Tuna Tango (6 page)

Chapter 6

Will’s eyes hurt as he forced them open. The sun glared through the windshield of the truck and glinted off the empty pint of tequila in his lap. His phone, long ago turned off, sat on the seat next to him. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and tried to put some reality on his situation. 

The texts had started an hour after he left the bar—a stream of
How could you
turned into
You asshole
after he didn’t answer. Finally, he had just turned it off. The truck was parked in front of the fish house. He had nowhere else to go, and thought he might get in some work today, laying out piers and framing. If he kept the noise down, he hoped that the work would fall within the city’s guidelines.

He got out and went toward the freezer, its shiny new lock catching his eye as he passed. Behind the box, the view was obstructed, and he relieved himself. Head banging, he went toward the hose, coiled up from yesterday, took off his shirt, and doused his head. His fingers combed through his hair as he emerged into daylight and looked around, trying to figure out where to start. The for sale sign caught his eye as he put his shirt back on, and his recently single status cut through the haze of alcohol, giving him an idea. 

Why not buy the boat and stay out here? That was more his style.

His stomach grumbled, and since it was too early to call about the boat, he made a material list and headed for Home Depot, the only supplier open on Sunday. He was just about to pull out of the lot when he noticed a small skiff moving slowly toward the fish house probably after the fish, drawn to the underwater structure. There was good fishing to be had around the piers, as he had witnessed on his dive the other day, especially in the low light of early morning and late evening. 

Something nagged at him, though, and he turned to look at the small boat as it slid underneath the structure. 

***

Will sat in the restaurant, drinking his second cup of coffee, the empty plate pushed to the side. He sucked in his breath as he turned on the power to the phone, wincing as the onslaught of texts and voicemail messages from Sheryl bombarded him. It was easy to delete the voice mails, but fragments of the texts caught his eye as he tried to delete them before he could read them … and none of it was good. Even though it was over it still bothered him, after all it was his fault.

Finally the screen showed no messages or voicemails. He fished in his pocket for the paper with the phone number of the boat owner, entered it into the screen, and hit dial. Several rings were followed by a grunt. It was almost 10, but apparently he had woken the owner. He almost hung up, but figured sailboats were hard to sell, and his call would be welcome.

“Hey, I saw the sign on your boat at the Pass-A-Grille Marina.”

The voice changed from gruff to welcoming. “That’s right, are you interested?”

“I am. Can you give me some details?” Will asked him about the size, sail inventory, condition, and engine. He also inquired what the dock fees were at the marina. They agreed to meet in an hour, and Will quickly shut the power off and put the phone in his pocket. He finished his coffee, paid the check, and left the restaurant. 

Back in the truck, he planned out his bargaining strategy. Sailboats weren’t the movers that power boats were, and this guy was paying a hundred and fifty-five a month to dock the boat there. He was sure to be motivated, though it was a good deal at the $2,400 he had listed on the sign. Will was sure he could get him to $2,000. 

He drove back to the fish house with a smile on his face. He knew it wasn’t practical, but owning a boat felt good to him. Maybe he could take it on a sail this afternoon, put out a hand line and catch something. The lot was empty when he pulled in and he walked to the boat to wait for the owner. Just as he arrived, a head emerged from the cabin. 

“You Will?” the head asked.

“Yeah. Can I take a look?”

The man showed Will the boat, started the engine, and went through the sails and controls. Everything seemed in order, and Will offered him $1,800 to get the negotiations going. They went back and forth, finally agreeing on $2,100 and the rest of the month’s dock fees the owner had already paid. 

Will counted out the hundreds and took the keys to the cabin. He was on his way to the marina office to change the name on the paperwork, title in hand, when he saw a car pull into the lot. Sheryl got out of the passenger seat and went to the trunk. She opened it, took out a bag and a few boxes, and set them carelessly next to his truck. 

Feeling euphoric after the boat purchase, he went toward her. “Can we talk?” he asked as he approached.

She turned to look at him, dropped the box she was carrying, and went toward him. 

This was not the greeting he had hoped for, the look on her face telling him it had been a mistake to confront her. “I can explain.”

Her eyes bored into him. “I had to plead for my job after what you did. I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to hang out there while I was working.”

“Please listen for just a minute, then you can go. I just turned around and the guy next to me knocked the beer into the girl. That’s all. It was like dominos after that.” 

“Will, you don’t get it. If you weren’t there it couldn’t have happened. Can’t you understand that?”

“I understand that you want me to do whatever you say to do. I can’t have my life run like that. Maybe I should just stay here for a while.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

“I got that boat over there.” He pointed to the slip.

“You got a boat. Of all the irresponsible things you could do. Will, you can’t be thinking about yourself all the time. The money you spent on that could have bought another car. Now what am I supposed to do?”

He hadn’t thought about that. If this was what getting divorced was like, he wanted nothing to do with marriage. The remaining cash was still in his pocket. Out of guilt or some obligation—he wasn’t sure—he pulled out the cash, took a couple of hundreds off the top and handed the rest to her. “This is all I have. Take it.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He took one last look at her, wondering if he was doing the right thing. It wasn’t her fault things had imploded in the Keys. Her green eyes stared blankly at him; their previous fire having died out. Would life be better without her? He didn’t know, but the way things were, he couldn’t continue. 

“Goodbye,” he said as he walked away. He felt her there, even without looking, and knew exactly the pose she would be in. When he reached the seawall and set foot on the dock, he heard a car door slam. Seconds later, he turned around and the lot was empty. 

He breathed a sigh of relief, went back to the building to pick up his belongings, and took them to the boat.

***

The sun was high in the sky and a glance at his phone confirmed it was just past noon when he decided to take the boat out. By the way the palm trees swayed in the breeze, he judged the wind to be about 10 knots. Just right for an easy sail to check things out. He boarded the boat and started the mental checklist of the tasks he needed to perform. The five-gallon gas tank was full, and he figured with the small 20hp outboard, that would last about five hours if he needed it. He topped off the fresh water tank and checked the bilge. The engine started on its first pull, and he let it idle while he readied the dock lines. 

The large marina building shielded the boats from the sea breeze, allowing him to let the lines go and put the engine in reverse without taking extra precautions. The boat slid out of the slip and turned as he moved the tiller toward the open water of the intracoastal waterway. Once clear of the marina, he followed the navigation aids out Pass-A-Grille channel. The wind was directly in his face as he ran parallel to the white sands of Shell Key and the boats anchored there. The only access to the pristine sand was by boat, making it a more exclusive spot than the crowded public beaches around the point. 

Clear of the last marker, he steered into the wind, let out the main sheet, and pulled on the main halyard to raise the mainsail. The sail luffed as the boat was pointed directly into the wind, and he made his way back to the cockpit, shut the engine off, and changed course to 270 degrees—a bearing that would put him on a close haul. The boat took the wind and heeled slightly as he released the jib furling line and pulled out the jib. Speed increased quickly with both sails up, and he sat on the high side of the boat, tiller in hand, watching the green water slip underneath him. 

The water started to turn a darker green, reminding him of the color of Sheryl’s eyes this morning. He tried to put her out of his mind as he tacked back and forth, staying close to the 270-degree bearing, timing the tacks so they were the same, in order to stay on course. Birds were circling off in the distance, and he made a note to bring a rod and reel, or at least a hand line with him next time. He judged the sun to be about halfway between its apex and the horizon when he tacked for the last time and brought the boat around slowly to a reciprocal bearing of 90 degrees. He was on a run now, wing on wing; the jib and main on opposite sides of the boat. The tiller lashed in place, his mind drifted as the wind pushed the boat back toward land. 

Suddenly a wave jarred him. He must have fallen asleep—easy to do with the boat rising and falling in the following seas. Suddenly alert, he scanned the horizon for the offending boat. Still about two miles from land, there was no need to run this close to another boat in the open waters of the gulf. The afternoon was fading fast and there were several vessels making their way toward the pass, but the offending boat was easy to spot. Its unique cabin stood out on the speed boat.

The other boat was about a mile from the first markers leading to the pass where it would have to reduce speed. That gave the motor boat the advantage of a few minutes, but with his motor in addition to the sails, he figured he could catch it in the channel. He passed the Red #4 marker on his right and saw the boat’s silhouette against Sand Key. The sails were now a disadvantage as the fishing boat was stopped, possibly anchored to blend in with the other boats and wait until dark to offload their catch. 

Without knowledge of the channel, he was reluctant to lower the mainsail. To accomplish that maneuver, he would have to turn the boat into the wind before he could safely drop the sail. Instead, he decided to ease the main all the way out and pull in the jib. He grabbed the line for the roller furling in one hand and, leaving two turns around it for friction, took the line for the jib off the winch. Everything ready, he pulled in on the line for the roller furling and met only resistance. Checking the jib sheet, he realized that it wasn’t the problem. The roller furling must be jammed. Concerned now, he tugged on the line several times, but the furling wouldn’t budge. 

He looked up to check on his progress and realized he was in trouble. The boat had just past the 7B marker, and was hemmed in a narrow channel. With no options, he let both sheets loose, allowing the sails their full breadth. The only problem was that he was running directly downwind, and the sails still powered him forward. He tried the engine next, turning the throttle to its max, but the small engine didn’t have enough power to correct his course. 

The boat was now dangerously close to the sand bar protecting Shell Key, and he was out of options. He tried to put the engine in reverse, but it was too little too late, and the keel of the boat ground into the sand. 

The motor strained in full reverse, trying to keep the keel from digging deeper, but a gust of wind drove the boat harder aground. He had to get the sails down. The main dropped into the water when he released the halyard. The jib flapped in the breeze as he climbed forward of the cockpit to bring it in. Using the jib halyard, he dropped the jib, and the sail fell half on the deck and half in the water. 

He breathed now that the damage had been mitigated and gathered the sails in, then sat in the cockpit, wiping the sweat from his eyes. The tide would be high in a few hours and probably float him off the sand bar, but until then he had the embarrassment being seen by every boat that passed by and saw him. Several came over to offer assistance, but in the tight channel, and confident the tide would soon do the work, he declined. 

An hour later, as the sun was about to drop below the horizon, he was startled awake as the boat moved slightly. It was too early for the tide, so he assumed it was the wake of another boat. He looked up and saw the fishing boat staring bow on at him, the looming figure of George concealing the wheel house. 

“Yo, contractor boy. Having some trouble?”

Will tried to ignore him, but the boat remained. “I’m good.” Before he could wave him off, a line hit his deck. He looked at the boat and saw a bright orange bathing suit concealing very little of a tan body on the deck. His gaze remained there until George spoke.

“Bury your pride and let me pull you off. Can’t have you sitting out here all night.”

The last thing Will wanted was George’s help, but he obviously wasn’t going to go away. He went forward and tied the line to the stern cleat and signaled George to pull. 

Besides, Will was certain that George’s boat had illegal fish on it, and there was always the chance that it would ground in the process and the marine patrol or Fish and Game would wander along and search it. 

The pull caught him off guard and he fell to the deck. He could see George laughing from the helm as he backed his boat away from the sand bar. The water turned brown from the silt he kicked up, and the boat started to move.