by Bobby Akart
“Finally,” Lacey muttered as she gave the safety line a shake to confirm it was free. After securing it back to her life vest, she pulled all thirty feet of the slack up the ladder to give her plenty to work with. After another deep breath, she wiped off her face and turned around on her hands and knees to face the unpredictable top hurling itself around the boat.
In a tug-of-war against the changing momentum of the boat, Lacey pulled her way forward to the helm located on the top deck. The wires and ropes were wrapped through the front railings. Each time the Bimini top whipped around over her head, she could see the railing give and begin to pull away from the fiberglass. Only a couple of screws prevented the entire railing structure from joining the twisted mess.
Lacey climbed to her feet and used the chair to steady herself. The wind gusts continued to push her toward the starboard side. The Bimini top suddenly flew upward, sucked up like it was being pulled into a vacuum. This gave Lacey the opportunity to cut through the nylon lines that kept it in place.
One by one, she sawed through the ropes, each time causing the canvas to pull farther away from the boat. She allowed herself a smile as she saw the progress she was making.
“Come on. One more.”
She cut through the last of the ropes, fully expecting the canvas to fly off into the deluge.
It didn’t.
The Garmin radar antenna remained tangled with the top. She had to cut the coated wire. Lacey stood and gripped the circular antenna with her left hand and pulled the cable taut. She vigorously sawed through the hard plastic exterior and then began to sever the steel cables that ran through it until she reached the heavy-duty copper wire.
She grunted as she gave it one more full effort. Her strength surprised her as she cut through the final obstacle that threatened to break every window in the wheelhouse.
It only took the blink of an eye. Less than a second. A freakish event caused by the mind failing to coordinate one hand with the other.
But the second the cable was cut, and the tangled Bimini top was released from bondage, Lacey had unconsciously kept her death grip on the Garmin radar antenna a little too long.
She was suddenly airborne and flying over the back of the Cymopoleia.
Chapter Forty-One
Friday, November 8
Aboard the Cymopoleia
Gulf of Mexico
The transition from crisis to catastrophe came in an instant. Once Lacey was sucked into the air, her release of the Garmin antenna was of little consequence. The hurricane took control. As her body was heaved upward and then flung over the stern, she let out a primal, guttural scream. Her arms flailed like a windmill as if she were trying to swim in the wind-driven rain.
None of this mattered as she was body-slammed into the water just twenty feet behind the boat’s transom. Stunned, Lacey lost her breath momentarily as she was drawn underwater by the forward momentum of the Cymopoleia, which was riding another wave to the bottom of a trough.
Lacey struggled against the water that wanted to drag her away from the boat. She caught her breath when the boat topped the next wave, hull exposed, only to crash down the other side of the crest. The nylon rope whipsawed as the boat picked up speed on the descent, pulling her five feet out of the water.
The momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath. She wanted to scream in an attempt to get Tucker’s attention. However, the boat entered another swale, and she was sucked below the surface again. The normally warm waters of the Gulf were cold, but not paralyzingly so. The chills that came over her body during the ordeal were more from the wind when she was airborne than when she was being dragged below the surface.
As another wave crested, the Cymopoleia’s bow rose into the air until it came crashing down, followed by the fish on a line—Lacey. She thought of Owen. His face. His touch. His kiss. She fought to live for him. For their son.
She gripped the nylon rope with both hands until they bled. The stinging salt water sent pain throughout her upper body. It also helped her stay focused. She was beginning to time the waves. In her mind, she could count the seconds between the boat’s rising and falling. She’d caught her breath, and she willed her body to respond. She was going to survive.
“Help!” Lacey screamed as loud as she could when she was pulled out of the water. “Tucker!”
Then she was sucked below again and dragged along. Sometimes tumbling as she rolled over and over. Other times, simply pulled out of control, the life jacket squeezing her ribs and belly. Another ten to twelve seconds passed. She readied herself. Out she flew.
“Tucker, help meee!”
Tucker thought he’d imagined hearing his mother’s voice. As he fought the wheel and the never-ending waves trying to crush their hull, he pressed his face against the starboard windows and the windshield. He’d noticed that the Bimini top was no longer pounding the boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the barometric pressure had stabilized at 980 millibars. The storm was no longer strengthening, at least for now.
Then he became concerned. He knew his mom was most likely being deliberate and careful, but she should’ve been back inside the relative safety of the wheelhouse by now. He was becoming frantic as he searched for her through the windows.
At one point, he made the mistake of releasing the wheel just to take a quick look on the aft deck. In a matter of seconds, the boat was shoved to the right, and if not for his quick reflexes and upper-body strength, the Cymopoleia would’ve been slammed in the side.
The second time Tucker heard her cry for help, he had to do something. He couldn’t leave the helm. Releasing control for a moment could get them rolled. Early on, before the seas turned angrier, he’d tried deploying autopilot to guide them through the waves. That didn’t work.
He needed to find a way to lock the ship’s wheel in place. The only way was to tie it down using his safety line. Tucker ignored the admonitions of his mother to remain tethered to the boat while they rode out the storm. After reducing the boat’s speed but not too much so it couldn’t climb the oncoming wave, Tucker unclipped the safety line from his life jacket. He quickly proceeded to wrap it through the ship’s wheel and around the stainless grab bars until it was tight. Then he used the carabiner to secure the line again. He gripped the spokes and gave it a good back and forth tug. To confirm it would work, he let go for a few seconds as the boat powered through another wave.
He heard his mom scream again. This time, he was certain of it. Tucker put all the risks out of his mind and raced out of the wheelhouse. His first inclination was to look up where he’d noticed the Bimini top was gone. The Cymopoleia rose high into the air and came slamming down, as it had hundreds of times before during the night. Tucker was airborne as weightlessness overcame him. His legs kicked and his arms were outstretched, looking for anything to grab onto to keep from going overboard.
That was when he found his mother’s lifeline. Taut. Stretching. Holding onto the boat’s ladder for dear life. And now, it had become Tucker’s lifeline too.
He fell hard to the deck, but he managed to hold the nylon line with his right hand. A searing pain shot through his shoulder as the boat’s motion fought against his grip. But he knew his mom was still attached. He just knew.
Unable to gain his footing, Tucker grasped the line and slowly allowed it to slip through his hands, rubbing his palms raw. Not that it mattered. It was almost as if he could feel his mom’s beating heart on the other end. No different than when she’d fed him in the womb.
The outstretched line bent over the half-wall at the stern. The heat of Big Cam, the powerful diesel motor, rose through the engine compartment hatch as it struggled to propel the boat against the waves.
Suddenly, as the boat’s bow rose to ride another crested wave, Tucker slid hard to the rear, crashing into the stern wall with his back. He managed to crawl to his knees just as the bow reached its apex and came crashing downward again into the trough.
This was unsustaina
ble, and Tucker doubted his makeshift autopilot would hold.
During the lull between the crest-to-trough series of waves, Lacey screamed again. “Help!”
Only this time, she got a response. Tucker saw her emerge from the darkened water, illuminated only by the boat’s running lights. He shouted to her, “Hold on, Mom! I’ll pull you in.”
“Tuck—!” The second syllable was garbled as she was dragged below the surface again.
In those next few seconds, Tucker thought through the dynamics of what he faced. He’d have to time it just right. And he’d have to hold on.
Without delay, he climbed onto the transom with both hands on the rope. He pressed his back against the stern, fighting off the searing heat generated by the diesel engine.
Cymopoleia rose toward the sky again. He fought gravity to keep from being thrown past his mother and a likely death. At the top of the wave, he tensed his muscles. He firmly planted his feet and gripped her lifeline, waiting for the right moment.
The bow dropped. The stern began to lift. His mother emerged from below the surface. Tucker yanked the rope, pulling hand over hand as he quickly reeled her onto the transom just as the boat reached the bottom of the swale and started its upward climb.
He wrapped his left arm around his mom and draped his right over the stern’s half wall. She tried to help but lost her footing, which almost dragged them both back into the water. Tucker told her what to do.
“Wait ’til the top!”
The boat made its way up and over. As it hit the crest, the momentum shifted, and gravity became their ally. Tucker hoisted his mother and flung her onto the aft deck. A second later, he leapt upward and flew over himself, belly flopping on the water-covered decking and sliding hard into the wheelhouse.
Lacey was clinging to the ladder, somewhat stunned by the sudden turn of events. Tucker wanted to hug his mom. Comfort her and make sure she was okay. But he’d noticed the battering of the Cymopoleia’s bow had forced it off course so that it was no longer hitting the waves head-on.
He grabbed his mother by the life jacket and jerked her through the door of the wheelhouse. He allowed her to lie on the floor as he pulled her safety line inside. Then he slammed the door shut with a snarl directed toward the beast that had tried to swallow them.
Tucker stumbled toward the helm, crashing hard into the captain’s chair as the boat lurched toward starboard. Now he had to quickly undo the tightly wound security line meant to hold the boat on course, not beyond her captain’s control.
At the top of the next wave, the Cymopoleia pivoted slightly. It was as if she’d become stuck in the center of its gravity on a ball. The next trip down the wave was more of a sideslip than another descent on the water roller-coaster ride from hell.
Tucker reacted quickly. He loosened the safety line enough to turn the wheel back to the left so that the bow was hitting the next wave head-on. He also gave it more throttle at the same time. He’d saved them from being turned, and he was once again attacking the waves head-on.
Days later, Lacey and Tucker would recall this as the moment they knew they’d survive.
Part IV
Day twenty-three, Saturday, November 9
Chapter Forty-Two
Saturday, November 9
Blackwater Sound
Near Key Largo
It wasn’t the kind of dawn of a new day that Peter was used to. Florida, the Sunshine State, rarely failed to live up to its name. Even when a storm passed, the bright blue skies coupled with a glorious sunrise could lift the spirits of even those in the direst of situations. However, in the throes of nuclear winter, pitch darkness simply gave way to a smoky, hazy shade of gray.
Nonetheless, Peter’s biological alarm clock woke him with a start. He was disoriented and confused as he tried to make sense of why he was floating. His arms ached beyond belief, as he’d managed to stuff his hands and wrists through the handles located at the rear of the WaveRunner seats.
At first, the nerves had been pinched for so long that his arms wouldn’t respond to his commands. Unlike during the night he’d endured when the hurricane-force winds had tossed him atop the sound like a fishing bobber that had broken loose from a line, the water was now smooth with barely a ripple.
Peter’s mind forced him awake. Everything that had happened the night before flooded through his consciousness, especially his recollection of losing Jimmy. He forgot about the searing pain in his shoulders and let go of one of the WaveRunners. He kicked his legs and used all the diminished strength he could muster to climb onto the saddle of the WaveRunner.
He lowered his eyes and cupped his hands over them to adjust to the glare created by the grayish clouds that hovered over the Keys. Then he tried his voice.
All he could manage was a whisper. He recalled his efforts to yell for Jimmy until his vocal cords became severely damaged. Without any way to call for his friend, Peter fired up the WaveRunner. He was going to resume the search, but first, he tried to get his bearings.
He was astonished to see that he was only half a mile from shore. The waterfront homes at Stellrecht Point jutted out into the sound to his left. To his right, the mid-rise buildings of the Key Largo Bay Marriott marked the beginning of the hammocks that stretched around Blackwater Sound to his rear.
Remarkably, Peter started to laugh, hoarse as he was. They’d been so close when he’d lost track of his friend. Had Jimmy not fallen off his WaveRunner, within minutes, they would’ve been pulling onto the small beach at the Marriott or nearby at Rowell’s Waterfront Park, which was the favorite playground of dog owners in Key Largo.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t assume that Jimmy had swum to shore. Once again, he cupped his eyes and looked in all directions. There were no boats on the water, and the typical flotsam prevalent following a hurricane surrounded him.
Even under normal conditions in which residents and businesses had ample warning of a coming storm, invariably many failed to secure items that could be picked up by the wind. Patio furniture, canoes, surfboards, umbrellas, and portable signage was oftentimes found floating just offshore following a hurricane.
Peter cursed aloud as he tried to differentiate between an overturned canoe and a body floating in the water. But he had to check everything out in case Jimmy had latched onto a piece of debris to survive the night, much as he’d used the WaveRunners to keep him afloat.
So he took off to inspect the debris nearest to his position. Unlike during the night and the worst of the storm’s passing over him, he could now keep up with his position because visibility was somewhat better than what he remembered from the day before. It was if the hurricane and its strong winds had acted like a vacuum cleaner to suck up the sooty fallout and carry it northward as it terrorized the rest of Florida.
For more than an hour, as dawn turned to morning, Peter searched for Jimmy but was unsuccessful. Finally, he decided to go ashore and enlist help from the sheriff’s department. He hoped he could get in touch with his father or at least Mike and Jessica. He was certain they’d drop everything to help search for Jimmy.
The fire department had locations near the destroyed bridges and farther down U.S. 1 from Blackwater Sound. There wasn’t a police substation near his location that he could recall. His best option was the Marriott resort. They were the most prominent buildings that he could see from the middle of the sound, and he believed Jimmy would notice them first if he’d swum to shore.
As he entered the man-made inlet created in the middle of the resort to accommodate visiting yachts, he was able to observe the destruction wrought by the hurricane. Although the resort had been closed, anything not adequately secured had been blown around the property. Even some windows were broken out, which was an indicator of how strong this hurricane had been.
Most of the commercial buildings in the Keys had been retrofitted with windows to withstand a Category 5 hurricane. A Cat 5 would feature winds greater than 155 miles per hour and, depending on circumstances, could be ac
companied by storm surge over eighteen feet. Peter saw evidence of this in the smaller buildings flanking the Marriott.
Roofs had blown off or collapsed. Many shrubs, trees, and signs were twisted, shredded relics of their former selves. Several small boats from the boat dealer across the highway from the Marriott had found their way into the parking lot. Even a red KIA had landed nose down in the middle of Breezer’s Tiki Bar, a place Peter had frequented often during his years of commuting to college.
Peter was relieved when he saw two uniformed private security guards rushing toward him as he rode under a covered walkway that stretched over the water. Not surprisingly, as had often been the case during his travels from Virginia, the men approached him with weapons drawn.
“Hey! This is private property. You need to turn it around.”
Peter was exhausted and in no mood for a fight. He needed to find Jimmy. Peter, whose throat was parched and still somewhat hoarse, tried to speak as loud as he could.
“I got stuck on the sound during the storm last night. My friend fell off his WaveRunner, and I can’t find him.”
“Well, he’s not here,” said the second man as they towered over Peter from the floating dock that lined the resort’s marina facilities.
“Do you know that for certain?” asked Peter sarcastically, gulping hard as he realized he’d tried to speak too loudly. He softened his tone. “His life may be in danger, and he needs help.”
“There are a lot of folks who need help after last night,” the first man shot back. He waved his arm around the hotel. “Look at this mess.”
Peter was incensed. He whispered loud enough for the security guards to pick up on his outrage. “I’m talking about a man’s life, not your precious palm trees and patio furniture!”
