Wood's Wreck

by Steven Becker

  “Sure. That would be great,” Mel said. She got up, grabbed her phone, and started walking toward the door.

  “Don’t you want to change?” Cayenne asked.

  Mel looked down at herself and wondered why most people felt a bathing suit was required gear for a boat ride. The wind and sun would dry her if she got wet. “I’m good.”

  They left the three-story Victorian house and walked toward Cayenne’s Prius, parked in the narrow hibiscus lined driveway separating her’s from the other similar houses on the block, their only difference the style of gingerbread and paint colors. They got in the car and Cayenne pulled out of the driveway.

  Ten minutes later, they reached the marina, parked, and walked down the dock to the charter boat. Another expense that wasn’t needed, Mel thought as she casually hopped onto the deck of the twenty-four-foot center console. The captain offered a hand to Cayenne and helped her down. Cayenne settled into one of the seats situated on opposite sides of the single outboard and waited as Mel untied the lines.

  “You look like you know what to do on these things,” Cayenne said.

  “I grew up around this.” Mel dismissed her, the sound of the engine making conversation difficult, and the boat moved out of the slip. She watched the other boats as they made their way through the marina toward the red and green markers showing the channel to open water. As they passed the last marker, the man pushed down on the throttles and increased speed until the boat came up on plane.

  Mel planned her strategy to approach Cayenne as the breeze blew through her short hair. There was no way to talk now as the boat cruised at what she figured was 30 knots. It would take them a little less than an hour to reach the coral farm located in the Sawyer Keys Wildlife Management Area, where Cayenne had somehow obtained a permit to grow the coral.

  They headed northwest, quickly covering the five miles to the outside of the barrier made by the myriad of small islands and shoals, which formed a line running fifty miles east to Bahia Honda. Once they passed through a small marked channel that led to deeper water, the man turned northeast. Mel knew from experience that you often had to go backwards before you could go forwards through the intricate waters of the back country. Half an hour later, the boat slowed as they approached a line of buoys one hundred yards off one of the Sawyer Key’s mangrove-lined shores.

  Mel waited patiently while the man helped Cayenne into her dive gear. As she was about to place her mask on her face and step off the swim platform, she turned. “Too bad you can’t come with me. It’s really cool.”

  “Why can’t I?” Mel turned to the man. Might as well see what this is all about. “You have any gear? Mask, fins, and a weight belt?”

  “Really, you’re going to snorkel?” Cayenne asked.

  Mel ignored her as she took the fins and mask from the man. “I need about four pounds of weight.” She sat on the transom and spit in her mask, rinsed it with water and placed it on her head. The man returned with a weight belt, which she took and placed around her waist before donning the fins. Then she back-rolled off the side of the boat into the water. She surfaced and gave Cayenne a thumbs up.

  They both swam on the surface to the first buoy, where Mel watched as Cayenne fumbled for the hose to deflate her BC. She knew the woman lacked experience by the way she swam with her hands. An experienced diver put all their energy into their legs, where the fins could do the work. Without waiting for her, she took several deep breaths to oxygenate her lungs and dove. She finned down, following the line attached to the buoy and observed the small pieces of corral attached to it every few feet.

  Just as she reached what felt like twenty feet, Cayenne passed her and she ascended for air. Another few breaths and she inspected the next line.

  A few minutes later, both women were on the surface, holding onto the buoy. Cayenne bobbed in the light chop and tried to talk, but kept taking water into her mouth. Mel reached over and inflated her BC for her, allowing the woman’s head to clear the surface more easily.

  “Wow, you’re really good at that. I can barely get down there with all this stuff.”

  “Just practice. You grow up here, you learn a few things.”

  “Wish I could do that,” Cayenne said as she put her regulator back in her mouth.

  Mel looked toward the next buoy, surprised that she was actually enjoying the water. As a teenager, she had been an accomplished free diver. The buoy was only fifty feet away, and she started toward it. She reached the buoy and started her rhythmic breathing sequence, clearing her lungs of CO2 and filling them with oxygen. After half a dozen breaths, she submerged and followed the line trying to reach the thirty-foot-deep bottom, checking out the horizontal lines attached every few feet, swinging in the current. The starter coral pieces clung to these lines, absorbing nourishment from the passing water.

  At twenty feet, she could just make out some structures sitting in the sea grass, but she was out of breath and had to surface. She tried once more to get deeper, but acknowledged her limits—nowhere near the forty feet she had so easily been able to free dive not too many years ago.

  They met back on the surface and swam to the boat, Cayenne arriving first. Mel held onto the swim platform while the man helped Cayenne out of the water.

  “Did you see anything?” Cayenne asked.

  “The coral is pretty cool. I thought I saw something on the bottom but I couldn’t get that deep. I guess I’m getting old.”

  “But what did you see?”

  Mel sensed the unease in her voice. “Just some stuff on the bottom. I was a good ten feet away, so it was really hard to tell.” She took her fins off, tossed them over the transom, and climbed onto the boat.

  “Oh. Those are probably these cool compartments that each piece of coral has to itself. The scientists have this theory that if they’re close together, they’ll nurture each other and grow faster. We’re just starting to experiment with that.”

  Mel suspected something wasn’t right, but was forced to hold her tongue as Cayenne went to the man and whispered something in his ear. He went to the bow and let the line loose, then returned to the helm and started the engines.

  They reached the marina an hour later and Cayenne claimed a headache when Mel started to ask questions about finances. She squirmed in her seat as the car worked slowly through the throngs of people. Traffic was heavier now, making the drive longer and even more uncomfortable. Mel quickly left the car and went to her desk to check her email and close up for the day. Before she could leave, Cayenne stormed past her and slammed her office door.

  Seconds later, Mel heard her yelling into the phone.

  ***

  “What do you mean you took someone out there?” the voice yelled at her.

  “I had no idea that girl was like frickin’ Jacques Cousteau. She free dives like a fish. I thought she was going to stay on the boat,” Cayenne spat back. “And what are you doing putting those things so close to shore? They’re in my permit area.”

  She did not like the man or his attitude, but had been forced into an uneasy yet profitable alliance with him. The Sawyer Keys were a wildlife management area mainly set aside for nesting birds, but the northeast corner had been privately owned before the designation was added. Obtaining a permit to farm coral there had been easy, but the reclusive man that lived on the island was another matter.

  He had opposed her project from the beginning, often sabotaging her work. Finally, she had confronted him and made a deal that now looked like it might save her.

  “That’s the whole point. If they’re in the permit area the Feds aren’t going to look there. You sure she didn’t see anything?” His voice calmed slightly.

  “She said she saw some structures in the sea grass, but didn’t get to the bottom. Visibility wasn’t great. I really doubt it.”

  “I’m in Miami now, be back in a few days. I’ll move them then.”

  The ceiling fan did little to abate the sweat dripping from her brow as Cayenne looked down at he
r desk and saw the meager balance on her bank statement. Several other letters were stacked next to her, mostly from the banks that held her loans. The once-healthy trust was almost depleted, and she was getting desperate.

  The illegal lobster traps, called casitas, that Jay had placed in the management area held the only cash she was likely to get her hands on.

  The word on the docks was that it was a terrible lobster year, and that made prices high. The illegal casitas, placed far from any other traps, were usually filled, and if she could get to the lobster first, it would bring enough cash to keep things afloat for several months. With the call on her line of credit due tomorrow, she had little choice. It was the last of many notices before the bank foreclosed.

  “Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” she said as she twirled her still-damp reddish hair and hung up. Setting aside the bank letter, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out Mel’s resume. Her father had taught her to run a thorough background check on anyone she hired, and she had done that with Mel. The woman had come from DC, and she wasn’t sure where her loyalties would lie. There was always the possibility that she worked for her detractors. She knew she had enemies, every non-profit that tried to help the ecosystem did. Some worried that allowing non-profits like hers to exist was a slippery slope towards closing and restricting larger and larger areas of prime fishing and hunting grounds. Others believed these non-profits benefited financially from operating in protected areas. And in this case the latter group was correct.

  In the file was a brief about her boyfriend, Mac Travis. She glanced at the summary of salvage and commercial fishing business, and continued reading. Her memory proved accurate when she read the last paragraph about a wayward deckhand of his that had a penchant for trouble.

  Chapter 3

  Trufante stared at his empty glass, wondering if his credit would handle another one. He looked up at the barmaid and gave his best smile, revealing his thousand-dollar custom grill.

  “Hey. I know you want another.” The woman smiled back as she looked over her shoulder and took his glass to the tap, where she refilled it. “Just don’t tell anyone.” She set it down in front of him. “Don’t worry. I got it.”

  Trufante lifted the glass and toasted her. “‘Preciate that,” he said drawing out the first word with his Cajun accent.

  At least there was one bright spot today, he thought, watching her butt sway as she walked away. But his overall state of affairs was troublesome. There were slow seasons in the Keys, but nothing like the drought Mac was now in. Usually the spring months were quiet as lobster and stone crab seasons wound down. The weather was sketchy and there were long spans where they were unable to get offshore for the dolphin fish that were just starting their early summer run. As the weather warmed, though, it was easier to get out.

  But this year the fish hadn’t been there. Nothing to worry about in the big picture, but right now, it was bad. Ditto for lobster season … at least so far. Lobster would usually hold him into the fall, when stone crab came in season and the snapper and grouper came into the shallow reefs. This year it wasn’t happening. He had looked around for other work, but it was the same everywhere. Mac didn’t go out every day, like some of the other fishermen, but he paid well and didn’t mind if Trufante freelanced.

  He was deep into his beer when a long-legged woman pulled out the chair next to him. Turning toward her, he couldn’t help but notice her expanded chest.

  “Hello there, little lady,” he said, putting on his best accent. “Where’d y’all come from?”

  “Well hello there, yourself,” she said as she slid onto the seat. “Buy you a beer?”

  He drained his beer and grinned. Once in a while he could count on getting hit on by a tourist woman, out for a good time with a local. Something romantic about it, he guessed. The barmaid was coming back down the bar and he signaled toward her, allowing the woman to order. A minute later, the drinks were in front of them and she broke the silence.

  “I’m Cayenne,” she said, holding her hand out.

  He took it in his callused palm. “Tru. Really it’s Alan Trufante, but my friends call me Tru.” He smiled.

  They huddled closer as one round became two, and soon the beer was the chaser for the tequila shots they were toasting with.

  “You know, I was thinking we maybe could have a time down in Key West,” Trufante said as he placed his hand on her knee. He had been more than happy to have her company and let her buy drinks.

  “That could be fun,” she giggled. “But I was really looking for someone to help me with a little problem I have.” She placed her hand over his.

  “Thought we were getting on fine. I don’t know if we should bugger it up with business.”

  “Oh, please. We can still have a good time.” She slid her hand north.

  “Well. What kind of help are you needing?” he asked.

  “Just a strong guy and a boat.” She squeezed his arm.

  “Well, I can maybe help with part of that equation, but I don’t have a boat.”

  “Maybe you could borrow one?” she asked as she put her other hand on his other thigh and started walking her fingers up his leg.

  He wasn’t about to stop her now. This was leading in a very favorable direction. “You want to tell your new friend Tru what exactly you’re needing?”

  Her hand inched higher. “I got a line on some lobster traps that are abandoned. Heard there might be some money in it. I’d be willing to split it with you.”

  The alcohol and her boobs pressing against him, never mind the chance for a payday, must have altered his rational thought process. Abandoned traps were often loaded with lobster, and he could sure use the money.

  “Maybe we can work something out. I might be needing a little more encouragement, if you get my drift.”

  She leaned closer. “I’ve got all the encouragement you need, baby.”

  ***

  Trufante reluctantly pulled the sheet off and got out of bed. He glanced over at the sleeping body next to him, once again admiring her curves. They might not all be real, but they were fun. Moonlight showed through the thin curtain covering the single window in his room; no sunlight yet.

  He thought about waking her, but didn’t want her around Mac when he picked up the boat, so he left her where she was. Mac had been fine when he had called last night about taking the boat for service this morning. He hadn’t planned on checking his traps for a couple of days, he said. With the season this slow, it was better to save the time and gas money and let the traps soak longer. When things were hot, the commercial limit of 250 lobster per boat per day was easy. You could go out and check half your traps each day and pull those kinds of numbers, but the way this year was going, it took almost three full days of soak and pulling all the pots to limit out.

  He left a note on the bathroom vanity with directions to the boat ramp on the Gulf side, where he would pick her up in an hour. Ready to leave, he went back to the bed and patted her butt.

  “Wake up, sunshine. I left directions in the bathroom. Meet me in an hour.” He made sure she acknowledged him before she closed her eyes again.

  Downstairs, he went out to his motorcycle and started the engine, allowing it to warm up for a minute before he climbed on. It was just getting light out when he started down the street. Several turns later he stopped at US1 and waited for the traffic, found a hole, and accelerated into the middle turn lane. He followed the highway for a few miles and turned left onto Mac’s street.

  “Why don’t you stop being an idiot and wear a helmet?” Mac asked as he pulled up.

  “Shoot, injures the reputation,” he responded.

  “Injures your brain is more like it, and I know you don’t have insurance.” Mac turned away and walked into the house.

  “Breakfast.” Trufante smelled the bacon as he followed him through the door.

  “Mel’s upstairs. Go ahead. There’s a few things I want to get off the boat before you take it.” Mac started
to walk through the downstairs workshop. The house, originally built on stilts, as were most houses in the Keys, had the bottom enclosed after the final building inspection, and now housed a small office and large workshop.

  Trufante turned and headed up the stairs into the living area. He found Mel deep into her laptop, muttered a quick hello, and went for the stove. After downing several pieces of bacon, he murmured something again and left, thankful that she had been engrossed in whatever her lawyer brain did. Theirs was a mutual-respect relationship, and that was mainly respect by distance. She was critical of Mac for still working with him after all the trouble he found himself in, and which usually involved her and Mac getting him out of.

  Back downstairs, he wandered through the workshop looking at the equipment scattered everywhere and walked out the door that led to the water. Mac was taking some fishing rods off the boat and placing them on the dock.

  “They said they could fix it while you wait?” Mac asked.

  “Sure enough. I told them the windlass has been nothing but trouble since we installed it. I’ll hang out—got nothing better to do. You going fishing?”

  Mac picked up the rods and walked toward the door, leaning them next to a small cooler. “Yeah, gonna take the paddleboard out and see if I can get into something.”

  “Well, later then.” Trufante turned and walked toward the boat, climbed aboard, and started the engines. Mac came over and slipped the dock lines for him and watched as he pulled forward into the small turning basin at the end of the canal. He slowed, pushed one throttle forward and the other back, and waited while the boat pivoted on its center. Once it was turned, he pushed both throttles to their first stop and idled out of the canal.

  The narrow canal opened into a large harbor where he passed several moored sailboats and one wreck from a storm last year. Ten minutes later, he pushed the throttles forward and left the channel, staying parallel to the Seven Mile Bridge. At the fourth opening, he turned hard to starboard and went underneath the new span, crossed a small section of choppy water, and passed under the old span now used as a pedestrian walkway to Pigeon Key. The Gulf opened in front of him and he navigated past a sand bar, its top exposed by the low tide, keeping the single pole that marked it to port. He looked over at the shallow water barely covering the obstacle and turned east.