“Are you sure this boat can handle that?” Jackie asked.
“Just watch and see,” I replied. Passing the end of the jetty, I knew without looking we had over ten feet of water under the keel, so I pushed the throttles forward to 1300 rpm and the Revenge dropped down at the stern as the big, four bladed props displaced the water under her. The bow rose slightly and she surged up on plane, just as the first waves started to smack the wide Carolina flare of the bow. The second wave sent up a spray that flew back and over the foredeck. I switched on the windshield wipers.
Within a minute, we were out of the choppy water of the shallows. I turned into the wind, heading southwest and pushed the throttles a bit further. Williams had done some work on the engines, mostly computer stuff and bumped the horsepower up from 1015 to over 1030. I had a top speed of 48 knots, in calm seas with a tail wind. At 1400 rpm, we were making about 25 knots, plowing head on into the oncoming waves. The bow was knocking the tops off and we were coming down off the crest a little too hard, so I backed it down to 1300 rpm.
In my opinion, there’s a time and place for speed. Too many boaters will run wide open everywhere they go, just for the adrenalin rush of velocity, I guess. Jet skis are the worst. Built for no other reason than to go fast, I have no attraction to them at all. More than once, I’ve had idiots jumping my wake on the damn things. Never being in any kind of hurry, I’d simply drop down off plane and idle along until they left.
“Those are some really big waves,” Jackie said.
“You should have been aboard during Hurricane Wilma,” Deuce said and from the look on his face I could tell he regretted it. It was the day my late wife, Alex, returned to the Keys. A whirlwind romance culminated in our getting married days after the storm and she was murdered that night.
“You were out on the boat during a hurricane?” Jackie asked.
“Just moved it from Dockside to the Anchor. Before the storm actually hit.” Changing the subject, I added, “Would you pour me another cup of coffee, Jackie? Just a half cup, or it’ll be all over me.”
She poured the cup and handed it to me. I drank it down quickly and started a slow turn that would take us across Pigeon Key Banks, toward Moser Channel. “It’s gonna get rough ahead,” I said. “Pigeon Key Banks coming up. Find something to hang onto.”
Coming down off the last wave before the shallows, I pushed the throttles up to 1600 rpm and the Revenge surged forward into the choppy water. The waves were only about 4 feet, but they were coming at all angles to the bow, so spray and foam were flying in all directions. We entered the channel and I turned due north, toward the high span of the Seven Mile Bridge.
Clear of the Banks, we had a following sea and the rollers were moving pretty fast. We were barely outrunning the wind, so I pushed the throttles further to 1800 rpm, the knot meter bouncing around 35 knots. We climbed the big rollers in the channel and came down gently over the crests, gaining speed as we surfed down the far side. Minutes later we passed under the bridge and between the pilings of the old bridge.
In the lee of the bridges, the sea calmed a little, but it was still pretty heavy, by Gulf standards. I dropped the throttles back to 1400 rpm to reduce the pounding. We were barely outrunning the wind now as we headed north. I turned slightly west, picking up the markers for East Bahia Honda Channel.
“That was kind of exciting,” Jackie said. “More coffee anyone?”
I nodded as Deuce handed his mug across and Julie shook her head. “None for me thanks.”
Jackie filled our mugs and handed them back. “Want to take her for a while, Petty Officer Jules?” I asked.
Julie looked at me surprised. “Sure.”
We swapped seats and she said, “Monkey to Bullfrog to Turtlecrawl, right?”
“Works for me,” I replied.
“What’s all that mean?” Jackie asked, puzzled.
“Place names,” Julie replied. “Monkey Banks is straight ahead about ten miles, then we’ll turn west toward the light at Bullfrog Banks and straight ahead to the light at Turtlecrawl Banks. There we’ll turn a little left into Harbor Channel to Jesse’s house. It’s a lot shorter in a flats skiff.”
A chirping sound came from between me and Deuce. I said, “Must be you, I don’t even know where mine is.”
He pulled out his cell phone and answered it. After a moment he said, “He’s right here with me, sir. Along with Commander Burdick and Petty Officer Thurman. Can I put you on speaker?”
After a second he punched a button and Stockwell’s voice came over the speaker, “I’m headed down to Homestead. From there I’m going to take a chopper to Boca Chica. Jesse, will you be there early tomorrow or tonight?”
“We’re on our way to my island now,” I replied. “to pick up the other boat. We’ll have both of them at the Marina before sunset. Deuce and Julie will stay aboard the Revenge with me tonight.”
“How long will you be at your island?”
“A few hours. I need to check on some things and touch base with my caretaker.”
“With your permission, I’d like to stop there on the way. Deuce’s description has me intrigued. I could be there by 1300, or shortly after.”
I looked at Deuce and grinned. “Sure thing, Colonel, please do.”
“I have two guests with me. Hope it’s not a problem.”
A familiar voice came over the speaker, “Hey Boss. Hey Jesse and Julie. How are y’all doin’?”
“Is that you, Tony?” Julie yelled.
“In the flesh,” he replied. “The Colonel was kind enough to ask me and Dawson to come along. Not going out fishing with you guys, though. Thought maybe we could hang on your little island paradise for some R&R, Jesse.”
“Any time, brother,” I said.
Stockwell’s voice came on the speaker again, “Good. Look forward to meeting y’all. See you at 1300.”
Deuce closed the phone and I said, “I like him better than Smith. Why do you suppose he wants to see us before morning?”
“No idea,” Deuce replied. “He’s real easy to get along with, but a real stickler for details. Maybe he wants to inspect your uniform.”
A few minutes later, Julie started a slow turn to the west. She knew these waters like the back of her hand and was actually navigating mostly by the bottom contour shown on the sonar. As we came out of the turn and were heading due west the rain suddenly stopped completely and we could see Bullfrog light dead ahead of us. The sky was blue to the west, as the clouds from the storm moved east.
“I could live here forever,” Jackie said, “and I don’t think I’d ever get used to how sudden the rain starts and stops.”
I got up and walked in front of the helm to the starboard side, unsnapped the side dodger and started rolling it up. Deuce did the same on the port side. Ten minutes later, Julie pulled back on the throttles and dropped the big boat down off the step and she settled into the water with a throaty burbling from the exhaust. She steered us into Harbor Channel and said, “You better take over, Jesse. I’m not real comfortable backing in.” We switched seats as we approached my island.
“That’s your house?” Jackie asked standing up for a better view.
“That’s home,” I replied as I pushed the button to sound the twin air horns on the roof. I turned south and brought both engines into reverse. Standing up and putting the wheel on the small of my back, I took the key fob from my pocket and pushed the unlock button on it. A catch released in the docking area under the house and the big door slowly started to open on giant hinge springs.
Actually, my house isn’t more than a shack on stilts. Just over a thousand square feet with a large combination living room, dining room, and kitchen in front with a bedroom and head in back. When I retired six years ago, I’d used up nearly all of my savings, which I’d scraped together over twenty years in the Corps, and added my inheritance from my grandfather to buy my boat and this tiny island. It's about two acres in size at low tide and the only beach is on the west side.
It took me a whole winter and spring to dig the small channel from Harbor Channel, just deep enough for my little skiff to get to it. I’d carved a hunk out of the island and spent all summer building my stilt house above the channel.
Last winter, I’d enlarged the channel and done a lot of work on the island, adding two bunkhouses and enclosing the dock area under the house. I’d gone up to the commercial docks in Miami during that first summer and scrounged through the discarded piles of pallets and lumber. There were lots of South American hardwoods there and I managed to find plenty of mahogany planks and quite a bit of discarded lignum vitae posts, rare in the states, but plentiful down there. The exterior siding is mostly mahogany. The roof is corrugated steel I'd scrounged from NAS Key West when they’d torn down some of the old Quonset huts. The floor beams are fourteen feet above the channel at high spring tide, just enough room for the Revenge. The floors, studs and beams are solid lignum vitae. My little house could withstand anything Mother Nature could conjure up.
“It’s beautiful,” Jackie said. “Like something from Swiss Family Robinson. Why did you blow the horn?”
I nodded toward the long dock I’d recently built on the spoils of the channel as Pescador came trotting out to the end. “Just letting my dog know I was home.” Using the throttles behind me and moving the wheel with my back, I maneuvered the boat into the channel and tucked it alongside the Cigarette under the house. Deuce climbed down to tie us off, as Trent came down the steps from the deck. I gently nudged the fenders on the dock and clicked the lock button on the fob. A battery powered motor activated and slowly pulled the big doors closed, as I shut down the engines.
“Welcome home, Jesse,” Trent said. “Good to see you again, Deuce. I understand congratulations are in order, Julie?”
“Thanks Carl,” Julie said. “How’d you find out?”
“Coconut telegraph,” he responded.
As Jackie and I climbed down, I said, “Carl, this is Commander Jackie Burdick. Jackie, meet Carl Trent, former slayer of shrimp.”
“So, you’re the one that fixed Jesse up, huh?”
“I just patched up a little damage,” she replied. “He’d probably have recovered with or without my help.”
Pescador came over and sat down on the dock in front of me. I reached down and scratched his ears and said, “Jackie, meet Pescador. Say hi to the nice lady, boy.” He looked up at her and barked once while wagging his heavy tail.
“We’re only here a few hours, Carl,” I said. “We’ll be leaving this afternoon with the Revenge and the Cazador for an early charter tomorrow down in Key West. I just wanted to stop and see how things were going and if you needed anything when we come back on Monday.”
“Come on,” he said excitedly. “Wait till you see it.”
I assumed he was excited about the progress he’d made on his house, but once we reached the deck, it looked like he’d only gotten the metal on the roof and not much else. We went down the back stairs and he headed to the east side of the clearing. There was a lot of construction debris near the edge of the tree line. When we got closer, I saw what it was. He had the tanks built for the aquaculture system, the pump and filters installed and everything plumbed.
“It’s nearly full now. The new water maker arrived yesterday, so I ran a hose from the cistern to get enough water in it to start the pump. Then I ran a one inch line out into the bay to pick up sea water and tied it into the water maker, which is now refilling the cistern. Should be full in another two days. Put a float switch in so it’ll come on automatically when the water level in the cistern drops below half full.”
I checked out the two long tanks he’d built. The one we were going to raise the crawfish in looked to be about twenty feet long, eight wide and three feet deep. It sat close to the tree line to be shaded throughout the morning and had an awning to block the sun in the afternoon. The other tank was the same length and width, but only about half as tall. It was out away from the tree line and sat on a platform, so that the tops of both tanks were level with one another.
Jackie stood next to me, looking it over. She turned to Trent and said, “You have the filters wrong.”
“You know about aquaculture?” I asked.
“What’s aquaculture?”
I stared at her for a moment. “If you don’t know what it is, how can you say the filters are wrong?”
“I have an aquarium and know a little about biology,” she said with a smile.
“Go on, Doc,” Trent said.
“I’m guessing you’re going to raise fish in one and plants in the other?”
“Crawfish,” I said. “But yeah.”
“Whatever. The idea is to use the waste from the fish, er, crawfish, to provide nutrients to the plants and the plants to provide clean, oxygenated water to the animals, right?”
We both nodded and she continued, “Fish waste is ammonia. That will kill plants and fish, if allowed to get too high. I use a wet/dry filter in my aquarium, a lot smaller than the one you have here,” she said, pointing to the last filter in the loop. “Aerobic bacteria in the wet/dry break the ammonia down into nitrite, also dangerous, but less so. Anaerobic bacteria in the sand filter will break the nitrites down into nitrates, which the plants will thrive on. The wet/dry should be first. Pump the water from the plant tank and let it gravity feed the filters, with a skimmer at the surface.”
“I got more plumbing to do,” Trent said. “Thanks Doc.”
“How many gallons is it?” Julie asked Trent.
“Once everything’s up and running, about 5500 gallons. But, you see the drain on the vegetable tank? We can connect it to another tank to expand it. From what I’ve read, we should be able to raise maybe four or five thousand crawfish and harvest maybe a thousand a month. The crawfish tank will have mesh dividers of varying size openings, so the little ones can move to the far end away from the others. With each spawning, I’ll harvest the biggest ones from the end and move each group up one divide to make room for the new babies.”
“Really ingenious. Anything you need?” I asked.
“How about cable internet?” he said with a laugh. “Running back and forth to the library in Marathon to look stuff up takes a lot of time.”
“I think I can hook you up with something,” Deuce said. “I’ll have Chyrel send down a laptop with a satellite modem.”
“What do you think we should grow?” I asked.
“Charlie’s in charge of that. She says stuff she can either freeze or can and stuff that she can pick a little at a time. We can probably grow tomatoes year round. Green beans, lettuce, cabbage, basil, cucumber, maybe okra and corn, but we’d have to build something that will hold them up as they grow taller.”
“Let’s start with tomatoes and lettuce. She can experiment with what grows best. Where are Charlie and the kids, by the way?”
“Fishing. Took the Grady out on the Gulf at sunrise.”
Jackie turned to me and said, “So, are you going to give me the nickel tour?”
We left the others and walked across the wide clearing toward the bunkhouses, Pescador trotting ahead. The Trent’s were still living in one of the bunkhouses. I’d built them to house Deuce’s team whenever they needed a place to train or stage for a mission. We walked out on the long pier beyond the bunkhouses and sat down on the end of the pier. The floating pier was built off island barged up from Big Pine Key.
“Where are you from originally?” she asked.
“I was born and raised up in the Fort Myers area.”
“Ah, that explains the name on your boat. He was a pirate up there, right?”
“So the story goes.”
She turned toward me and I could feel it coming like a freight train. The inevitable questions about past relationships. But, she started further back than that. “So, you weren’t always a Marine. What was your childhood like?”
“Normal, I guess. I was actually raised by my grandparents, though.”
“What happened to your m
om and dad?” she asked. Then her eyes changed to a serious look. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “My folks died when I was little. Dad was a Marine, a Sergeant on his second tour in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive. He was killed in action. Me and my mom moved in with his parents. She was the youngest of four kids, born late in her parent’s lives and they passed away about the time I was born. Mom had a hard time coping with dad’s death. She took her own life when I was eight.”
“Oh my,” she gasped. “That must have been really hard for you.”
“Pap, that’s what I called my grandfather, did his best to explain it. Said she couldn’t bear to be without dad and went to be with him, knowing that Pap and Mam, my grandmother, would take real good care of me. Pap taught me everything I know about the water and fishing. Mam taught me how to live a simple and frugal life. They didn’t have to, but they lived through the depression, so it was second nature for them I guess. Mam passed away in ’93, while I was in Somalia. She was cremated and Pap waited till I got home, so the two of us could spread her ashes on the Peace River. Pap died four years later.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A big, robust, fun loving guy. He loved playing practical jokes on his friends. He was a Marine, too. Served in the south Pacific, during World War Two. When he came home, he went to college on the GI Bill and became an architect. Owned his own firm until he sold it and retired young, to sail and fish.”
“He must have been a very successful man.”
“Yeah, he gave a lot to charities. When he died, he left everything to me, his only heir. I used it to buy the Revenge and this island.”
“What’s the name of this island anyway?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t really have a name. None that I know of anyway. Just one of the Content Keys.”
She stared off over the water, watching an osprey circling over a school of baitfish. Then she turned to me again and said, “I’ve all but thrown myself at you, Jesse. What’s a woman got to do to get your attention?”
Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series) Page 9
