Sea Change

Book 2: Southern Waters Adventure Series

by Nate Littlefield

Genres: Sea Adventures; adventure; suspense; Florida; action adventure; sea adventure; southern fiction; underwater thriller; scuba diving

Synopsis

September 1926: A rumrunner boat sinks in a hurricane off the coast of Florida. Only one man survives.
Present Day: Four friends, diving in the beautiful waters of the Gulf of Mexico, make a most startling discovery.

Divemaster and charter boat captain Alex Nolen and his friends suddenly find themselves facing dangers that could change the course of their lives forever.

A slick, self-absorbed conman arrives on Florida’s Emerald Coast with the intention of defrauding struggling business owners in the area. When he targets the Silver Gull Marina, he may have bitten off more than he realizes. He’s certainly no criminal mastermind, but when his unwelcome attention toward Jennifer Walker becomes an obsession, it’s soon clear that he’s dangerous as well as disturbed.

How much damage can the man do before he’s stopped? Is there a way to undo the damage he has already caused? Together, Alex and his friends work to stay one step ahead of the man before someone else becomes a victim.

Sea Change is the second book in the Southern Waters Adventure Series, a fun adventure/suspense series that all readers in the family can enjoy. Each book in the Southern Waters series may be read in order of publication date or as a stand-alone novel. Download a copy and start your adventure today!

Release date: June 17, 2022

Publisher: Southern Waters Publishing

Print pages: 269

Content advisory: Threatening situations

Sample

Prologue

September 20, 1926. Early afternoon. Gulf of Mexico, Southwest of Pensacola, Florida.

 

Robert McIvey stared in morbid fascination at the band of clouds and rain approaching from the southeast. A seasoned mariner previously with the Royal Navy, he was no stranger to the mood swings of the sea. The storm seemed to be far away and crawling, but he knew that the perception of distance on the ocean could be deceiving. The weather had been steadily deteriorating for hours and the shortwaves were chattering about a massive storm moving across Florida and into the Gulf. Some reported that communication with Miami was now completely cut off.

As a career sailor, McIvey had survived the Great War only to finally be washed ashore by the gout. After the death of his wife, he left England in frustration, traveling around in steamers until finally settling on the Gulf Coast of the United States. He liked the area, the food, and even some of the people. Most of all, he liked the fishing. His son and daughter-in-law joined him a year later.

“Hey, McIvey!” an impatient, lower Manhattan accented voice forced his attention away from the weather. Dante Orsini, Captain of the Cormorant, was snapping his fingers at him. “Pay attention, here. We need to work fast.”

“Aye, aye,” McIvey raised the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead in a brief salute before reaching out to grab the heavy burlap sack that was being offered to him by a crewman. In turn, he handed the sack down to another crewman who was standing on the ladder leading down into the hold. Each sack was specially padded to keep the valuable bottles of liquor within from shattering, but he still treated each with care. Most of the bottles, he knew, originated from the Caribbean and probably contained rum. He couldn’t be certain what kind of spirits were in each sack, but he imagined there was at least one bottle of aged scotch whiskey. His favorite. The hauling and transferring of liquor may be considered an illegal activity in the United States, but in Robert McIvey’s opinion, dropping a sack and breaking a precious bottle of scotch would be the true crime.

The Cormorant, a forty-two foot, low-profile, steel-hulled boat with two modified V-12  aircraft engines, was built specifically with rumrunning in mind. It was a fast boat, with a new step-hull design that allowed the craft to ride atop the water at higher speeds, rather than plowing through the water like a traditional displacement hull. McIvey understood the need for speed in this operation, especially when trying to outrun the Coast Guard, but he preferred the stability of the tried-and-true displacement hulls. The Cormorant had proven herself to be fast and maneuverable in the protected waters closer to shore, but out here in the Gulf, and especially with the winds of an approaching storm, he didn’t trust the design. All the more so in the hands of a captain who thought that speed was the solution to any problem.

Dante Orsini was hand-picked by the higher-ups in New York to captain the boat. Orsini recruited McIvey in a speakeasy in Pensacola, seeming at first to acknowledge and appreciate the older man’s years of experience. He soon showed himself to be aggressive and impatient, especially with McIvey’s frequent flare-ups of gout and his methodical, unhurried manner. He was also, McIvey thought, a less than competent boat captain.

The Cormorant was now tied up alongside a ‘mother-ship’, the Spinner, a flush-decked schooner that had sailed from Belize with a large shipment of consumable alcohol. They had already transferred several dozen wooden crates to the hold, and were now busy stuffing burlap sacks into every open space they could find.

“Ship,” came a call from the Spinner. McIvey looked over to see a seaman hanging from the crosstree of the schooner’s mainmast by the crook of his arm. In his other hand, he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

“Where away?” Jose Alvarez, captain of the Spinner, shouted up at him.

“North, nor’west,” replied the lookout. Everyone on board both vessels stopped what they were doing and looked in the direction he indicated. Even though they were miles beyond the twelve-mile limit, the presence of a Coast Guard ship was a constant threat to their enterprise. Not long ago, the Spinner might have been part of a rum row, a line of ships gathered to dispense their cargoes to the smaller craft. The Coast Guard had gotten wise to such a large gathering of ships, however, forcing them to implement smaller and quicker unloading operations. Only a few months ago, a Coast Guard vessel had fired upon, and sunk, a rumrunner boat in the Gulf, leaving everyone on edge. The idea was that the approaching storm would keep the Guard’s Rum Patrol ships closer to shore, but it paid to be alert nonetheless.

Several anxious minutes passed as the men watched the lookout, and the lookout watched the approaching boat. Captain Orsini began edging toward the wheelhouse. If need be, the Cormorant could reach speeds of over thirty knots, leaving the Spinner behind as the most likely target of any pursuit by law enforcement.

“It’s the Crawdaddy,” the lookout said finally, and everyone on both vessels visibly relaxed. The Crawdaddy, captained by a laid back Louisianan known to them only as Possum, was an important part of why New Orleans was known as one of the ‘wettest’ cities in America, despite laws prohibiting the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors. The crew went back to their task of loading sacks of alcohol as the old fishing trawler approached. Soon, the Cormorantwas fully stocked, and Orsini ordered the crew to untie from the schooner. He eased the boat away, making room for the trawler.

“Little Italy,” Possum’s deep, velvety voice called over the water, in greeting to Orsini. “I knew I’d find you still out here. You’re about the slowest little Italian around.”

“Don’t call me that. It’s Captain Orsini.” McIvey listened to the exchange between the two men, knowing the teasing would put the captain in a foul mood for the return trip to Pensacola. Orsini wasn’t exactly a small man, but Possum was considerably taller and loved to make the New Yorker turn red.

“Hey, before you go, Captain, I got something for you. A present.” By now, the Crawdaddy was tied up to the schooner and boxes were already being transferred. Possum walked to the railing of the trawler, accompanied by a thin man in round, wire-frame glasses and a mousey-looking woman, similarly bespectacled.

“Yeah? Whaddaya got?” Orsini piloted the Cormorant closer to talk to the other man without yelling over the wind, which had increased considerably. A steady rain had begun, and the seas were getting choppier. A large swell lifted all three of the ships, one by one, causing a crewman on the Spinner to drop a crate of liquor overboard.

“Be careful with that!” Alvarez told the man, though there was little that could be done about it now. McIvey watched the wooden box float away, feeling sympathy for the seaman. He knew the cost would probably come out of the man’s pay. 

“Love this weather,” Possum said, grinning. If he was upset by the loss of the crate, it didn’t show. He just set his feet and shifted his balance with the rise and fall of the deck. The couple beside him hung onto the railing and each other. They both looked like they were going to be sick.

“Hurry up, Possum,” Orsini said, swabbing the rainwater out of his eyes with his palms. “I gotta get going before this storm really gets started.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, Little Italy. Enjoy the moment. This here,” Possum laid his hand on the thin man’s shoulder, “is Doctor Irving Cooper and his wife.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a medical doctor,” Cooper corrected, looking green in the face.

“So?” Orsini looked from Possum to Cooper and back again. “I ain’t got time to make new acquaintances.”

“The Coopers just got married and they need to get to Pensacola,” Possum said. “Their car broke down. They’re starting their new life together and a new practice in Florida. I knew you’d be out here, so I promised them a ride.”

“You promised?” Orsini sputtered. “You promised them a ride? With me? I ain’t running a taxi service here, you dumb Cajun. I got product and I need to get it to Pensacola before that comes.” He jabbed his finger at the dark gray eastern sky. A rogue wind gust coming from a northeastern band of the storm nearly knocked him to the deck as the boat rocked. His face was redder now than McIvey, looking on, could ever remember seeing it.

Possum smiled. “You’re missing the point, Little Italy. Doctor Cooper here is a doctor. He’s an opto, something or another.”

“I’m an optometrist,” Cooper said, looking down at the sea moving below him. “My wife, Ida, is an ocularist.”

“Look at the horizon,” Possum told the man. “You’ll feel better if you keep your eyes on the horizon.”

“Optometrist? That’s an eye doctor, right?” Orsini asked. “So, what?”

“He can write prescriptions,” Possum said, lifting his eyebrows and smiling.

Orsini looked Cooper up and down. “You can write prescriptions?”

“For some things,” Cooper said. “I’m not really a medical doctor, but for things pertaining to the eyes, I can prescribe some medicines. And lenses, of course, for those who need glasses.”

“And for pain, maybe?” Orsini asked.

“Well, yes, especially if the pain is somehow related to the eyes.”

“Oh, it is,” Orsini said, pinching the bridge of his nose and tilting his head back. “I get a pain behind my eyes every time I see him.” He pointed at Possum, who was grinning. “The only thing that’ll help is medicinal alcohol.”

“Well, I,” Cooper looked at both men, and then at the crates and burlap sacks being loaded aboard the trawler. He rubbed raindrops off the lenses of his glasses. “I don’t know. You want me to write you a prescription for the medicinal use of alcohol in exchange for the boat ride to Pensacola?”

“Naw, not just that,” Orsini said. “If the law comes calling, you can maybe legitimize our shipments by signing off that it’s all for prescriptions. You and your wife set up your practice in Pensacola, and we’ll send business your way. There’s a lot of folks we know that has pain behind their eyes.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to lose my license or go to jail.” He looked at his wife, who frowned and said something in his ear that the other men could not hear.

“The law doesn’t prohibit getting liquor if a doctor says they need it,” Possum said, his voice the epitome of smooth persuasion. “You’ll be helping a lot of people feel better.”

“And you’ll make a ton of money,” Orsini urged. “Your new bride here will be impressed at how successful her husband is. Besides, most of your new clientele will be judges and policemen anyway.”

“True.” Possum nodded. “That’s true.”

A voice cut into their conversation. “Whatever you guys are talking about, do it on your own time,” Jose Alvarez shouted from the deck of the Spinner. He was cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard. “This operation is over. I’m getting my ship out of here. I suggest you both do the same.”

Possum raised his hand and waved an acknowledgement to Alvarez.

“Well?” Orsini called across to Cooper. “Are you coming?”

“Okay,” Cooper said, exchanging glances at his wife and nodding his head. “We’ll do it. Just, please, get us to Pensacola.”

“McIvey,” Orsini turned and barked, “help these two people and their belongings aboard. Get them below.”

“Aye, sir,” McIvey said, stepping to the railing to help the gangly man, his wife, and their possessions aboard. He debated the wisdom of trying to head into the storm, but he knew that arguing with his captain was bad form, especially in front of others. Orsini was proud of being installed at the helm of the Cormorant. He considered himself the supreme authority.

Irving Cooper handed down a large wooden case. It was stained a rich reddish-brown, with metal hinges. To McIvey, it looked like some kind of display case.

“Please be careful,” Cooper said, passing him a second, similar, but smaller case. “These are fragile.”

Following the wooden cases came two large carpet bags. McIvey caught the items, then turned his attention to the couple. One-by-one, he guided them down a rope ladder dangling from the side of the trawler, timing their decent with the rise and fall of the two boats so that they wouldn’t get crushed between the fenders of the Cormorant and the large truck tires decorating the sides of the Crawdaddy. Just as the boats came together, he was able to grab Mrs. Ida Cooper by her tiny waist, plucking her off the rope ladder and lightly placing her on deck. Mister Cooper, on the other hand, didn’t seem to want to let go of the ladder. In the end, he fell the last few feet, knocking the wind out of McIvey as the old sailor cushioned his landing on the deck.

“Until we meet again, Little Italy,” Possum bowed at the waist, extending his hand in a flourish.

“Yeah, try not to get yourself sunk, ya dumb Cajun,” Orsini said, but the corners of his mouth raised in a lopsided grin.

The three boats separated, the schooner picking up speed and heading southwest, while the Crawdaddy made for Louisiana waters. Captain Orsini pointed the Cormorant northeast toward Florida, into the rising wind, and throttled the engines. The heavily laden boat surged forward, at first waddling in the turbulent seas, then sprinting along faster as it picked up speed.

Robert McIvey came back on deck after seeing to the Coopers and their belongings. The Cormorant was designed to haul cargo, not people, and there were no bunks aboard. He seated the optometrist and his wife on a couple of crates well away from the rest of the crew and gave them a bucket, just in case. They both looked as though they would be making use of it at any moment. Now on deck, he looked at the water washing over the bow and the whitecaps and sea-spray all around the boat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and crossed over to the wheelhouse. The pain in his right foot was intensifying, and he moved slowly.

“Pardon my sayin’, Captain,” McIvey said, stepping through the open hatch and approaching Orsini in private, “but maybe we ought to reduce our speed. It’ll give us more stability.”

“Nonsense,” Orsini said. “This boat is fast. We’ll be in Pensacola in no time.”

“That’s just it, Captain. It’s gotten a lot worse, real quick. We ought to head west, away from the storm. We don’t want to be trying to dock anywhere in conditions like this. Storm surge and flooding along the coast is going to be dangerous.”

Orsini looked over at the old man and sneered. “You were in the English navy, right?”

“The Royal Navy, yes.”

“And when you were in the Royal Navy, did they teach you that the captain is in charge? Did they train you to follow the orders of your captain?”

McIvey looked into Dante Orsini’s eyes, seeing only self-importance. He bit back the retort that a real captain earned respect by having the best interests of his ship and crew in mind. Instead, he just sighed, knowing his words would be lost on the man. He had already resolved that this would be his last trip aboard the Cormorant.

“Aye,” he said, finally turning to limp out of the wheelhouse.

“Go below,” Orsini ordered. “Make sure everything is secure. We don’t need a bunch of broken bottles.”

He was partway through the hatch and turning to respond just as a massive wave struck from starboard, lifting the speeding boat up and tossing McIvey all the way outside the wheelhouse and over the port railing, down into the surging waters of the Gulf. Instinctively, he held his breath as he plunged underneath the surface. For a moment, he felt disoriented, not sure if he was angled up or down. But then he saw a muted light above him, in contrast to the darkness below. He kicked furiously, clawing upward, toward the surface.

As soon as his head was above the water, he pulled in a deep, ragged breath and looked around. Rain pelted him as he struggled to see through the fury of the storm. At first, he found himself in a trough, and all he could see were vertical walls of water. Then the swell of a wave pushed him far enough above the surface and he saw the inverted metal hull of the Cormorant.

The gray hull blended with the clouded sky and the dark water, but he saw clearly that the boat was finished. He began swimming toward it, but it was sinking rapidly by the bow. The boat disappeared from his view as he slid down into another trough. By the time the next wave lifted him up again, it was nowhere to be seen. 

McIvey submerged his head, straining his eyes to see through the murky saltwater. He saw a dark shape that had to be the Cormorant, disappearing into the depths. His eyes stung, but he stared hard, looking for bodies. He saw nothing more in the dark water, only a stream of bubbles ascending in a column from where the boat went down.

After a moment, he raised his head, pumping his legs hard to stay above the surface. He paddled around in a circle, hoping to see survivors. He imagined he could hear people screaming, but the sound transformed into the howling of the wind and he couldn’t be sure. At one point, he thought he heard the distinct accent of Dante Orsini yelling at him, “McIvey, pay attention!” He paddled around, looking behind him. No-one was there. The image of Doctor Cooper and his wife came to his mind as he had last seen them, sitting on wooden crates with their arms around each other. McIvey’s face was wet and his eyes stung, but whether from seawater or tears, he couldn’t be certain.

He bobbed in the water, rising with the waves and sliding down the sides in between. He kicked when he could and stopped to rest when he had to. There was little else he could do.

 

***

 

Consciousness seeped into his mind in stages. It started with a simple awareness of existence. Sound and smell followed soon thereafter, with the familiar sounds of waves and seagulls and the scent of fresh sea air. He expanded his lungs to breathe in the smell. His favorite smell. This brought on the next sensation, a salty burning in his throat. Then came pain. By the time he felt the pain, he realized it had been there all along. He was only now aware of it. Finally, he opened his eyes. With minimal head movement, he glanced around. He was lying on the ground, hugging a log. He had no memory of encountering the roughly cut log, but there it was. White sand, grasses, seaweed, tree branches, and pine needles lay in his field of vision. A crab skittered by, pausing only a moment to consider him before continuing with whatever mission it was on.

The pain, he found to his great relief, was mostly in his muscles, apparently not his bones. He slowly rolled over and climbed to his feet. It was daylight; the sun was high in the sky. Looking around, he saw he was well ashore, on the side of a sand dune, surrounded by saltgrass and sea oats. Behind him, the ocean appeared calm, tranquil. Far different from his recent experience in the storm-tossed sea.

Boards, some painted, some not, lay randomly scattered around on the ground, but he saw no evidence of nearby homes or businesses. No people. Ahead of him, north from the gulf, was a long stretch of water and beyond that, in the distance, another shoreline. He realized he was on a barrier island, most likely Santa Rosa Island. Across the body of water, which would be Santa Rosa Sound, was the mainland. Robert McIvey hung his head. He was weary and his body ached all over. Still, he knew of no bridge linking the island with the mainland. If he wanted to get home, he would have to swim.

He walked across the dunes in his bare feet, having kicked his shoes off when he was in the water. He had not gone more than ten steps when he felt a sharp pain in his left heel. Bending down to examine his foot, he saw a large beige-colored sandspur sticking from his heel. The pain that the small bristled form caused surprised him. He extracted it, careful not to impale his fingers on the spines. It was then that he noticed the ground was covered by grass-like plants with stalks, each stalk containing several burrs. Considering the ordeal he has just gone through, he was almost beyond caring at this point. Yet, the thought of having multiple sandspurs stuck in his feet forced him to pick his way gingerly across the dunes. The gout, he felt, was bad enough. He didn’t need to add any more pain to his feet than he was already experiencing.

As he approached the sound side of the island, he gazed at the opposite shoreline. Even from this distance, he could see the devastation the hurricane had caused. The community he saw on the mainland was small, but just about every house and store lay in ruins. Many structures were completely demolished, almost down to their foundations. Random piles of lumber lay strewn across the landscape. Automobiles were overturned or smashed up against each other. Boats and pieces of boats had been carried inland. Here and there, fishing boats were sticking out of the water by their bow, stern, or keel. None that he saw were actually floating.

He heaved a sigh. Part of him wanted to just stay on the island. Maybe take a nap for a while. He could probably make a shade from the fan-shaped leaves of saw palmetto. After all that he had been through, it would feel good to relax. But then he thought about his son and daughter-in-law in Pensacola. How had they fared during the hurricane? Were they hurt, or worse?

Clenching his jaw, he walked forward, wading into the water. His clothes had dried from his previous immersion, and the contact with the water of Santa Rosa Sound chilled him despite the warmth of the sun. When he was chest deep, he dug his toes into the sandy bottom and pushed off. He began swimming. His muscles, sore at first, soon loosened and his strokes became stronger and more confident. It actually felt good to him. Some people thought he was an old man, and sometimes he even felt like it. But there was no doubt that Robert McIvey truly loved the water.

 

 

Chapter One

Present day, August, Tuesday afternoon. Northeast of Pensacola Bay, Florida.

 

Samuel Gibson looked out of the window of his office at the Silver Gull Marina, taking in the two weathered wooden docks that stretched out toward the waters of Bayou Chico. It was a view he had enjoyed almost every day of his life since he was a little boy. His grandfather had built the marina in 1919, not long after World War One had ended. It had to be rebuilt completely following the Great Hurricane of 1926, and it needed extensive repairs in 1969 with Camille, 1995 with Opal, 2004 with Ivan, and most recently, in 2020 with Hurricane Sally. On the other hand, hurricanes like Frederick in 1979, and Dennis in 2005, had spared the Silver Gull, even though surrounding marinas and businesses experienced severe damage. Despite the repairs, the marina looked as tired and aged as many of the boats that were tied to the docks. Samuel Gibson loved the Silver Gull with all his heart, but at sixty-three years of age, his desire to continue managing it had waned long ago. He knew he had been neglecting the place for years. Unlike his father and grandfather, he had no children to take over for him. He was just done.

“Well?” the man standing behind Sam asked, a tinge of impatience in his tone. “What do you think? It’s a fair offer.”

Sam continued staring out the window, watching the boats gently bobbing up and down in the bayou. Most of the owners had known him for decades. He could recall the day that each of them had first tied up at their berths. He knew most of their families, and he had shared a coffee or a beer with one or more of them each week.

The man standing behind him in the office cleared his throat. The loud noise made it clear he was more interested in gaining attention than in clearing an obstruction to his airway. Sam blinked and turned. Despite the oppressive August heat, the younger man wore a knee-length, black cashmere overcoat, and a white, open-collared, herringbone dress shirt. Gold rings adorned each well-manicured hand. He had introduced himself as Maximus Sneed, real estate entrepreneur.

“Let’s say I agree,” Sam said. “What are your plans for the place?”

“Maybe fix things up a bit. Give her a face lift. You’ve got to admit, this isn’t exactly a state-of-art marina like some of the other ones around here.” The man gave a smile, but it was just a brief movement of his thin lips. “I’m going to make some improvements.”

“You ain’t going to go raising the rent for slips, are you? Most of the folks here are good friends. They’ve been here for years and they can’t afford to pay the high rates that the other places charge. I haven’t raised slip rent since the nineties.”

“Relax,” the man said. His voice was smooth, and he spoke in a deliberate, unhurried pace. “Don’t worry. The changes won’t need to be that severe. Everyone will be pleased. You have my word.”

Sam sat down at his desk and pulled the stack of contract papers toward him. He tilted his head up, peering at the small print through his bifocals. The thought briefly occurred to him that he should probably run it by an attorney, or at least a realtor, but he knew the aging marina wasn’t worth all that much. He had been thinking about selling for some time now, but just couldn’t bring himself to initiate the action. When the slick young man first approached him with an offer to buy, he felt relief.

“When would the sale be official?” Sam asked. He didn’t know if he was stalling for more time to think, or maybe just to get comfortable with the idea of doing what he knew he was going to do.

“It’s all there in the contract. Essentially, we can make it happen as soon as you sign. The official closing date would be in September, but you can walk away today with no more worries. I’ll handle all the details.” Sneed looked at his watch. “There’s still time today to get things started. I can give you the rest of the day to clear out your stuff and cash the check, and I can take possession tomorrow morning. Now, do we have a deal?”

Sam looked back down at the paperwork, paging through the contract without really focusing on the words. He came to the pages that Sneed said he should fill out and sign. Lifting his head, he gazed around, remembering the years he had spent here and the people that had come and gone. The area he used as an office sat in one corner of the small bait and tackle shop he ran for the marina. He looked absently at the shelves and walls of the shop, at merchandise that had been there for years without selling. Layers of dust coated almost every surface. Finally, he focused on the old cash register that sat on the counter. He had purchased it long before anything digital, or with a touch screen, had come out. It still worked, and he saw no need to change over. He couldn’t imagine what the Silver Gull Marina would look like once Maximus Sneed had given her a face lift.

Sneed pointedly looked at his watch again, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Sam didn’t particularly like the man or his brash attitude, but the offer was tempting. The idea of just walking away with money in hand held a powerful appeal for him. It was a simple solution. He took in a deep breath and let it out again with a sigh. Rummaging around in his desk drawer, he retrieved a pen that looked like it might still have ink in it. Scribbling on a notepad, he verified the pen worked and then filled in the financial information Sneed said he needed. He ended by adding his signature on the last page.

“Excellent,” Sneed said, his face stretching into the first genuine smile that Sam had seen from the man. “You’ve made a smart decision. You won’t regret it.” In one swift motion, he snatched the document up and laid a cashier’s check down on the desk.

“I get a copy of that, right?” Sam asked, pointing at the contract.

“Of course, of course. I’ll mail one to you in September. Not to worry.” 

Sam picked up the check and looked it over. It wasn’t an extravagant amount by any means, but it was probably more money than he had ever had at one time in all his life. 

“If you’ll hand over the keys, I’ll leave you to pack up your belongings,” Sneed said. “You can just lock the door to the place when you leave.”

Sam stood and stuck a hand in his pocket, fishing out the set of keys for the marina, storage sheds, and fuel pumps. Almost as if in a daze, he slowly dropped them into the younger mans outstretched hand. Sneed closed his fingers around the keys, smiling again as he made his departure. Sam watched him as he climbed into his car in the parking lot, a glossy red Corvette, and drove off.

He remained standing, moving once more to the window and looking out at the docks. The relief he thought he would feel at selling the Silver Gull did not come. Maybe it would come later. Maybe when he deposited the check into his account. For now, though, he only felt numb. What would his papa think about what he had done? Looking out at the boats tied to the docks, he thought about his longtime customers. What will they think?

He focused on the fishing boat that was at the very end of the first dock, next to the last finger pier, a forty-seven-foot Jersey Sportfish Convertible. The name Esmerelda was visible on the stern. The owner’s family had been with the marina for almost as long as Sam could remember. They were part of the heart and soul of the place. Not all of his customers, he knew, would take the news of the sale of the Silver Gull Marina well. Not by a long shot.

Samuel Gibson turned and walked to the aging cooler that was in the back of the bait and tackle shop. Reaching in, he grabbed a bottle of orange soda, opened it with the bottle opener attached to the cooler, and headed back to the desk. He took a long drink before putting the bottle down, slowly beginning the process of gathering the few items that he would take with him.

 

 

Chapter Two

Tuesday afternoon. Gulf Islands National Seashore, Perdido Key, Florida

 

Escambia County Deputy Sheriff John Ferguson leaned in toward the front door of the Perdido Key Marine Research and Rescue Center, opening it for his wife. He was off duty for the next two days and had promised her a visit to the Center, as well as a day at the beach. The Marine Center was conveniently located just west of the Johnson Beach Seashore on Perdido Key. The couple had spent most of the day relaxing on the white sandy beach and playing in the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Cindy Ferguson smiled her thanks at her husband as she walked through the open doorway. Ferguson followed his wife inside, raising his hand in greeting to a tall, brown-haired man who looked to be in his early or mid-thirties standing in waist-deep water in a concrete pool, next to a green sea turtle.

“John, Cindy, welcome!” Alex Nolen said, one hand resting lightly on the carapace of the turtle as he guided it gently around the pool. Alex and his friend, Mickey Tate, had rescued the turtle a few months ago, on the same day they had met Deputy Ferguson in his official capacity. Because of a misunderstanding about how the endangered animal had become injured, the deputy became involved, and they transported the turtle to the marine facility for care and rehabilitation. The left front flipper, now encased in a bandage, had suffered a severe wound and infection from a large fish hook. It soon became clear that Alex and Mickey were not responsible for the injury and the two men, along with the assistant coordinator of the Perdido Key Marine Center, Jennifer Walker, began an acquaintance with the Fergusons that quickly grew into friendship. The relationship between Alex Nolen and Jennifer Walker, on the other hand, developed beyond friendship. The two felt an attraction to one another almost immediately and began seeing each other soon after they met. Alex, whose usual occupation was as a divemaster and live-aboard charter boat captain on his Fleming 78 motor yacht, the SeaStar, now found himself volunteering much of his time at the Perdido Key Marine Center.

“We came to see how Cindy’s namesake is doing,” Ferguson said. They had named the injured sea turtle “Cindy” in honor of his wife, which had come as a delightful surprise for her.

“How is she doing?” Cindy asked, kneeling down beside the pool, holding her long auburn hair back with a hand. “Her flipper is still bandaged, I see.” All four of the turtle’s flippers were moving in the water, but the bandaged front left flipper seemed to have much less range of motion than the others.

“They changed the bandage to one that gives her more mobility,” Alex said, “but she’s still trying to overcompensate for the injured flipper. The aquatic veterinarian initially bandaged the flipper to limit mobility so she wouldn’t tear open the sutures around the wound. She has a lighter bandage now, but she doesn’t seem to notice the difference. This is one of her exercises. I’m trying to encourage her to get comfortable using both front flippers together again.”

“If she doesn’t adjust to the change, will it affect whether she can get released?” Cindy asked.

“According to Jennifer, it probably won’t be severe enough to hinder her search for food. Adult green sea turtles have a primarily vegetarian diet. Sea grasses have a tendency to stay put while being eaten. But potentially, it could affect her ability to escape predators. Jennifer said it’s hopeful. It’s still early in her rehabilitation.”

“I just hope she’s learned to stay away from fishing hooks,” Ferguson said.

“Yeah, not to mention plastic bags, balloons, and all the other plastic trash in the ocean that endangers an already endangered species,” Alex said, stepping out of the pool and drying himself with a nearby towel. He slipped on a two-tone, light and dark blue t-shirt with the logo of the Marine Center, the image of a baby sea turtle paddling across sand dunes toward the ocean beyond. He then picked up a small paper bag, pulling out a wad of long, flat, dark green leaves, along with a small jar containing several large round pellets. Turning to Cindy Ferguson, he asked, “Would you like to feed her?”

“Sure,” Cindy’s eyes lit up, and she reached for the leaves and the jar.

“These leaves are a type of sea grass and one of her favorite foods. The pellets are a nutritional supplement that they make here at the Center. Just sprinkle a few of these in front of her and lay the leaves on top of the water. If you walk around the edge of the pool as you drop them in, she’ll probably follow you around.”

Cindy slowly made her way around the pool, feeding the turtle as she went. Cindy the sea turtle obediently followed, her head bobbing in the water as she opened her beaked mouth to gather in the food. Alex moved over to stand beside Ferguson, and the two men looked on.

“You’ve settled in pretty well,” Ferguson said to Alex with a smile. “Almost like you’ve been here for years.”

“It’s an easy place to settle into, even if I am only a volunteer. I love the work they do here.”

“You sure that’s not the only thing you love about this place?” Ferguson said with a smirk.

“There is a certain assistant coordinator who goes out of her way to foster a good working relationship,” Alex said.

Ferguson laughed.

“Seriously,” Alex continued. “It’s been good getting to spend this time with Jennifer.”

“You haven’t had any charters?”

“Not since the last one,” Alex said, referring to a dive charter on his yacht in early June, in which he, Jennifer, his friend Mickey, and his clients, James and Kristina O’Conner, videographers who were filming an underwater documentary, found themselves confronted by a trio of poachers intent upon capturing a rare alligator snapping turtle. Alex and his friends had narrowly escaped with their lives. “I’ve had a few requests, but I’ve declined so far. Heading off somewhere on another charter cruise just doesn’t seem right at this point.”

Ferguson nodded his understanding. “Is Jennifer here today?”

“She’s back in the office doing some paperwork. I’ll go let her know you and Cindy are here.”

“Don’t disturb her if she’s busy. We don’t want to interrupt.”

“No, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you both. I’ll be right back.” Alex left briefly, walking through the small gift shop and museum, through a hallway with laboratories on either side, to the office beyond. He returned moments later, accompanied by a woman in her early thirties with golden blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. She, too, wore a blue Perdido Key Marine Center t-shirt, offset by a pair of white shorts. Jennifer Walker smiled and greeted each of the Fergusons with a hug.

“We just came by to say hi and see how Cindy is doing,” Cindy Ferguson said, returning the empty food jar to Alex.

“I’m glad you could stop by,” Jennifer said. “She’s healing nicely. There has been no evidence that the infection has returned, which is great news. We would like to see her use her left flipper more, though. I’m afraid she’s becoming too dependent on her right flipper.”

“That’s what Alex was telling us, too,” Cindy said.

“Of course, our goal is to get her ready to be released so she can survive in her natural habitat in the wild,” Jennifer said. “But, honestly, it’ll be hard to see her leave. She’s kind of become the unofficial mascot for the Perdido Key Marine Center. Ever since WSRE did that piece about Cindy, she’s become a real star.” The local public broadcast television station owned by Pensacola State College, WSRE, produced a special documentary program after Richard Mortensen, the coordinator of the Marine Center, released a press statement about the rescue and rehabilitation of the sea turtle.

“It’s been a real boost, too,” Alex said. “I understand that visitors and donations have increased noticeably since the program aired.”

Jennifer nodded, looking over at Alex. “I think that probably the hardest thing about having to let her go is that, if it hadn’t been for Cindy, Alex and I would never have met. She’s come to mean a lot, for both of us.”

“She’s a special turtle,” Alex said. “But we know that healing up and being released is the best thing for her.”

The two couples talked for several minutes before the Fergusons took their leave. They had arranged to meet for an early dinner together the following evening at Captain LeBrun’s Seafood Bar and Grill, on Pensacola Beach. Captain LeBrun’s was owned and operated by Donlee and Sarah LeBrun, transplants from Louisiana who opened the restaurant when they moved to Florida. Alex and his friend Mickey Tate worked for them when they were younger and had remained friends with the couple ever since.

Once the Ferguson’s left, Jennifer went over by the pool and sat down, dangling her legs in the water as Cindy the turtle came over to see if she had more food to offer. Alex sat beside her.

“I was hoping to ask you a favor, Alex,” she said.

“Of course.”

“Remember when I said I was going to a conference this weekend in Tampa Bay on algae blooms?”

“I remember. That’s this weekend?”

“Yeah. Kim is going with me,” she said, referring to Kimberly Myers, a lab technician at the Marine Center and one of Jennifer’s friends. “She usually takes care of Captain Jack when I’m gone away, like when we were out on the SeaStar for the charter back in June.”

“So, you want me to take care of your cat for you while you’re in Tampa Bay?”

“Would you, please?” Jennifer looked up at Alex with big, pleading eyes and stuck out her lower lip in a mock appeal for sympathy.

Alex looked into her beautiful hazel eyes and laughed. “You know I will,” he said. “Jack and I get along great. I’ll be happy to keep an eye on him.” Captain Jack, a domestic short hair with a gray tabby coat pattern, was a rescue cat that had been with Jennifer for several years, since he was a small kitten. Skittish at first around Alex, the cat soon came to accept that he was a part of Jennifer’s life that wasn’t going away anytime soon. While the cat could be affectionate when he wanted, at other times, he would ignore Alex completely. In either case, he appeared resigned to the fact that Alex was going to show up from time to time.

“Thanks,” Jennifer said. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.”

“The conference is on Saturday and Sunday. Since we’re driving, we’ll be leaving early on Friday and we’ll be back sometime on Monday afternoon. Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”

“Jenn, it’s fine. Really. Besides, I don’t really have anything else scheduled. I’m happy to take care of Jack for you.”

“Thanks.” Jennifer leaned in and kissed Alex on the cheek. “Well, I’d better get back in the office. The water quality reports are due soon.” She pulled her legs out of the water and toweled them off.

Alex watched her depart before easing himself back into the pool. He waded over toward the green sea turtle to continue with her exercises.