Nick had wrapped the Browning 12-gauge automatic shotgun in a black garbage bag to protect it from the spray, and lashed it down next to the other bags that Craig and Tim had already secured near the mast base. The sound was choppy that afternoon, and the open Gulf pass between the islands would be rougher still. Nick knew it would be a wet ride, but that was the price to pay for a strong, steady breeze that would make the four-and-a-half-mile trip over to Cat Island a fast one.
He didn’t know for sure what they would find there, but the last sailing vessel that approached West Ship Island had changed course and steered that way. No one on the island had bothered to pursue it; because they were busy dividing up the booty from two other cruising boats whose crews had made the mistake of anchoring there the evening before. At the time, Nick and most of his friends were still hung over from the wild party they’d had when they found the liquor stores on board the larger of those two vessels—a Cabo Rico 45. But now the rum and brandy was running low and no one else had called at the island for days. It was time to find a new supply. Another nice sailboat wouldn’t be a bad addition to the fleet either.
Nick and the others had kept their activities confined to West Ship Island and the nearby waters simply because they had not needed to venture elsewhere thus far. Most people that had sailboats on this coast would come there looking for a harbor, because it was well known that West Ship had the best one along the entire barrier island chain. He figured there might be a few boats at ‘The Horseshoe’ off the north side of Horn Island, farther to the east, but until now West Ship had provided all they needed. With boat traffic much more infrequent now though, Nick wondered if there would be any more. Some boat owners on the coast had no doubt set sail early, leaving the entire area. Others may not have been able to reach their vessels, or perhaps the looters had ransacked them at the docks, leaving them vandalized and inoperable for lack of fuel and other essentials. Nick knew every good thing had to come to an end sometime, so if going to Cat Island, or even Horn and beyond was what they had to do, then so be it. He was ready.
He raised the mainsail on the catamaran as Craig and Tim paddled from each side to keep the bows into the wind. Once he had the halyard cleated off and the jib unfurled, Nick hardened the sheets and let the Hobie fall off the wind. The sails filled and the lightweight beach cat took off with a surge of acceleration. The others on the beach were yelling and cheering them on, and several fired shots into the air to add to the effect. Nick flipped them off with a good-natured grin and yelled back that there would be a big party tonight. Whatever the outcome of today’s excursion, there was still enough whiskey for a few more wild nights. But if he were right about his hunch, they would return with another boatload of supplies, as well as the boat carrying those goods.
Cat Island was clearly visible from West Ship, but from that distance the only features one could make out was a long strip of white sand beach on its eastern shore, backed by a dense line of scrubby forest that covered the interior. From afar, the trees were just a hazy blue outline above the line of white sand. With no manmade structures on the shore, the island was otherwise featureless from afar. Nick knew that any boats anchored or beached there would not be found on that long beachfront they could see from here. That side of the island was exposed to the full brunt of open Gulf waves, and when the seas were up that meant dumping surf. If anyone was there, Nick knew they would be on the other side of a long point that extended to the north of the island, or else in small, semi-enclosed bay on the south side known as Smuggler’s Cove. He steered for the north point, thinking it more likely that the fairly large sailboat they had seen would go there if they decided to stop at Cat Island. The north side had a few areas of deeper water, and was more protected from the open Gulf. It also afforded a view of mainland, which might be a comfort factor for some.
The passage between the islands was as rough as Nick expected. The Hobie cat flew off the tops of breaking waves and smashed into the troughs, drenching the crew every few seconds. Nick didn’t mind, nor did his friends. The water was warm enough and felt good to the skin. The Hobie cat was a fun ride, but Nick knew it would be more than a handful in these conditions if he did not have the extra weight of his friends to hold down the windward hull. He had flipped the boat before, but not in an open pass like this, and not in a time when calling for help on the radio wasn’t even an option. He was careful not to even come close to lifting a hull to the danger zone, and soon they were closing the gap to the island.
Much to his delight, Nick saw not one, but four sailboat masts as they drew close enough to make them out. Surprisingly, three of them were on the south side, in what had to be Smuggler’s Cove. Two of the masts appeared to match and were close together, probably indicating a single vessel with a split rig. The other one was nearby, but he couldn’t see either of the actual boats as they were hidden behind the low beaches of the point that jutted out between the pass and the cove. They both had to be cruising-sized vessels though, to have such tall masts. The other mast was miles away, behind the point on the north side of the island. Unlike the others, this one was leaning at an angle of about 60 degrees instead of pointing straight up as it should. Nick knew that could only mean one thing—a sailboat that was washed up on the beach or aground on the shoals and lying over because it was no longer afloat. He figured it would be best to investigate that one first. Maybe it was even abandoned if it was really hard aground. Someone else may have already cleaned it out, but it was certainly worth a look. After that, they could pay the other two yachts a visit.
The Hobie 18 was able to skim across the sandbars off the north point without making the wide detour deeper boats required. Nick cut it as close to the beach as he dared, not wanting to get stuck, but not wanting to waste time going the long way either. They cleared the point and saw just what he’d expected to find. It was a modern, forty-something footer, a boat that probably drew more than five feet, firmly grounded on the sand and mud bottom some seventy or eighty yards off the beach. It could have been there for some time, but when Nick saw movement in the shadow of the open companionway, he figured the boat must have dragged anchor during the strong thunderstorms the night before. He eased the jib and mainsheets to spill some wind and slow the Hobie down a bit, steering so that they would make a pass about 200 yards from it to get a better look.
The figure in the companionway stepped up into the cockpit, watching them approach, and as they closed the distance, Nick could see he was an older man, with white hair and perhaps a bit of a slump to his shoulders. The man wasn’t armed, or if he was, he was not brandishing a weapon, at least. Nick studied him as he sailed the catamaran past. Before coming about to change tacks and approach the boat, he handed off the helm to Tim and untied the bag holding his shotgun.
“This is going to be easy pickings!” Nick grinned as he pulled the trash bag off the weapon and wadded it up to stuff it in a pocket.
“Look, there are two of them!” Craig said as they started back on the new tack, sailing straight for the stranded boat.
“Probably his wife,” Gina said.
“They don’t have any business trying to sail a boat that big at their age. They wouldn’t have made it far, even if they hadn’t run aground,” Craig said, checking the chamber of his SKS in anticipation. Both men kept their weapons low and out of sight on the trampoline beside them as they approached. Tim was still steering as they watched the old couple carefully for any signs they may try to resist.
“They ain’t got shit,” Nick said, when it was clear that neither the man nor the woman on board the badly leaning yacht were armed or prepared to defend their vessel. “I’ll take care of this, when we get close. No need to shoot holes in the boat for nothing. We’ll get it off the sandbar and she’ll be good as new.” He hid the shotgun under a couple of life jackets as he hauled on the furling line to roll up the jib. Then, playing the mainsheet by hand as Craig steered, he slowed the cat down so that they were barely ghosting along as t
hey came alongside the stranded sailboat, which had the name Wind Shadow painted on its stern, along with its hailing port: Slidell, LA.
The man in the cockpit seemed nervous about their approach, but quickly changed his demeanor when Nick and the others gave him big smiles and friendly waves, coming across as fellow sailors who like him were simply out here to avoid the chaos on the coast. The approach had worked on the others who’d called at West Ship Island, and like most of them, this stranded boat owner returned their friendly greeting as he visibly relaxed and seemed glad to see them.
“Boy, we wouldn’t be in this fix if we were sailing a catamaran like that! Looks like a wet ride though!”
“It is! But if you go boating long enough, you’re bound to get wet!” Nick caught hold of the stern rail of the yacht as the Hobie drifted alongside and Tim quickly dropped the mainsail. The old man stepped closer, to hand him a line to tie off, as if inviting them to hang around for more friendly conversation.
“We’ve got help coming, I think. We couldn’t get her off with the windlass and anchor, or the other sailboat that was here. It’s going to take a boat with a lot more power to get her back to deep water.”
“We’ll get her off, don’t you worry, old man,” Nick said as he pulled himself aboard in one fluid motion and stepped into the cockpit. Before the owner knew what was going on, Nick punched him in the stomach with a vicious uppercut that doubled him over. Then he grabbed him by the collar and one upper arm and pushed him over the rail on the low side, in the direction the boat was leaning towards the water. The woman screamed and tried to turn and run back down the companionway. Nick grabbed her by the hair and one wrist and dragged her to rail as well, shoving her overboard after the man, who was struggling and splashing in the water, trying in vain to grab hold of the slippery hull side.
“Throw me that shotgun, Tim!”
Nick caught the Browning automatic with one hand as it sailed into the cockpit. Then he put a foot on the cockpit coaming and leaned over to fire two rounds into the water, one for each of the struggling swimmers. It was much cleaner that way; there was simply no need at all to get a nice prize like the Wind Shadow messy with blood.
SEVEN
IT REQUIRED A CONSCIOUS effort for Larry Drager to conceal his intense interest in Tara Hancock. In truth, he was having a hard time averting his eyes from constantly locking onto this petit blonde knockout that had suddenly and unexpectedly sailed into his life. Her looks alone were enough to get his attention, but on top of all that, she was a sailor, and one good enough to practically single-hand her folks’ beautiful Tartan 37 out here just fine without the benefit of electronics. Cat Island, Mississippi was the last place on Earth Larry would have expected to meet a woman like Tara, but here she was and she was asking for his help. How could he say no to a request like that?
Hearing her description of the Owens’ grounded yacht and the situation that led to it, Larry was pretty sure he could get the boat off with the power of the Miss Lucy’s engine. It would be a long time before his machete-slashed arm was good for cranking manual windlasses and handling heavy anchors again, but he had the powerful Perkins in the old trawler to do the heavy lifting. With the help of some of the others in his crew, he was sure he could get the Owens afloat again before sunset.
“We can’t all go and leave the Casey Nicole and the Sarah J. unguarded,” he said, as he began thinking how best to divide the crew.
“It’s not like there’s anyone else out here,” Jessica said. “We didn’t even see any tracks on the island.
“That doesn’t mean anything. You didn’t see Tara’s tracks either, because she didn’t walk this far. But she’s been ashore a few times.”
“Yes, that’s how I knew you all were still here,” Tara said. “I took the dinghy to the beach a couple of times since we saw your catamaran and the fishing boat go by. I knew if you were anchored on the south side of the island, it had to be at Smuggler’s Cove. We couldn’t see your boats from where we were, but by hiking south a bit and climbing one of the highest dunes, I was able to.”
“The point is,” Larry said, “we can’t take anything for granted. There probably isn’t anyone else out here but the Owens on their boat, but we can’t take that chance. Besides, I don’t need that much help and too many will just be in the way.”
“I’ll certainly go,” Artie volunteered.
“Yeah, me too!” Casey said.
“I will too,” Grant said.
“I know. Every one of you would. But there’s no way you’re going, Doc. I’m leaving you in charge of looking after our ship.”
While his older brother might not be the most experienced of them all for such a task, Artie had demonstrated his ability and willingness to use deadly force against those who would harm them. Larry knew Scully would be even better for the job, but Scully was a boatman like him and he needed another experienced hand to help him get things set up for the tow when they got there. Scully was still walking with a limp from his injury in the river, but like Larry, he could still handle a boat.
“Why don’t you come along too, Grant? We might need at least one able-bodied young man to help a couple of old cripples out of a bind!”
“I’ll go too,” Jessica quickly volunteered, as soon as Grant agreed that of course, he would if Larry wanted him.
“No, three is enough, Jessica. Tara may want to ride with us to introduce us to the Owens—or not. Your call, Tara.”
“Rebecca and I should probably sail the Sarah J. back around there to where they are. This little cove is too crowded for us to anchor here too, and I don’t think the Owens’ boat can get in here with its six-foot draft.”
“You’re not crowding us at all. You two might as well stay where you are for tonight anyway; you’ve already got the hook down and all. We’ll grill some fish for dinner later when we’re done. I think there’s a hole out there near the mouth of the cove with enough water for their boat too if they want to move around here and join us.”
“Yes, you should certainly stay,” Artie said. “Why don’t you both just wait here with us until they get back.”
“Well, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to go around there without Rebecca, that’s for sure. Sorry if it sounds paranoid, but I’m not letting her out of my sight if I can help it.”
“I understand,” Larry said, giving his brother a dirty look followed by a sly grin when he was sure Tara wasn’t looking. He hated to leave her here to get acquainted with Artie while he was away, but he planned to make up for it when he got back.
“We’ll make this as quick as possible,” he assured his older brother. “Scully! See if you can get that old Perkins to run one more time!”
Larry motioned for Grant to help him and they began untying the mooring lines that connected the two vessels together, leaving the protective fenders hanging alongside the rails of the Casey Nicole. Although he had done a lot of canoeing and kayaking, Grant didn’t know one end of a sailboat from the other when he first came aboard a couple of days ago. Larry quickly saw that he was eager to learn though and that he was smart and a hard worker. He would do fine as a sailor and Larry knew he was looking forward to their first voyage together.
By the time they had the Miss Lucy running smoothly and had taken aboard some long lengths of spare anchor line as well as Larry’s two-man kayak to use as a dinghy, it was already late afternoon. Larry was anxious to get around to the other side of the island and get the job done so they could get back before dark. Tara assured him that the Owens would recognize the fishing boat and would not be alarmed at their approach, even without her on board for introductions. She also told Larry that like her and Rebecca, the Owens were unarmed. He could tell that she was nervous at the sight of the shotgun and two rifles they had been brandishing earlier and that the three of the them were now taking along.
“You’ve been lucky then, at least so far,” he said. “A lot luckier than us. I don’t suppose any of us would be here right now if
we didn’t have them.”
“I just don’t have any experience with firearms,” Tara said. “My parents didn’t own any, and I never felt the need to.”
“Back in the other reality…. seems like a lot longer than it’s been, wow…. I suppose a lot of people got through their entire lives without needing them. But it ain’t so anymore, Tara. I can assure you of that. We’ve got to get going right now because we’re running out of daylight, but when we get back, we need to talk some more. I’d sure hate to see you and your daughter run into the kind of trouble we’ve already seen, and that I fear we’ll see again soon.”
As he steered the Miss Lucy out of Smuggler’s Cove to deeper water so they could circle around to the north side of the island, the gears were turning in Larry’s mind as he thought about Tara and Rebecca. He’d just met them and already he was trying to figure out how he was going to keep them around even as he and his crew were making plans to sail as soon as possible. One thing he knew though; there simply wasn’t enough room aboard the Casey Nicole to invite them to come along. When he picked the Tiki 36 to build as his personal cruising boat, what he had in mind was mostly single handing, or if he got lucky, sailing with the woman of his dreams—a woman like Tara! But here he was with a boatload of family and friends now that he’d finally met her! Six people on board the catamaran were already a crowd. There were not even enough bunks for everyone as it was. It would cause a mutiny to take on even one more crew, much less two. Besides, Larry doubted that Tara would be willing to abandon her parents’ beautiful boat even if there was room and even if she actually wanted to sail with them. He couldn’t blame her really, but that created a problem. He had a couple of ideas, but he didn’t know what the rest of his gang would think of them, not to mention Tara herself. The possibilities kept him occupied as he manned the helm of the Miss Lucy while Grant and Scully stood by; waiting until they rounded the point and had a view of the stranded boat they’d come to help.
Voyage After the Collapse (The Pulse Series Book 3) Page 4
