Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

“Nah,” I called back. “Y’all go on ahead. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  As Rusty and Finn roared away across the flats, Jimmy following in Knot L-8, I bumped the throttles up and steered toward the light at the mouth of the channel. I wanted deep water all around me before turning south with the current. There weren’t any boats tied up at Mac’s place and from my vantage point on the bridge, I could just see the roof and upper parts of the windows. He was boarded up and gone.

  It was late afternoon when I reached the markers at Rusty’s channel. I slowed carefully as I made a wide turn—I didn’t want Cazador ramming me. Once I anchored the Revenge, I swam back to Cazador. Her engine started immediately, and I tossed off the tow line. Jimmy was waiting at the ramp with Sherm’s big three-axle trailer already in the water.

  An hour later, with the sun nearing the western horizon, Jimmy and I had El Cazador secure on the concrete pad and the Revenge nestled snugly against the dock. We ate fish sandwiches on the deck behind the bar and turned in early.

  Jimmy’s younger than me by more than a decade, and no stranger to hard work, but I could tell even he was exhausted.

  Through the next morning, Jimmy and I pitched in and helped anyone who needed anything done. There was no shortage of fishermen, lobstermen, divers, and boaters who wanted to use Rusty’s ramp and tie-down area. By afternoon the concrete pad was full. Then, as if it’d been scheduled to the minute, a truck from the mainland arrived. On a trailer behind it was a skid steer loader with an auger attachment and a portable concrete mixer. In the back of the truck were four pallets of quick-set concrete mix and a gross of the same big eye bolts that were imbedded in Rusty’s pad.

  “Move it right around back,” Rusty called out to the driver, as he came out the back door of the bar. “Jesse, can you run that thing?”

  “We should be able to figure it out,” I replied, as the truck crunched past us on the crushed shell.

  “There’s still a dozen boats what’ll need to be secured. Maybe more.”

  “About three feet deep?”

  Rusty nodded. “Yeah, that should get you far enough into the limestone for a good anchor.”

  As Jimmy and I started for the back of the property, a Cessna 185 passed over, flying low and slow. The plane had pontoons very similar to the ones on my plane. It turned southwest, then circled back to the left, lining up for an upwind approach in the bight. Billy had said he and his friend would arrive at noon.

  Boat retrieval stopped for a few minutes as the float plane moved toward the ramp, then exited the water with a roar. The pilot turned it around next to my plane and shut the engine down.

  A couple of years ago, Billy had bought his own plane; a Beaver like mine, but ten years newer. The Cessna’s doors opened and Billy climbed out of the co-pilot’s seat, stepping lightly to the ground.

  As usual, Billy had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail at the back of his neck. I noted a few streaks of gray at his temples as he strode toward me in jeans, boots, and a Western-style shirt. Though we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, I knew that I could count on my childhood friend.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said, extending my hand.

  Billy took it, locking our wrists together in the Indian way. “No problem,” he said. “It’ll be safe in the hangar. We just had a new one built last month, rated to withstand a 150-mile-per-hour wind.”

  He introduced me to his friend, a guy he only called Clark, without indicating if it was his first name or last. The three of us walked over to the Island Hopper and I handed Billy the keys.

  “Flew her two weeks ago,” I said, “and started her this morning. No issues.”

  Together, Billy and I did a complete walk-around and checked the tires, floats, control surfaces, and fluid levels. Satisfied, Billy climbed in and started the big radial engine.

  Within half an hour of arriving, the two planes taxied down the ramp and out into the bight. One by one, they throttled up and were soon airborne. They circled out over the water and flew back over us, just above the treetops. Billy waggled the wings of my bird as they went over.

  By mid-afternoon, Jimmy and I were ahead of the boaters, drilling three feet into the limestone bedrock and pouring concrete in, leaving anchor bolts sticking out of the top. The boats were parked between the concrete pilings with tie-down straps draped across them to be secured after the concrete had cured for a day.

  Irma continued to spin like a saw blade along the northern spine of the Caribbean, passing close to the high mountains on Puerto Rico and Hispaniola. The updates reported sustained winds of 185 all day. The close brush with the mountains hadn’t weakened the storm, and I was starting to rethink my plan. The only other option would be to head due west and try to make the Texas coast. But again, the storm could follow me the whole way and beat me up when I ran out of fuel. No, plan the mission, and execute the plan.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I told Jimmy during dinner at the Anchor. “You coming with me?”

  Jimmy knew exactly what I was asking him. Hurricane Irma had us dead in her sights. Whether it passed by into the Gulf as a Cat-5 or made landfall as a Cat-3, we were going to be hammered.

  “Yep,” Rusty agreed. “If you’re gonna go, tomorrow morning’s the best time for it.”

  You know I’m in, Skip,” Jimmy replied, raising his juice drink. “Another adventure, man.”

  As night fell, the trucks pulling empty trailers stopped coming. But the small parking lot was full. Locals, all of them. A storm was coming and the Rusty Anchor was where people tended to congregate in times of stress. Everyone had a computer or Smartphone these days, and the information was right there. But people still came. It’d been that way since Rusty’s grandfather had the place, and probably before then.

  We continued to watch the updates, alternating between the NOAA website forecasts and the national news outlets for damage assessment.

  Irma was just south of the Turks and Caicos, battering the exposed shoreline on the south and east sides with 165 mph winds and twenty-foot waves. The storm center was nearly fifty miles from them.

  Finally, the report came that I’d been hoping for. The interaction with mountainous land masses was taking its toll on the storm and she was downgraded to Cat-4. There was a collective sigh of relief in the bar. The monster could be tamed. But would she continue to weaken over the next two days?

  Every hurricane model showed it turning north at some point. But most were focused right toward the Florida Straits between the Keys and Cuba, then turning north through the Upper Keys and Everglades, then right up the middle of the state toward Orlando. If that track held, the Middle and Lower Keys, as well as my hurricane hole in Tarpon Bay, would be on the west side of the storm, the weaker side, and would be spared the devastating effects that Key Largo or Miami might get on the northeast side of Irma.

  “Weakening’s good,” Jimmy said, as we made our way down to the docks and Gaspar’s Revenge, Finn trotting ahead of us.

  “Good,” I agreed. “But not great.”

  We both knew what might be coming, so we didn’t need to talk much about it. Weathering a big hurricane in a relatively small boat was dangerous. Tucked into a deep mangrove-lined creek was the only place to do it. We’d have a wind break on three sides and the root systems were massive, intertwining with other mangroves for hundreds of feet along the marsh bank.

  The island and the Revenge were as prepared as they were going to be. Rusty and Sidney were staying at the house and would board up after closing at noon on Saturday. Rufus decided to stay as well, though he had to be in his late seventies. So, Rusty had moved him into the guest room of his little house. Rufus’s shack was sturdy, but it was down near the water, and only five or six feet above sea level. Rusty’s house and bar were both built from sturdy Dade County pine. They’d weathered many storms, including the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935, which
had killed thousands in the Keys, most by drowning.

  Friday morning dawned gray and foreboding. Irma was still a Cat-4, and still barreling toward us. The location shown on the computer in the salon had it almost on top of Inagua Island, just fifty miles or so northeast of the eastern tip of Cuba. Less than 500 miles from Marathon.

  Rusty brought down some fish sandwiches wrapped in foil. “So you don’t have to stop working to cook,” he said. “You’ll have a lot to do when you get up there. You sure you got enough dock line?”

  Rusty could worry more than a hen sometimes. “You know I do. We’ll be fine. I’ll call you when we finish tying up.”

  Several minutes later, we idled slowly out of Rusty’s canal and into Vaca Key Bight. I brought the Revenge up to thirty knots, turning wide around East Sister Rock, and its single multi-million-dollar home. It sat exposed, a good quarter-mile off the accessible mainland at Tingler Island.

  As I continued the wide turn and lined up for the high arch of the Seven Mile Bridge, I found myself wondering if the house would still be there when we returned.

  The crossing was uneventful, seas were calm, and the sun finally broke through the gray clouds. If you didn’t know there was a massive hurricane bearing down, you’d think we were just a couple guys heading out for a relaxing day of fishing.

  At 0900, we were approaching the turn into Ponce De Leon Bay and the many mouths of Shark River. Jimmy got to his feet with the binoculars. “Somebody ahead of us. A small sloop.”

  “Hail him,” I said, watching the chart plotter.

  There were shallow banks to the north and south of Shark River, with several false channels that led to a sandbar or just dead-ended. The main channel itself is only deep in a winding path through shallow water. Not much of a problem for the Revenge. She only drew about four feet at idle, but a sailboat’s keel could be much greater.

  “Sailing vessel entering Shark River,” Jimmy said into the mic, “this is M/V Gaspar’s Revenge.”

  The reply was almost immediate. “Gaspar’s Revenge, this is the sailing vessel Whole Nine Yards. Is that you in the fishing machine approaching from the south?”

  “Switch to one-seven, Captain.”

  The other boat acknowledged and Jimmy changed channels, reestablishing contact. “Affirmative, Whole Nine Yards. We’re about two miles behind you, going up to Tarpon Bay for the duration of the storm. You?”

  “Same thing,” the man replied. “Name’s Griffin, Stan Griffin.” The name didn’t ring a bell, but the voice, though garbled slightly by the distance, seemed familiar.

  “Jimmy Saunders here, with Captain Jesse McDermitt at the helm.”

  The man didn’t say anything for a moment. I could see that he’d taken the correct inlet through the shoal water. Finally, he responded. “Feel free to take the lead if you like.”

  “We’re good,” I told Jimmy.

  “We’ll follow you in, Stan,” Jimmy said into the mic.

  “Roger that.”

  By the time we reached shallower water and I had to slow, we were less than half a mile behind the sloop, which I was guessing was exactly twenty-seven feet long, based on its name.

  We followed the sailboat up the river at idle speed. The narrow confines of the deep river made it difficult to pass, and we still had plenty of time, so I hung back a few hundred feet, in case he ran aground.

  Mangroves and an occasional bald cypress tree closed in around us on both sides as we continued upriver, their branches rising higher than the roof over our heads. Reaching a long, wide part of the river, we could see out over the trees to the east and south. The vastness of the ’Glades stretched before us. Beyond it all, hanging in an arc that probably stretched a couple hundred miles, a curve of dark gray clouds was approaching—the first big outflow band from Irma.

  “Looks pretty ominous,” Jimmy said.

  “And it’s still 500 miles away,” I replied, looking at the clouds that dominated the southeastern part of the horizon. “That’s just a feeder band.”

  After an hour, we finally moved out into Tarpon Bay, and I nudged the throttles to catch up to the sailboat. The guy seemed to have a spot already picked out, though he hadn’t said much of anything on the radio. When we came alongside, I looked over. He glanced up at me and grinned.

  “Good morning, Jesse,” DJ Martin called out.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said, throttling back. “What the hell is that you’re riding in?”

  He drifted closer and I slowed the engines to an idle. “Just bought it,” he shouted up. “Moved Reel Fun to Armstrong’s yard on Bimini and found this for sale there.”

  “I didn’t know you sailed.”

  “Neither did I until I was halfway back. The storm kinda surprised me. The only electronics aboard are the radio and a chart plotter. Didn’t hear about it until yesterday in Boot Key Harbor. I sailed through the night to get here.”

  “Wanna raft up?”

  “Sure!” he replied. “Lead the way.”

  “Hang back and let me get a couple of anchors down.” I pointed toward the creek mouth a little to port. “It’ll take us about twenty minutes.”

  I punched the speed up and turned toward the creek I’d anchored in once before. With Jimmy on the bow, we moved slowly into the creek mouth as far as we could. Depth wasn’t a problem as much as width and overhanging branches.

  When we got as far as we could, I nudged the bow to starboard, getting as close to the side of the creek as possible. Jimmy released the safety chain and I toggled the windlass, dropping a seventy-pound Danforth anchor six feet below to the muck-covered bottom. Jimmy tied a float ball to the chain before we let more rode out, in case debris blocked us after the storm and we had to retrieve the anchor by hand. I reversed the engines and with the help of the light current flowing out of the creek, the Revenge backed to the mouth of the creek, paying out 100 feet of rode. I braked the windlass and backed down, pushing the flukes into the primordial ooze.

  With the wind and current on the bow, Jimmy and I worked quickly, putting the canoe in the water and lowering another seventy-pound Danforth into it, along with an eighty-pound plow anchor.

  In no time at all, we had the second Danforth down on the other side of the creek, also with a hundred feet of chain rode, and the plow 100 feet astern.

  DJ maneuvered his little sailboat alongside. We both put several fenders over to protect the boats from banging into one another, and soon had them lashed together securely.

  “How’s the ankle?” DJ said, reaching over to shake my hand.

  “Your ankle?” Jimmy asked.

  “Hurt it a few days back,” I said. “Jimmy, this is DJ Martin. DJ, my first mate, Jimmy Saunders.”

  The two shook hands. “Wait. Didn’t you say your name was Stan Griffin?”

  “We work together, Jimmy,” I told him.

  “Oh. Yeah, man. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Jimmy can be trusted,” I told DJ. “Come on over. Let’s check the storm and eat lunch before we get started.”

  “Get started on what?” DJ asked, stepping over onto the Revenge’s gunwale and down into the cockpit. If Jimmy noticed the titanium rod between DJ’s shoe and shorts, he didn’t let on.

  “There’s a lot of work to do, man,” Jimmy replied. “Gotta tie off to about a dozen of these bigger mangroves, then cut away any branches that are dead or diseased.

  Inside, Jimmy went to the computer and I put some of Rufus’s fish sandwiches into the small microwave.

  “Whoa,” Jimmy breathed and looked over at me. He spun the laptop around. “All the spaghetti lines are pretty much in agreement.”

  The image showed dozens of different forecast models, maybe hundreds. All of them based on different computer models. The lines were tight and compact until just south of Miami. Each one predicted Irma to turn north, some earlier than oth
ers. But all of them had it making landfall somewhere between Homestead and Key West. None were outside that 120-mile stretch.

  The microwave beeped and I put the sandwiches on paper towels on the settee. “What’s the current status?”

  “Still a four,” Jimmy replied, turning the computer back toward him. “Changed course slightly more westerly. It could make landfall on Cuba before hitting here.”

  We ate in silence as Jimmy paged through several screens on the NOAA site. “Looks like there’s some kinda eye wall replacement going on right now. That could be bad.”

  “How so?” DJ asked.

  “Usually an eye wall replacement happens when a ’cane encounters more favorable, warmer waters. A new eye will appear near the old one, where the more favorable spot is, and it just sucks up the old eye.”

  “So, that means it might intensify?”

  “Possibly,” Jimmy said. “We can check again in a couple of hours.”

  Finishing the sandwiches, we got to work. DJ had a single anchor, which Jimmy carried far up the creek in the canoe, until the low branches blocked him.

  “Still four feet deep up here,” he shouted back. “I can get out and carry it farther. It’s pretty straight.”

  “I only have about twenty feet left of the 200-foot rode,” DJ shouted back.

  “Drop it there,” I shouted through the mangroves. “DJ, tie it off to your strongest cleat with enough of a tail to tie the bitter end to your mast step.”

  There was a splash ahead and a few minutes later Jimmy shouted, “Got her set deep in the muck!”

  Aboard the Whole Nine Yards, DJ and I hauled on his anchor rode together; it was set firmly. When Jimmy returned, I lowered four heavy dock lines to him and he paddled off toward the port side of DJ’s boat. He glided among the mangroves, tying the lines off to low, thick trunks. The lines uncoiled as he paddled back.

  When Jimmy passed the lines back up to DJ, I handed him four more, and he moved the canoe around to the other side of the Revenge to do the same thing there.

  The air cooled and a gust of wind brought the rain smell to my nostrils. It had been blistering hot all morning, so the cooler air felt good against my sweaty skin.