Secretariat Reborn (28 page)

“No wonder the kid’s a skinny twerp,” Sal said. “What’sa matter, kid? Don’t like spaghetti?”

“Love it,” said Christian, “but facing those huge waves with a full stomach isn’t smart, unless you don’t mind seasickness and barfing all night.” Vince and Vito glanced up at Christian and put their forks down, but Sal kept stuffing his mouth.

At midnight they bundled up and walked through the stinging rain and fierce wind to the dock and Scarab. Even in the little inlet, the waves caused the boat to bounce up and down, hitting the dock bumpers. Vito and Vince had difficulty climbing aboard.

“You better wear life jackets,” Christian shouted over the howling wind and sprang onto the deck. He dug two vests out from the hatch and handed them to Vito and Vince.

Vince put the orange vest on and took a seat at the helm next to Christian. “Where’s yours?” he asked.

“Don’t wear life jackets,” Christian said. “I consider it bad luck, plus I’m a good swimmer.” He turned the motors over and called to Vito, “Push us off.”

Sal had untied the lines and tossed them on the deck. “
Buona fortuna
, good luck.”

Vito used the gaff to shove the Scarab’s bow away from the dock. Christian quickly pushed the throttle and turned the wheel, guiding the boat clear of the crushing pilings. He nodded with approval to Vito, who scrambled back to his seat. After two trips together, the man had learned to be a deckhand.

Sal yelled from the dock, “
Dio ti guarda
.”

Christian glanced at Vince. “What did Sal say?”

Vince shuddered and gazed at the hellish ink water ahead. “He said, ‘God watch over you.’ ”

They motored through the violent chop toward the middle of the bay. In the dark and sheets of rain, the boat lights were useless. Christian stood and steered the boat as Vito flashed the large strobe across the raven-black surface, hoping to spot the channel markers.

Although moving blindly with the lack of star and city lights, Christian instinctively guided the Scarab to the intercoastal waterway. “We should be coming up on the first marker,” he called to Vito.

“
Sì
,” Vito said. “There.” He pointed and aimed the light on the marker only twenty yards off the port bow.

“How in the devil did you see it?” Vince asked.

Christian wiped the water out of his eyes. “I’ve lived on this bay.” He glanced at his watch, figuring the time and distance it would take to reach Tampa Bay and the freighter. He didn’t relish being there, but he was grateful they were avoiding the gulf. The brunt of the hurricane was hitting Sarasota and Manatee Keys as Blanche skirted the coastline going north. He eased the throttle forward and increased their speed. Scared stiff, Vito and Vince held on as the Scarab lunged, dipped, and rolled from side to side, fighting the large waves and intense gusts.

Christian stood, gripped the wheel, and steadied his footing. He glanced down at Vince, the boat dash lights reflected on his petrified face. “You all right, Vince?”

“I think I’m going to be sick. How much longer?” Vince yelled over the boat motor and wind.

“Half hour and we’ll be in Tampa Bay,” Christian said.

Vince put his hand up shielding his eyes from the smarting rain. “Christian, I’m glad I listened to you. In the gulf, we’d be dead.”

“It ain’t over. When we leave this protected channel and enter Tampa Bay, the chop and wind will be bad.”

Sure enough, Tampa Bay was a nightmare. The giant waves resembled a watery roller coaster. The Scarab no longer blasted
through the waves, but mounted each fifteen-foot swell and rode it up and down. At the peaks, the outboard motors whined and revved when their propellers came out of the water.

Christian chewed his lip, tasting the sea spray, and clinging to the wheel to keep the boat straight. It was nerve racking. One false move and the Scarab, like a surfboard, would go crashing and rolling under a wave rather than surging over it. Vince huddled below the windshield, head down, facing the floor. Christian glanced back at Vito, and their gaze locked, Vito’s eyes wide, terrified, and beseeching.

“We’ll make it, Vito,” Christian called. For the first time he felt empathy for the gangster. Amid the sheets of rain and total blackness, he spotted the freighter’s lights jumping up and down. Even the huge ship was having a bumpy ride.

“There she is, and right on time,” Christian said and spun the wheel, forcing the Scarab to take on waves at an angle. More dangerous.

As they neared the freighter, Vito bounced off the boat sides, trying to stand and focus the light on the ship. He managed to motion to the deckhands who tossed out the goods. Christian steered the Scarab into the wake of the large freighter. Vince popped his head out to watch.

“When we reach a bag,” Christian hollered to the men, “just grab it and throw it on the deck. I can’t stop and idle. We’ll stash them in the hold when we’re back in Palma Sola and calmer water. If you miss one, it’ll be a bitch if I have to go back for it.”

Vito nodded, and Vince just stared, zombielike. Vito yelled in Italian and shined the light at the first bag.

“I see it,” said Christian. “I’ll come up on the starboard side. Use the gaff hooks.” He steered the boat, and Vito handed him the light so he could focus on the bag. The two men, holding the six-foot gaffs, took up their position on the right side of the boat.

In the formidable seas, Christian guided the Scarab alongside the bag. Vito managed to hook its buoy line and pull the bag close.
With Vince’s help, they struggled and dragged the first one on board, dropping it at their feet inside the open deck.

The second bag proved more difficult. As the boat cruised by, both men missed the bag with their gaffs. Not wanting to take the Scarab in a large circle to retrieve it, Christian sharply turned the wheel and, with the lift of a wave, the bag came within reach. He leaned way over the boat side and grabbed it while his other hand clung to the wheel, preventing him from falling overboard. He had it halfway out of the water, but was losing his hold and strength in the bouncing surf. Vito raced to the front and helped him lift it in.

Vito grinned, a first. “
Buono, buono
. You good guy,
Signor
Christian.”

As the evening progressed, they found and retrieved nine of the ten bags. The last one eluded them. Christian was forced to swing the boat around, fighting the waves, and retrace their path. After a half hour, they located the final bag and tossed it aboard.

“
Andiamo
,” Vito yelled.

“I agree.” Vince puffed with all the exertion. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Christian said and turned the Scarab south.

Vince crawled back to the helm and stood beside Christian. “You did a great job tonight, handling the boat in those waves.” He clapped Christian’s shoulder with affection. “I’m thinking about adopting you.”

Christian grimaced. “Please don’t.” He suddenly caught a glimpse of something big and white, lit up by the boat’s running lights, and dead ahead within a huge, rolling wave. “Shit!” He spun the wheel to avoid hitting it, but was too late.

The impact created a loud bang, scraping, crunching, as the Scarab came to an abrupt stop, jolting everyone and everything forward. Christian was slammed against the wheel and hit his forehead on the windshield. He collapsed unconscious beneath the instrument panel.

Waves broke over the Scarab and flooded the cockpit. Christian was jarred awake, choking on saltwater. He managed to lift his head and lean against the boat bulkhead. For a few seconds he lay in a stupor. Another wave crashed over the Scarab, drenching him, and he snapped back to reality.

He noticed the two feet of water that sloshed back and forth within the boat while the silent, lifeless Scarab bumped around like a cork in the giant swells. His forehead hurt, and he touched it and felt the deep gash.

He sat up and remembered the monstrous wave and the object it held. With only a glance, he deduced it was the white hull of another boat, and then there was the crash and being thrown forward. He wondered how long he had been out—a minute, five, or maybe more. He listened, but heard only the roaring wind and gush of waves, hammering the hull. He pulled himself up and stood. The running lights still worked, giving off a dim glow. Beneath the steering wheel, he flung open a small hatch and rummaged around until he felt a flashlight.

“Vince, Vito,” he yelled and scanned the light across the deck. They were nowhere in sight, but toward the stern, he noticed the nearly submerged motors. The Scarab was sinking. He kept calling and searching the dark waters.

Twenty yards away, his flashlight shined on the other boat they had hit. A large sailboat heeled over on its side, rising and sinking within each wave. It must have broken free of its dock or mooring and capsized in the storm. It floundered now a foot beneath the dark
surface like a deadly reef, waiting to cripple an unsuspecting speedboat.

He felt the gushing water on his feet and looked down, shining the flashlight on the Scarab’s cracked hull, a fatal wound for a boat. She would soon rest in a watery grave, becoming a host for crabs, fish, and barnacles.

On the starboard side, he aimed the light in the surrounding water and yelled, “Vince, Vince.” He scrambled over the bags of floating drugs and hurried to the portside. Several feet off the bow, he made out an orange life jacket holding a limp body, facedown in the surf. A closer look exposed the distinctive black ponytail.

“Vito!” Christian rushed forward to the bow, lunged halfway over the boat side, and pulled the man’s face out of the water. The running lights displayed Vito’s open, dark eyes staring up at him.

Spooked, Christian jerked his hand away and clambered backward, unnerved by the dead man’s gaze. He covered his mouth, and it took few seconds to collect his wits. “Vito,” he said softer, not expecting a response. He reached down again and shook him. Despite knowing Vito was dead, drowned or killed by his injuries, Christian had to be sure. Reluctantly, he released his hold and let the bay and storm claim a man who, ironically, feared the water.

Despite the rocking boat and squall blasts, he stood up on the bow and maintained his balance, his surfing experience giving him the knack. He shined the light across the monster waves and shouted, “Vince! Vince!”

He caught a hint of orange in a steep wave thirty yards out. In the blinding rain, he pointed the flashlight at the next peaking wave and made out a figure in a life jacket. He dropped the light, stripped off his foul-weather jacket and shoes, and dove off the bow. He found the bay water warmer than the raw, cutting wind and icy rain. He surfaced and swam toward Vince.

“Vince, Vince,” he said, reaching him.

“Christian,” Vince responded weakly.

“Are you badly hurt?” Christian asked while treading water.

“My leg and chest, they hurt. What happened?”

“We hit a capsized sailboat.”

“Vito, where’s Vito?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh, no,” said Vince.

Christian glanced back at the Scarab. For a second he considered taking Vince back to it. More people survived a shipwreck by clinging to the overturned boat and waiting for a rescue than setting off and swimming for land.

The Scarab bow lights revealed the rising waterline. With waves breeching her sides and the hole in her bottom, she would be gone in half an hour and, with a hurricane, no one would be out on Tampa Bay to spot them until probably mid-morning. No sense in returning to the boat.

A large wave lifted them up and, at the peak, Christian caught a vague flicker of light on the Skyway Bridge. Oriented to his surroundings, Christian knew that Snead Island and Terra Ceia were south and the closest land. “We’re going to have to swim for it, Vince.”

“I can’t.” Vince gasped. “I can’t make it.”

“Yes, you can. Look, we’re in luck. It’s an incoming tide, and the wind is with us. I’ll drag you. Lean back and kick.” He grabbed the life jacket near the back of Vince’s neck and started doing a side-stroke with one hand, pulling the man on his back through the water.

Vince kicked with his one good leg briefly, but quit and floated like a heavy log. After an hour, he mumbled, “Christian, Christian.”

“What?” Christian puffed between gulps of air. He stopped swimming, taking a short break.

“Why are you doing this? You could leave me, let me drown. Then you’d be free of me and your debt.”

“Don’t tempt me, Vince.” He panted and started swimming again. It was true. The gangster had him in a stranglehold—do the job or you and your family might suffer. With plenty of motive, Christian could easily let Vince drown, plus, dragging the weighty
burden through the brutal seas, he was upping the ante of his own survival. Without Vince, he could swim to shore, no problem, and make it.

I couldn’t live with myself
, Christian thought and pressed on. God or luck had sent him a hurricane, a foundering sailboat, and crash, all to rid him of Vince, but he rejected the gifts. He knew his conscience would dog him the rest of his days if he deserted another human being, even Vince.