After we ate, we pulled the canoe up from the bottom, where we’d sunk it with every diving weight I had aboard. After dumping the water out and stowing the weights, Jimmy got in to retrieve the anchors and untie the lines. DJ moved out into the bay a few hundred yards and I anchored nearby, then invited him over to enjoy the AC for another night.
Jimmy was able to use the laptop’s satellite connection to get news reports from the Keys. Eight hours after landfall, it looked like a war zone down there, as people came out of nearly demolished homes to find their property destroyed beyond repair. Boats had been washed away, and the highway connecting the islands was impassable.
NOAA had put images up on the internet; recent satellite images. Jimmy zoomed in on Boot Key Harbor. When we’d left, I’d caught a glimpse through the old Boot Key bridge span and saw dozens of boats still swinging on mooring balls. The images showed the harbor was nearly empty, save for four or five boats, and there were a lot of vessels driven onto the northern shore and into the mangroves. He zoomed in on each one still moored, and we realized that most that weren’t swept away were partially sunk.
We’d already decided that it would be far too dangerous to make the run back home in the dark. There would be debris in the water and broken limbs hanging over Shark River to contend with. Since there was nothing we could do, we retired in order to get an early start. By the time we were ready to turn in, Irma was passing to the east of Tampa as a weakening Cat-1 storm.
I tried Rusty’s satellite phone, but he didn’t answer. As I was putting the phone back on the charger, he called back.
“We’re fine,” I said without preamble. “How are things there? Jimmy picked up some news reports. Looks awful.”
“We haven’t been out any farther than Boot Key,” he said. “Can’t drive anywhere. Lines are down, sand’s washed over the road, and parts of houses and boats are everywhere. Found a boat in a tree on the way over there.”
“How’d your place hold up?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“Nobody got hurt,” he replied. “And no structural damage. Can’t say the same for Dockside.”
“What happened there?”
“It’s still there, but the pilings shifted, and most of the roof tore off.”
A couple of years ago, after Dockside had been closed up for a while. Eric Stone, who sometimes played at the Anchor, started a crowdfunding to buy and renovate the place, and then reopened it as Dockside Tropical Café. He’d sold out just a few months ago and gone on the road, taking his trop-rock music all over the country.
“Guess Eric got out just in time,” I said.
“Yeah,” Rusty agreed. “We have a lot of trees down here on my property. Been working on cleaning up since about noon and hope to open on generator power tomorrow afternoon. Jesse, the eye passed right by your place.”
“I know,” I replied. “I’m not holding my breath in hopes of finding anything left.”
“When ya comin’ back?”
“We’re anchored in the middle of Tarpon Bay right now, planning to leave in the morning. I want to run by my place first. Probably get to the Anchor about noon. Is your canal open?”
“No,” he replied. “But it will be before you get here.”
“We’ll need space for the Revenge and a twenty-seven-foot sailboat.”
“Consider it done. Y’all be careful.”
We said our goodbyes, and as I lay in my bunk, I could hear Jimmy and DJ talking in low voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Jimmy sounded dismal. My island had been his home for quite a while now.
The man had been in a hurry to get to his boat. With the restaurant’s windows covered, Sunna knew that nobody could see her run after him and catch him at the dock. She’d asked if he knew where the Content Keys were and how to get there, and he’d told her the only way to get there was by boat, and then only if you had the GPS numbers. She’d asked him if he could show her.
He’d been reluctant, saying he had things to do, but when she’d pulled the gun from her purse, he’d become more compliant. She’d ordered him to show her exactly where it was on his boat’s navigation equipment. He’d complied, muttering that she would be stupid to go there in the storm. When he’d finished, and sat back on the side of the boat, she’d shot him in the forehead. His body fell backward into the water.
It had taken nearly two hours to reach the group of islands where McDermitt lived. The conditions were much rougher in the Keys than in the tranquil waters of Tortola. And shallower. She’d run aground twice before realizing that although the navigation equipment showed a straight line, she had to work her way around many islands and follow the depth lines on the screen.
A torrential rain started falling as she got closer. Finally, she could see the metal roof of a house above windswept trees. There was a very low dock in front of it. The man at the bar had said that McDermitt had taken his boat to Tarpon Bay, wherever that was. But sooner or later, she knew he’d return.
She tied the stolen boat to the dock, close to the house, confident that nobody was inside. There were two large doors below the house, reaching all the way down to the water, but she saw no latch on the outside of either one.
With rain dripping from her hair and face, Sunna went up the steps cautiously, gun in hand, just in case her assumption that no one was at home was wrong. Her clothes were wet, but the air was very warm, so she didn’t feel uncomfortable.
When she reached the top, she found a deck that wrapped around three sides of the house. The only thing on it was a wooden table, which seemed to be attached to the deck.
She tried the door and found it locked, and the windows were all covered with metal. Looking through the rain, out toward the middle of the island, she saw three more small houses.
The wind tore at her clothes as she stood on the back deck, flattening her soaked shirt to her back and snapping at it in front. Likewise, her wet hair stood almost straight out from her face.
At the bottom of a second set of stairs, she walked past several water tanks, two of which had plants growing in them. Though mostly bare, she recognized many of them as vegetable plants.
Continuing to the nearest house, she found that door also locked and the windows covered with metal panels, the same as the house on stilts. She found the third and fourth houses similarly closed up; no way to get inside any of them.
Sunna’s anger rose inside her again. She stood in the middle of the small island and screamed up at the fast-moving clouds. The storm was getting worse and she needed to seek shelter.
She went back to the main house and looked for another way in. There was a smaller door on the first level, just below the stairs down to the pier. When she tried it, the door opened easily. There was no floor inside, just water, with a narrow walkway around three sides, and another in the middle. Other than that, it was empty.
A place to store boats, she thought, as she noticed some sort of locker at the end of the far walkway.
Another one behind the door had several shelves, with large canvas bags on each one. She unzipped one and found it full of scuba-diving equipment. When she opened the closet at the end of the far walkway, she found a blanket of sorts, along with tackle boxes and fishing gear. The blanket was camouflage-colored and quilted. She took it and went back to the entrance door.
Starting to get a chill, even in the warm summer air, Sunna looked outside at the slanting rain. The wind was whipping the treetops, making them sway back and forth.
At least I’m out of the wind, she thought, looking for a dry place to rest.
Water dripped down through the gaps in the deck planks above. But it looked like the closets were covered. At least the stuff inside had been dry. The blanket wouldn’t be much use if she didn’t find a dry place to get out of the rain.
Sunna went back to the door and looked out. The rain was pouring down and t
he wind whistled through the trees. The house covered part of the docking area below it, but the only part of the walkway it covered was along the far wall.
The closets, she realized, clutching the dry blanket.
It would be dark in a few hours. With no other option, she removed all the gear from the floor of the closet next to the entrance, as well as everything on the first shelf, then removed the shelf itself.
With her clothes soaked through and now cold against her skin, she removed her shoes and placed them on the shelf above, in the hope that they would dry out by morning. She wrapped the blanket around her, squeezed into the small space at the bottom of the closet, and pulled the door closed behind her. Even through the blanket, she could feel the rough wooden planks of the floor.
He’ll return, she thought, as she pulled the blanket tighter around her. He has to return. And when he does, I’ll be waiting.
The storm got wilder outside, and when she thought it had peaked it got even worse. The wind howled past the house and sheets of rain pounded on the side. Huddled in the blanket, her clothes slowly shed water, and her body heat helped dry them to dampness.
Suddenly she realized what was happening. She’d heard stories on Tortola about a devastating hurricane that had hit there nearly thirty years ago; Hugo it was called.
Was this a hurricane? she wondered.
The blanket she was nestled in smelled of dog. Outside, she could hear the tempest continuing to build, hour after hour, the screaming wind louder than a locomotive. The building itself seemed to move with each gust of wind. Or maybe it was just her imagination.
As the storm worsened, it became darker. Night was falling. Surely the storm would end soon. Even hurricanes didn’t last forever. When it was over, McDermitt would return. Once she’d gotten revenge for his slanderous comments, she’d go someplace that didn’t have storms.
Bunched in the bottom of the closet, Sunna was at least warm. Her clothes had soaked the section of the blanket she was sitting on, but her shirt felt a little dryer.
She lost all track of time, but it had to be all over soon. Inside the closet, in the dark confines beneath the house, she could see nothing, not even her hand waving in front of her face. She closed her eyes and dozed, but nothing could close her ears. Minutes turned into hours. She drifted into a sleep-like state, not really asleep, but not fully awake either. She was beyond exhausted, after two days on the boat and the ordeal to reach this island, and slumped against the wall, drifting in and out of a fitful slumber.
Suddenly, she felt something wet against her bottom. More wet than the blanket. Thinking her butt had become numb from sitting on the hard floor, she attempted to reposition herself. Her foot splashed into the water.
Panicked, Sunna first tried to stand, banging her head against the shelf above her. She calmed herself and noticed there was a faint light coming from under the door. It was nearly dawn. If anything, the storm was worse.
She felt around for the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open slightly. What she saw sent a chill of fear down her spine. The water under the house had flooded over the walkway. Either it was rising or the house was sinking.
How high could it go? she wondered. Would she be trapped inside the closet by the rising water?
The big doors were bowing inward from the force of the wind. Outside, waves were splashing against them, straining the latch. In the blink of an eye, the far door burst off its hinges, exploding inward until it lodged itself at an angle, stopped by the center dock and something she hadn’t noticed the night before.
But the wind didn’t stop there. Almost instantly, the back wall flexed outward and blasted apart. Boards were sucked away into the growing daylight.
Sunna screamed and fell back into the water inside the closet. But not before what she’d seen registered in her mind. Perhaps due to the growing darkness the previous night, and her having entered the gloomy confines of the lower dock level of the house, her eyes had not adjusted quickly enough. She hadn’t noticed the metal ladder that rose straight up to what looked like a trap door.
Peeking out again, she saw it. Yes, a ladder made of metal pipe. After pushing the door open further, she got to her feet. The wind was whistling through the opening it had created. Sunna doubted the other door would last long. She looked at the entrance door. It was actually vibrating in its frame. Going outside would be far too dangerous.
With the water continuing to rise, the trap door at the top of the ladder was her only hope now. She moved past the entrance door, her feet sloshing through water that had already topped her ankles. With one hand, she held onto the rough timbers supporting the house; with the other, she clutched the blanket around her neck as she moved cautiously along the walkway to the corner.
As Sunna reached the corner and turned toward the middle dock and the opening torn out of the wall, a tree branch was sucked right through the underside of the house, taking more of the siding with it as it exited through the gash. The door was deflecting some of the wind but was banging up and down at opposite corners. The other door creaked and groaned against its hinges and bolt.
Gusts of wind snatched at her and Sunna had to drop to her knees and crawl the last meter to the middle walkway.
With the wind tugging at the blanket, searching for her, bent on carrying her away to Valhalla, she held onto the edge of the walkway and looked up at the inviting hatch above the ladder. A massive gust blew through the opening, pushing the large door around. It nearly pulled her off the narrow walk. She had to release the blanket to grab the edges of the planks in both hands and the blanket was pulled immediately through the opening in the back wall. Sunna dropped to her belly.
Waves were washing into the dock space, lifting her from the walkway. Staying low, Sunna pushed against wind and wave with her legs, feeling the skin tear on her knees as she pulled with her hands. The saltwater stung the cuts and abrasions.
Finally, with one great push, she reached the bottom of the ladder and gripped it, looking up. The floor of the house was an impossible distance away, nearly five meters.
She pulled herself up, the wind tearing at her clothing and hair, trying to snatch her off the ladder. One step at a time, she moved higher. The round metal rungs hurt her bare feet.
Hugging the ladder tightly, she looked down. She’d left her shoes in the closet. Terror filled her eyes when she saw that the water had almost reached the closet’s doorknob.
Pushing on, she climbed higher. The wind nearly dislodged her twice because her wet feet were sliding on the slick metal rungs. Finally, she reached the trapdoor and turned the handle. It gave and she pushed up on the hatch. It rose perhaps a dozen centimeters and stopped, banging into something above.
Sunna lowered the hatch, stepped up one more rung, and flung it upward with all her strength, pushing with her forearm. It slammed into the obstruction, failing to give way, and sending a jolt of pain through her arm.
Putting her back against the hatch, she tried to push with her legs. She could see inside the house. It was dark, but dry. The hatch wouldn’t open enough to get her head through, much less her body.
There was a cracking sound from outside, louder than the roaring of the wind, and then a heavy thud shook the house violently. That was followed by a clamor that seemed straight out of hell; cracking timbers and the sound of metal being twisted and torn away.
It was suddenly light in the house above her. The roof had been torn away and now the wind and rain was coming at her from above and below, reaching for her, like the angry embrace of a jilted lover.
Sunna pulled the hatch closed and latched it. Then, getting as high as she could, she clung desperately to the ladder. The water continued to rise. Soon it reached her feet and once more she screamed. But the roar of the wind stole her cry right out of her mouth as large waves reached her hips, their force threatening to tear her from the ladder.
After nearly an hour, we finally made it to open water. Once we cleared Shark River’s mouth and entered the Gulf of Mexico, we turned south and maintained DJ’s slow speed. He had a nice beam reach and was able to make seven knots, motor-sailing with a single reef in the main.
It took us five hours to reach my island. Even from a distance I could see that it wasn’t going to be good. None of the islands looked the same; the mangroves that fringed them were bent, broken, and mostly bare.
As we passed Mac Travis’s place, I could see past it to where my floating dock should have been on the north side of my island. It was gone. Mac’s house wasn’t usually visible through the trees, since it was built back in the middle of the island, but many of his trees were now down, and the leaves were mostly stripped from them. There were no boats tied up or on shore.
We idled single file down Harbor Channel. I could see the south dock; it was still intact. I’d built it low to the water, barely above it at high tide. The slightest storm surge would have covered it and protected it from the wind.
“Holy hell,” Jimmy breathed, as I slowed the engines and prepared to drop anchor.
“We’ll anchor here and go in in the canoe,” I said, surveying the damage. I could see that one of the big doors to the dock area had folded inward against its hinges, and my roof was completely gone. “The channel might be completely filled in with sand.”
Rising Water Page 23
