took another sip of his SoCo.
For those of you that are color blind and possibly three sheets to the wind, the Blue Parrot Bar in Marathon should not be confused with the Green Parrot Bar—formerly known as the Brown Derby born back in 1897—the one on the corner of Southard and Whitehead in Key West. For one thing, old Blue has fewer turistas. Fine with me. A more intimate ambiance.
Marathon is actually a city spread out on seven keys, halfway from Miami, about fifty miles from Key West. A lot of keys, but still sparsely populated. After fifteen years of black-ops missions, I appreciated the peace and quiet. Plus, the bar is located right on the marina docks, with a panoramic view of the Florida Straits at no extra charge. My favorite hangout when I’m not offshore fishing in my boat … I mean former boat.
After the rescue celebration wound down and the alcohol wore off with the assistance of some conch stew and grilled bonefish, Hawk and I returned to his boat and the fighting chair. I jumped into the seat behind the center console. “Let’s get this over to my RV and check out the damage. I want to wash it down to get the salt and blood out of the fittings.”
Hawk was about to cast off when he noticed the EPIRB on the chair was still powered up. He switched it off and looked around. “You know the glint you spotted? Anyone could have tracked us by following the EPIRB beacon.”
Given my re-enactment of a Jaws movie scene took place only thirty miles from Cuba, and the sorry state of the corpse we found, I had an uneasy feeling. From the way Hawk was checking our six, I could tell he did too.
DEAD MAN’S MAP
HAWK STEERED TRIPLE H into my empty slip at the end of D-dock. My permanent RV spot was adjacent to the slip. A convenience that took me a year to arrange, with a little help from Jack Daniels. The marina owner is partial to Vets and appreciates good Tennessee whiskey. You might say I charmed my way into the arrangement with my gift for storytelling. Okay, I’ll be honest. Jack did the heavy lifting.
After we off-loaded the ch
air I removed the EPIRB. As I pulled it out of the rod tube, I noticed a wadded-up swatch of oilcloth tucked behind it.
Hawk looked over my shoulder as I unfolded it on the dock. I grabbed a towel and blotted away the moisture. It was blank.
Hawk said, “Turn it over.”
“It looks like a map.”
“Yeah, a map to what? Buried treasure?”
I waved it like a flag and laughed. “You wish. Probably worthless.”
“Let’s take it inside for a closer look.”
I placed the oilcloth on the Winnebago’s dinette table and turned on the overhead light. Frayed on the edges with creases at the folds, many of the detailed markings had faded but the writing was clear.
Hawk pointed, “The triangular shape looks like Cay Sal Bank.”
I held it closer to the light and read the scrawling print. “There’s a warning about a trap. And you may be right about the Bank. The next two lines say follow the cays to the bend, head northwest at the end.” I looked up at Hawk. “What the hell is this about? I mean, some of it’s obvious. But seriously… a hidden treasure?”
Hawk took the map, held it close to his face to read it for himself. “Maybe not worthless after all.”
“If it’s real, it explains the flayed body. Tortured to give it up. The guy had guts to take all those cuts and still get away with the map. I’ll bet he hid it where the sun don’t shine.”
Hawk dropped the soiled cloth and wiped his hands. “Not much good to him now.”
I slid it back under the light. “It says climb the rocks to the tower, look about where housemaids scour. ” I pulled out a nautical chart that included Cay Sal Bank and put it next to the map. “See the small hole in the upper left corner of the cloth? That’s one of the Elbow Cays, the one with the old lighthouse.”
Charley Manner series Box Set Page 7
