The antennae retreated under the coral head. Three swift kicks propelled me down to the seafloor. Twisting my body, I hung upside down in the water less than a foot above the sandy bottom.
The water in the Grand Bahama Bank was as clear as it gets. The mid-morning sun cast dancing lights over the dark coral. A sea fan waved in the current at a passing four-eye butterflyfish. The end of my spear pole slipped under the jagged outcropping. I coaxed the Spanish lobster from his hiding place. When it emerged warily into the sunlight, I caught it behind his antennae. He slipped easily into the bag, hanging off my weight belt with the smaller lobster I caught only minutes earlier. Neither were large, but they’d make a good dinner with enough leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
Looking to the surface, I felt the burn beginning in my chest, begging for air. The timer in my head told me I had been down for almost four minutes, give or take a few seconds. A red lionfish swam along the small reef about ten feet from me. I considered if I could spare a few seconds to take a shot at the invasive species.
Grasping the rubber band that hung off the end of the spear pole, I pulled the rod back and clasped it higher up on the metal spear. I aimed and released my grip. The spear pole whipped through the water, missing its mark; the feathery fish nimbly darting away. I let out a burst of bubbles as I kicked toward the surface.
I was irritated by my aim. It was rushed. Trying to set up the pole and fire in just a second or two wasn’t proving to be effective. I like a speargun for those quick shots, but the regulations in the Bahamas call for no spearfishing with spearguns or the use of scuba gear. It’s a smart law that prevents sports divers from devastating the fish population of the islands.
Unfortunately, that red lionfish would survive another day. While the lionfish is a tasty fish, it’s also as dangerous to the reef as the over-fishing. The venomous fish appeared in the 80s and 90s, likely from an aquarium. The decades since have allowed their numbers to grow. The lionfish will prey on the other native species with no abandon. Their invasion has prompted the lionfish to become a no-limit bounty in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, the efforts to reduce their numbers in these waters hasn’t been able to stop them.
My head burst through the surface. The sun was directly overhead, and the light was bouncing off the water at every angle. Squinting and turning in a circle, I found I was only a few feet from my dinghy. I pedaled my feet toward the 10-foot wooden boat.
The hard-chined boat was rotting in an old man’s yard when he passed away. A regular at the bar I was working at pointed me in its direction. The wood was mostly solid, but she needed a lot of love and a few leaks repaired. After a bit of horse-trading with the old sailor’s widow, I replaced a couple of the stringers and reinforced the transom. The total restoration took me a few weeks. Once the boat was water-tight, a good two days of sanding and sealing left me a beautiful canvas to paint. The hull was a deep blue with white gunwales. The inside was all white. The name Beth was painted in bright red letters on the bow. Most people assume it was an homage to some woman in my life, but the truth was I was a fan of KISS.
My right thumb slipped behind my ankle and pulled the strap back on my fin so that my foot could slip out. When I had them both removed, I slung them into the dinghy. The rope ladder I used to climb back aboard was a homemade contraption that kept the boat balanced while I hauled myself into the dinghy. Two ropes stretched under the boat and hooked to the opposite gunwale, so my weight on the ladder would simultaneously pull at both sides.
As soon as I pulled my mask and snorkel off, I grabbed the bottle of water I left tied to the stern and floating in the water. The trick kept the bottled water from heating up in the sun. The cool water washed the salt from my lips.
I brushed my wet hair back and off my forehead. The outboard motor fired to life. I hoisted the anchor off the sandy bottom and stowed it in the anchor locker, one of the only small additions I made to the boat.
Carina was anchored half a mile north of me. She was picturesque, floating on the blue water with a few low hanging clouds in the background. To the east of my Tartan 40-foot sailboat was the newly formed cay. The growth of rock and sand rose from the ocean last year after two hurricanes, only weeks apart, dredged the shallow waters of the Grand Bahama Bank. The desolate island was only 120 square feet, and if a palm tree ever decided to grow there, it would resemble every cartoon depiction of a deserted island ever drawn.
The waters around the cay were teeming with sea life. Tiny reefs like the one I was just snorkeling were scattered around the area. Rays, turtles, and loads of reef sharks showed up every day. There wasn’t an inhabited island within 20 miles. I was making two or three snorkeling excursions every day, and my spear pole was helping me fill the refrigerator with seafood.
A couple of cruising friends of mine told me about it last month, and I knew I wanted to visit, if for no other reason than the extreme isolation. The first day I was here, a small pod of dolphins started a feeding frenzy 20 feet off my bow. After that, I knew I was going to enjoy this particular anchorage.
For two weeks, the only thing on the horizon was the little island until a Beneteau showed up one day.
The 50-foot sailboat arrived at dusk, and I was surprised to see the little anchor light in the dark. We greeted each other over the radio, but that was the only contact we had.
Aiming the bow toward Carina, I motored back. The wind was coming out of the east, and it was creating a slight chop in the water. Keeping the speed down, I was able to rise and fall on the crest of each wave smoothly.
My concentration was disrupted when a high-pitched whine sounded, and I released the throttle on the 10 hp outboard. My first thought was the outboard was making an odd noise. With the motor only idling, I could distinguish two engines screaming over the surface of the water.
I searched for a second before I saw two large cigarette boats racing toward the Beneteau. They were too far away to tell what kind they were, but both were longer than Carina. The two boats were moving fast, and they only backed off at the last second. This isolated anchorage was getting crowded. Maybe the peace had ended, and it was time to pull anchor and head south.
The bow nudged against Carina’s hull. I tied the painter, the line attached to the bow of the dinghy, to the aft cleat. When I’m at anchor, the easiest thing during fair weather is to secure Beth and let her float aimlessly. Tossing my gear and fresh lunch into the cockpit, I grabbed the boarding ladder and climbed aboard.
The engine noise died down as the two cigarette boats came alongside the Beneteau. Sighing, I was grateful that there was a return to quiet in my peaceful anchorage. Stepping down below, I grabbed a cold Pink Sands beer from the cooler and popped the top off it. Swallowing a gulp, I went back on deck to clean my lunch.
The grill on the side stanchion was ready for me to light. Once I had the flames going, I positioned the lobster on the grates and lowered the lid. Once they were done, I’d shell them and make a lobster roll out of some sourdough bread I made yesterday.
Leaning back on the cockpit seat, I closed my eyes and sipped my beer. The silence was again interrupted by one of the cigarette boat’s engines coming to life. My eyes opened and looked toward the three boats; three or four figures moved about the Beneteau’s cockpit. It appeared as though there was a struggle. Two men were dragging another into one of the speed boats. After a few seconds, the figures were all in both of the cigarette boats.
The Beneteau was moving off its anchorage on a northerly heading. The two go-fast boats drifted away for a few seconds before each revved up and raced toward the east.
The sails were all down on the Beneteau, and I couldn’t see anyone in the cockpit. Glancing at the sizzling grill, I went below and grabbed a pair of binoculars.
The helm of the Beneteau was unmanned, but the captain could have gone below for a second. She was moving slowly at about five or six knots. I watched for a full minute with no one coming back on deck.
My gut twisted. I reached over and cut the gas off to the grill; lunch would have to wait.
Untying the painter, I dropped into the dingy. The little boat rocked as I balanced myself. Beth could make about 15 knots in this water. The choppy water meant she was bashing along. The outboard whirred every time the dinghy crested a wave and raised the majority of the motor out of the water.
After a quarter of an hour of bouncing forward, I approached the Beneteau. The stern was a sugar scoop transom that was called that because of its resemblance to a scoop. The cockpit opened at the stern to a swimmer’s platform with a boarding ladder in the center.
There was still no one visible on board. I shouted over the motor, trying to alert anyone below. No one appeared.
I grabbed the looped end of the dinghy painter and closed the distance between Beth and Madge. When I was within an arm’s reach, I slowed the throttle. The tiller on the motor fought me as the displaced sea from Madge’s hull pushed the little dinghy away. I increased the speed so that I was out-pacing the Beneteau by a fraction of her speed. Holding the painter’s loop, I stretched my right hand out and grabbed the stanchion.
My arm felt like it was being pulled out of its socket as it fought to pull the dinghy against the sailboat’s wake. I released the throttle and used my left hand to grab the railing. As soon as I did, I came out of the dinghy. My right hand released the rail and slipped the painter around the cleat.
With the outboard only idling, Beth dropped behind. Luckily, the loop held my little boat. My feet were dragging the water, and I pulled myself up before I lost my grip.
Once I got my feet on the deck, I climbed over the lifelines and dropped into the cockpit.
The companionway was open. I peeked in and saw an empty cabin.
I pulled my dinghy up alongside and secured her with a better knot.
The cockpit floor was splattered with blood. Not enough to be life-threatening, but a substantial wound was inflicted.
I followed the blood splatter around the cockpit to the companionway. The cockpit cushions were sprayed in dried blood.
A severed finger lay on the deck.
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