Fallen Out: Jesse McDermitt Series, The Beginning Page 3

  Arriving at the Port of Miami at 0800, I registered with the auction house, provided my bank statement and paid the thousand dollar fee. We went straight from there to the Rampage and checked it out. As it turned out, Jimmy was much more knowledgeable than he’d intimated. The stateroom, guest cabin, heads, galley, and salon were in disarray, but he pointed out what it could look like. On the bridge, he showed me the electronics system, everything he’d mentioned and then some. The radar was top of the line, as were the fish finders. Going down into the engine room, Jimmy let out a low whistle.

  “What is it?” I asked from the hatch, gazing at the meticulously clean, white engines.

  “These ain’t 850’s,” he said. “Whatever drug runner owned this must have ordered it special, man. These here are 1015 horsepower monsters. This boat’ll go forty knots, minimum! Both of ‘em have less than 800 hours, too.”

  We checked out the exterior, as the boat sat on wooden blocks in the huge boatyard. We couldn’t find a single bullet hole, or even a crack in the gel coat. The twin propellers were in recessed tunnels and looked nearly new. “She only draws about four feet, maybe two on plane,” he explained. “These props are aftermarket, made for speed. She carries seven-hundred gallons of fuel and a hundred gallons of fresh water. But, with that water maker, you can have water any time. Those big ass engines will suck your wallet dry, dude. Probably burns somewhere about sixty or seventy gallons an hour at a cruising speed of twenty-five knots. Probably a hundred gallons at wide open throttle.”

  Most of the interest from the other people at the auction seemed to be centered on a trio of what’s commonly called ‘go fast’ boats, long, sleek, twin-engine racing boats. Only a couple other men were looking over the Rampage.

  Two hours later, it came up on the auction block and the auctioneer started the bidding at $200,000. With two men alternating bids, it quickly went up to two-eighty. One of the men bowed out and a third man bid two eighty-five. It went back and forth between those two until it reached $320,000. The third man bowed out and the auctioneer called for any other bids.

  When he called a second time, I raised my paddle and shouted, “Three fifty!”

  The first bidder looked over at me, with a less than pleased look on his face and raised it to three fifty-five. We went back and forth raising by $5000 until he balked, but finally said, “Three seventy.”

  I knew I had him then. He hadn’t planned to go higher than three seventy-five. I was ready to go to four-fifty, based on both Rusty and Jimmy’s estimate that it was worth at least $500,000. It was time to put the other bidder to bed. “Three hundred and ninety thousand dollars!” The man looked over at me and shook his head, placing his paddle on the chair beside him.

  The auctioneer saw the other bidder’s defeated look and having no other bids said, “Going once! Going twice! Sold to Captain McDermitt, for $390,000!”

  I was now the proud owner of a one year old forty-five foot Rampage, worth half a million bucks and a twenty-six year old International 4x4 that probably wasn’t worth what I paid for the water pump.

  The auction manager quickly came over to us and said, “Congratulations, Captain. There’s no charge for putting her in the water and your entry fee is refunded if the winning bid is more than ten-percent over reserve. When will you want to take possession?”

  I pulled out my checkbook and said, “Right now. Get her in the water.” I never dreamed I’d ever write a check for that amount, but an hour later, I’d done that and was leaving the dock in my new boat.

  Jimmy showed me how to use the engines to maneuver away from the dock, putting one in reverse and the other in forward to make the boat spin sideways. Twenty minutes later, we rounded the tip of Virginia Key into the open Atlantic.

  “Switch places, Captain,” Jimmy said as he got up from behind the helm. I sat down behind the wheel and took it in my hands. The feeling was indescribable. My own boat. “What do you think you’re going to call her, man?”

  “A name?” I asked. “Haven’t even thought about it. Hell, until three days ago when a waitress at Alabama Jack’s said I looked like a charter boat owner, I never even thought of being one.”

  “You mean to tell me you dropped three-hundred and ninety grand on a whim?”

  “Think it’s too late to get my money back?” I asked as Jimmy reached over and pushed the throttles forward. The big boat settled down at the stern and lifted those wide bow flares above the wave tops and in seconds we were skimming across the chop, which was hardly noticeable. The exhilaration I felt as she surged up onto plane was almost like that of being in combat. Different, but just as intense. We called it ‘the jazz’.

  Jimmy looked at me and said, “Yep, sure is. The worm done turned.”

  I grinned at him and made a wide, sweeping turn in 40 foot deep water to the south. “Keep her a mile off Key Biscayne there,” he said. “There’s nothing but deep water all the way to Marathon, so long as you stay a mile off the reef line.”

  I looked down at the GPS, which showed we were traveling at twenty-eight knots. As I reached for the throttles, I said, “Why don’t we see what she’s got?”

  I pushed the throttles all the way forward and the big boat surged ahead, delivering much more power and acceleration than I would have thought. A moment later, the knot meter showed a speed of forty-two knots.

  “We’re bucking a fifteen knot head wind,” Jimmy shouted. “Once we make the turn down at Key Largo and have the wind on our beam, I guarantee you she’ll reach forty-five knots, dude. Hey, you mind if I smoke?”

  I’d never picked up the smoking habit, but never begrudged those who did. To me, it was a sign of weakness, but that’s just me. “Go ahead,” I said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag and a pack of rolling papers.

  “Pot?” I asked and grabbed the bag from his hands. Without a seconds hesitation I tossed the bag overboard. “Are you fucking nuts?”

  “Dude that was a hundred bucks of primo weed!”

  I thought it over for a second and said, “Look, I’ll pay you back. But no pot on my boat. No way. Ever. For all we know, this boat might have been confiscated from the previous owner for having no more than that on board.”

  “That’s harsh, man. It’s more than two hours to Marathon.”

  “Four,” I said as I pulled the throttles back to twenty-five knots. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. Maybe I overreacted. I’ll be straight with you. I don’t care what a man does on his own time, but I hired you to help me get this boat to Marathon.”

  “You didn’t hire me, dude. I volunteered to help you out, that’s all. Only reason I did was because Julie likes you.”

  “Well, let’s take care of first things first,” I said reaching into my pocket. I handed him four $100 bills and said, “You’re hired.”

  “A days wage for a Mate is only two-hundred.”

  “The other two-hundred is to replace your pot and doing the boat survey. I’m serious though. If you ever come on my boat again, leave the pot in your car.”

  “Fair enough, man.”

  “Now what’s this about Julie?”

  He went on to explain how he’d had a crush on her since grade school, even though he was five years older. She’d never shown any interest in boys and never went out with anyone. She went fishing with the guys and was a better fisherman than any of them, but none had even gotten to first base.

  “How long have you known her?” he asked.

  “All her life,” I replied. “Rusty and I went through Boot Camp together in ’79. I was his best man when he married Julie’s mom. First time I met her, she was only three days old. I came down here with Rusty, when her mom died.”

  “You have kids?”

  “Two daughters from my first marriage. Haven’t seen them in a few years. Their mom moved them back up north.”

  We rode on in silence for a while and gradually started talking about boats, fishing, and local waters. Jimmy was born and raised in the Keys and seemed to
know the water on both sides of the island chain as well as any man.

  “How much do you make shrimping?” I asked.

  “On a good week, about six-hundred. Most weeks only about four, though. Why?”

  “Well, if I’m gonna do any chartering, I’ll need some help. I thought you said a Mate makes two-hundred a day.”

  “I’m just a deckhand on the shrimp boat. Al Fader is my boss.”

  “I’ll pay you four-hundred a week, if you come to work for me and an extra two hundred a day every day we go out on the water. Might be slow at first, but I think we can drum up a couple of charters a week easy enough, just by putting a shingle on the dock behind this boat.”

  “Yeah, she’s a head turner that’s for sure. You’re serious about a job, man?”

  “Only if you leave the weed on shore, yeah.”

  He extended his hand and said, “You got a Mate. So, what about that name? Rusty said you were from Fort Myers?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You know Gasparilla Island?”

  “Sure, I grew up just across Charlotte Harbor from there. What about it?”

  “Did you know it’s named after a famous pirate?”

  He went on to tell me about the English pirate, Jose Gaspar and how he went down with his ship after mistaking the USS Enterprise for a merchant ship.

  “So, a man from Fort Myers buys a boat with no name,” he said. “Intending to make a fortune catching fish? What about Gaspar’s Revenge?”

  “I like it. Gaspar’s Revenge. Has a cool ring to it.”

  “Where you going to dock her?” he asked and I suddenly realized that I had no idea. I should have thought about that before buying it.

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “You know some place?”

  “Let me make a call,” he said and reached for the mic on the UHF radio. He adjusted the frequency and said into the mic, “This is MV Gaspar’s Revenge calling Dockside. Aaron, do you copy?”

  Immediately a voice came back over the radio, “This is Dockside. Go ahead Gaspar’s Revenge.”

  “Aaron, this is Jimmy. Hey, do you have dock space for a forty-five footer. I’m helping out a new charter Captain.” Turning to me, he said, “Aaron runs Dockside Lounge. They have dockage there for about twenty boats.

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Aaron replied. “Yeah, I have a slip for a 45. How long will he be staying?”

  Jimmy looked at me and I shrugged. “Permanently, if the price is right.”

  He keyed the mic and said, “Captain McDermitt is looking for a base to charter his Rampage on a permanent basis.”

  There was silence for a moment then Aaron said, “Ten dollars a foot per month, includes shore power, water, phone, and cable.”

  I knew I was being taken. I took the mic from Jimmy and said, “This is Captain Jesse McDermitt. I’ll take the slip for a week at $200, until I can find a better rate.”

  There was another moment of silence then Aaron said, “I’m sure I can convince the owner to make a special rate, Captain. When will you be here?”

  I looked at my watch and said, “Our ETA is 1600.”

  “Look forward to meeting you, Captain. Slip number 10 is at the end, first one you’ll come to out of Sister Creek, right next to the dinghy dock and boat ramp. Dockside out.”

  Jimmy burst out laughing. “Man, you’re good. His usual rate is eight bucks a foot for semi-permanent. And he doesn’t have any big charter boats there. This beauty will bring in more than the dock fee in just beer and food from your clients. Not to mention the fuel, man.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You have three hours to teach me enough to keep from looking like a jackass.”

  For the next three hours, he described Boot Key Harbor, the approaches from the west inlet and Sister Creek. He explained how to maneuver the boat outside the slip and back it in, without hitting the piers. He told me everything he knew about charter fishing and diving. By the time we pulled into Sister Creek, I was well armed with knowledge.

  Surprisingly, I didn’t run over any boats in the harbor and managed to back the Revenge into slip 10 without taking out the whole dock. Jimmy had explained how to face aft when backing and use the throttles to steer, with nudges to the wheel from my back.

  Thirty minutes later, Aaron and I agreed on $300 a month and he contacted a local air brush artist to come out and put the name on the boat, the gear box, and the portal over the dock. I was now in business. That is, with the exception of getting a six pack license to charter, registering the boat, and acquiring a business license. Details.

  Chapter Three

  For the next two weeks, Jimmy helped me get the boat ready to charter, made arrangements with a nearby bait shop, helped me buy tackle and other gear, and went with me to the County Clerk to get a business license and even to the Chamber of Commerce. He suggested I might want to buy a small skiff to get around whenever the International broke down, explaining that just about everything was accessible by boat on the island. I had to go down to Key West to register the boat and while I was waiting, I looked over some pamphlets that were on the counter.

  “Thinking of buying an island?” one of the clerks asked.

  “Buy an island?”

  “Yes sir,” she said. “Some of the smaller uninhabited islands are available to be used as fish camps.”

  “Really?” I said. “How much would a little island sell for?”

  Later that evening, after I’d registered the Revenge, Rusty, Jimmy, and I were sitting at a table in the bar, eating blackened grouper and washing it down with cold Kalik beer.

  “You bought a freaking island?” Rusty said in amazement.

  “It’s a little over two acres at high tide,” I replied. “Up in the Content Keys, near Harbor Channel. And no, I haven’t bought it yet. Just put a deposit on it until I can see it.”

  He roared with laughter, his face turning beet red. “Bro, most of those islands up there you can’t even get a flats skiff up to. You got taken.”

  “So, are you gonna take me up there, or not?”

  “Sure, first thing in the morning,” he said still laughing. “Bring your waders, though.”

  We left before sunrise and got to the GPS coordinates I was given at the County Clerk’s office. Rusty was right. Even though the tide was nearly high, we beached his little skiff a good twenty yards from the mangrove shoreline and only ten yards out of Harbor Channel.

  I was somewhat dejected. “Maybe the water’s a little deeper on the other side.”

  “Might be,” Rusty said pondering the little island that lay before us. “I don’t get up here enough to know for sure. The thing is, if you’re serious about buying this island, right here’s where you’re going to have to dig a channel. That, or a dock all the way out to Harbor Channel.”

  We got out and waded ashore. The mangroves weren’t very thick, but the saw palmetto was. We finally found what looked like a path to the interior and followed it. After only ten yards it opened up into a large clearing, mostly sea grass and a few palmetto, scrub oak, sea grapes, and one tall coconut palm right in the middle.

  Rusty looked back through the path where the skiff sat with its anchor line stretched out halfway to shore. Then he looked back to the clearing. To the west was a pretty wide opening through the underbrush, with only a handful of coconut palms and gumbo limbo trees. Beyond it we could see a sandbar twenty yards offshore.

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully. “If you was to dredge a channel from out there, right up into the island here, you could build a little stilt house above it and have a ladder going right up into the house.”

  “Why not in the middle of the island?”

  “Yeah, that’d work. But, it’d be really cool to park your boat under the house.”

  As we walked out into the clearing, I gave that some thought. We split up and explored the little island, which didn’t take long. Before the clearing on the west side overlooking the sandbar we found where someone had a campfire once. Outside of t
hat, there was nothing to indicate anyone had ever been here.

  On the north side, the water was deeper. It looked to be about two feet deep just a few yards from shore and dropped to even deeper water twenty yards out. “I think I’m going to buy it,” I blurted out.

  “I gotta admit, it’s secluded. Didn’t you say something about it had to be developed as a fishing lodge or some such?”

  “Yeah. Within ten years, I’d have to have an established fish camp, even if it’s nothing more than a bunkhouse.”

  “Lots of fly fishermen come up this way,” he said. “A place to overnight wouldn’t be a bad idea. Julie’d be the one to talk to about that. I swear, that girl knows every ledge and lobster hole from here to Key Weird.”

  “Was a time when you did, too.”

  “Long term memory’s the first to go,” he said. Suddenly, we heard his outboard cranking and we both spun around at the sound.

  “Sumbitch!” he exclaimed. “Someone’s trying to steal my boat.” In a second, he reached under his shirt at his back and pulled out a Sig Sauer P-226 nine millimeter semiautomatic and started running across the clearing. It always surprises me how fast he’s able to move for a man his size. I tore off after him and we crashed through the saw palmetto on the south end of the island together just in time to see a beat up aluminum johnboat speeding away with two young men in it.

  Rusty sloshed out to his skiff and checked it over quickly. “Damn kids,” he said. “At least they weren’t smart enough to take anything.”

  “Lucky they didn’t get it started,” I said. “It’s a long swim back to Marathon.”

  He pulled out another key on a chain and said, “Luck don’t have nothing to do with it. The key in the ignition only spins the starter. This one turns on the ignition.”

  “Smart thinking,” I said.

  “There’s pirates all over these waters, bro. I was you, I’d put a good security system on your boat and never go out without firepower. The more the better.”

  “Pirates?” I asked.

  “Not the swashbuckling kind. The drug running kind. They’ll board ya, slice your throat, and feed ya to the sharks. Then they’ll use your boat to run drugs, or worse.”