The long-haired officer replied, “In my judgment, we’re closer to the mangroves than your GPS says. And that’s all that matters. If you want to hire an attorney, I’ll see you in Tampa federal court five or six times over the next few months. So you can start canceling your bookings for May right now.”
May, the beginning of tarpon season, is one of the busiest times of year for guides on Sanibel and Captiva.
I said, “If that’s true, it’s terrible. That’s a sophisticated kind of extortion. No fishing guide can afford to fight federal attorneys, plus miss all those days on the water over a couple-hundred-dollar ticket.”
Mack said, “It
is
true. Almost the exact thing happened to one of the guides out of Cabbage Key. You know Captain Doug. The plainclothes Feds stopped him twice. The same hippy-looking bugger pointed and told him where he was
allowed
to run his skiff above idle, then a second unmarked boat pulled him over and wrote him a ticket. It’s not that they tricked him. It’s just that those sots don’t know the area, they don’t know boats and they don’t know the water.”
Sadly, he was right—I’d heard too many similar horror stories to doubt it. I was nodding, as he added, “I enjoy the outdoors and wildlife, manatees, as much as the next man, but it’s just getting too crazy. Environmental wackos, mate. I think they’re tryin’ to take over the entire bloody earth.”
Because I didn’t want to get into an argument with Mack, I shut my mouth tight, walked out to the docks and stepped down into my twenty-one-foot Maverick. I had several five-gallon buckets aboard, and I’d stopped at the marina to fuel up before heading out on a collecting trip.
I don’t have much patience with the term
environmental wackos
or the callous, shortsighted philosophy the phrase seems to signal. As a marine biologist, I am also, necessarily, an environmentalist. I take pride in the fact that some of the research I’ve done, certain papers I’ve published, have played a role in protecting our dwindling marine resources.
In the minds of many, what is now known as the “environmental movement” began in 1962 with the publication of Rachel Carson’s
Silent Spring.
It is a fact that, at the time, America’s natural resources were in terrible shape. The Great Lakes were so polluted they were unsafe for swimming. Our rivers were such cesspools of chemicals and petroleum waste that they caught fire and burned. In industrial cities, all six of the most dangerous air pollutants tracked by the EPA measured off the scale.
Private enterprise and a profited-minded government were slowly killing an entire continent. The environmental movement deserves full credit for changing that.
Half a century later, though, what was once a movement has now become the very thing its founders battled. So-called “environmentalism” has become a profit-driven, power-hungry industry in which private political agendas are more important than biological realities, and monetary objectives excuse any perversion of scientific fact.
A few months back, I was talking with someone familiar with Mote Marine, the organization I’m now doing contract work for. He told me that Mote had received an official letter of protest from PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) that condemned Mote for housing and studying jellyfish. I’m paraphrasing, but there was a line in the letter that read, “These magnificent creatures should be allowed to roam free in the wild!”
That a national “environmental” organization could pen a letter so stupid, so childishly ignorant of the species that they referenced, is not just sad, it is frightening. Unthinking extremists have taken possession of what was once a noble title,
environmentalist,
and they are destroying our credibility, just as surely as they are giving credence and power to people who use sad phrases such as
environmental wackos
.
In the Everglades, when I’d listened to Billie Egret’s short tirade against legislated efforts to save the region, I’d disagreed with her cynicism, but I understood the source of her mistrust: the environmental industry. The En-dustry is made up of governmental agencies, private businesses and “nonprofit” organizations.
Fortunately, each has, in my experience, at least a few men and women who are rational and well-intended, who put the well-being of the environment before their own self-interests. But, like our own natural resources, the numbers of honest ones seem to be dwindling.
I don’t trust the En-dustry, either. No thinking environmentalist should.
So I was sitting in my skiff, ruminating over national matters that are far, far out of my control, when Mack paged me over the PA, telling me that I had a phone call in the office.
It was Frank.
As I listened to DeAntoni, I was also aware that Mack, Jeth and Captain Neville were listening, too, and so I told him I’d telephone him from my house.
A few minutes later, Frank answered, saying, “So how’s it going with you, Dr. Nerd? You still hanging out with that dope-smoking goofball with the cannon for an arm?”
I told him that Tomlinson had pitched against Naples on Sunday, had given up six runs in three innings, plus done a lot of heavy drumming later that night, and so his “cannon” was probably still hurting him on this clear spring morning.
“Fucking Tinkerbell, man. You could throw a tent over the guy and call him a circus. Weird thing is, though? I kind’a like the skinny little dork.”
I had to laugh. It was Tomlinson’s guileless candor that made him likeable, and DeAntoni possessed the same rare quality. You couldn’t help but like the man.
He was headed for Miami, he told me. Traffic sucked. There were so many Third World former donkey-cart drivers on the road, Cubans and Haitians, that I-95, he said, should have its named changed to the Refugee Express. If he survived, he was going to meet Sally for lunch, then spend the rest of the night in his car, watching her house.
“Stu Johnson, the security guard they found floating? The medical examiner says he died of a cerebral hemorrhage. A vessel in his brain popped. But there was also a nasty bruise on his throat. So they’re figuring maybe he hit the dock when he fell. That’s what my cop buddies are telling me.”
I said, “The question is, why would a security guard get out of his car and go stand on a dock?”
DeAntoni said, “Exactly. Sally swears someone’s been in her room, and that lady’s word’s good enough for me.” There was a little smile in his voice, when he added, “Hey, listen to this. We had a great dinner together Saturday night. She was real upset about Mr. Johnson and her dog, too, but we still managed to have some laughs. So we’ve had dinner together every night since. But this one, you’re not going to believe, Ford.”
I said, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I went to
church
with her, Mac. Me, the big wop who stopped going to confession when I started having shit to confess. Sitting there in a sport coat in this little white church with a bunch of jigs and crackers and beaners, but they were all nice as hell, everybody singing and clapping. It was fun, Doc. I enjoyed it.”
DeAntoni’s voice had a schoolboy quality. He sounded like an adolescent with a crush, but his tone changed abruptly when he said, “But that’s not why I called. I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. Someone who knows how to take care of himself, and bust a head or two if things get tough. I need a favor.”
He then told me that he suspected that one or more men were following Sally. He didn’t know who, or why. But he wanted to set a trap for whoever it was, and the trap required a third party to do a careful, long-distance surveillance.
As he explained the circumstances, asking for my help, I felt a sickening tension building in my stomach. Lately, when I have attempted to help friends, the results have been tragic. If I’m involved, the people I’m trying to help are almost always the ones who end up getting hurt.
I said, “Whoever it is breaking into Sally’s house, that’s who you think’s following her?”
“Bingo. I need someone to watch me while I’m watching her. From a distance, understand? That’s the only way to nail them. Something else, Ford: Whoever’s doing it, he’s a pro. And he’s very, very damn
good.
”
“What about asking your cop pal in Hialeah?”
“He left on a cruise two days ago. You’re the only other guy I’d trust. Hey, I’ll tell you the truth. Most guys, they’re either too stuffy or too Mister Macho, which is to say they’re a pain in the ass. But you, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with some. Tell you what, come to Coconut Grove, help your old pal Sally, and we’ll have some yucks, you and me.”
I told DeAntoni that I’d like that—and meant it—but that I’d have to check my work schedule to see if I could take the time off.
It was a lie.
Same thing when I told him I’d call him later that night.
Sailors have an old word for it—Jonah. I was bad luck, a Jonah, when it came to helping friends. I wasn’t going to risk contaminating Sally.
DeAntoni finished, saying, “Hell, what we could start doing is find a gym with wrestling mats. Maybe shoot for takedowns, get in a little bit of shape. Roll around a little; get rid of our bellies. We’re both carrying a few extra pounds.”
I told him that sounded like a good thing to do, too. We chatted for a while longer before I hung up the phone.
It was the last time I would ever hear Frank DeAntoni’s voice.
As I headed back to the docks, I noticed that Tomlinson was standing by the Red Pelican Gift Shop, encircled by a dozen or so people—tourists, judging by the number of cameras they carried. When he saw me, his wave was more of a signal—
Wait for me
—and he then began to walk in my direction.
The people with whom he’d been talking watched for a moment, then, as a group, began to follow him.
Glancing over his shoulder, Tomlinson walked faster.
The little gaggle of people walked faster.
Then Tomlinson began to jog.
They
began to jog—a mixed group, mostly younger men and women with gaunt, European-looking faces, plus a couple of Asians.
Now Tomlinson was running, his long hair swinging behind him like a flag, barefooted in tank top and baggy surfer shorts. As he ran, he called to me, “Doc! Are you headed out on your skiff?”
I stood for a moment, engrossed by the bizarre scene, then called back, “I’m leaving right now.”
“If you got room, I’m going with you!”
“Plenty of room. Come aboard.”
I stepped into my skiff, started the engine and popped the lines.
Quick-release knots—I love them.
A second later, Tomlinson swung down onto the deck beside me, breathing heavily. On the dock behind him, his pursuers stopped abruptly, cameras up and snapping photos, as a Japanese-looking girl, her accent heavy, said, “Why do you refuse us, to be our
Roshi
? We have come so far, and searched so long. It was you who wrote the divine
Surangama
of this new century. Our destinies, our desire for
kensho,
we are now all mingled!”
Tomlinson groaned. “My dear, you are wrong. So
wrong.
All of you.” His voice sounded pained and apologetic, and he was holding up both palms—
Please stop.
“I’m not worthy to teach you or anyone else. Not anymore. I’m . . . I’m a terrible person. I abuse drugs. I’m a fornicator—
nothing’s
beneath me. My God, I tried to strangle a man a few days ago! Basically, I’m an absurd wanderer. I . . . I was sent to this planet to conduct inhuman experiments on the human liver.”
Tomlinson put his hand on my shoulder, and pointed to me, adding, “Ask this man. He
knows
me. I’m the island drunk—and that’s saying something on these islands.”
I was nodding. “Oh, he’s a drunk, all right.”
“In the entire history of the Sanibel Police Department, I’m the only person to have ever been stopped for DUI while on a skateboard. And the police chief is a distant relative.”
True.
“I’m no longer fit to teach!”
We were idling away, nearly out of earshot. Touching my hand to the throttle, I said to them, “This man’s scum. Worthless trash that I wouldn’t trust with my daughter. Do yourselves a favor. Leave him alone.”
Tomlinson said, “That’s right, I
am
scum—” but then stopped. Looking surprised and offended, he turned to me and said, “Hey. That’s pouring it on a little heavy, isn’t it, man?”
Smiling, I said, “Why are those kids following you?”
He sighed and sat in one of the three seats bolted into the stern platform. “Remember that paper I mentioned? The one I sent to Mr. McRae to help him deal with his wife’s condition?”
I pretended as if I had to think about it. “Yeah. That’s the one you were supposed to send to me, too. But didn’t.”
“I wrote it when I was in college. I’d drunk a case of Bud weiser, eaten two blotters of acid and a candy-looking substance that might have been mescaline. I’m not sure. Or it was an M&M. Whatever the hell it was, I sat down and wrote this paper for a class I was taking on world religions. The whole thing in one frenzied sitting. ‘Twenty Ways to Duct-Tape Your Life.’ That was the original title. Then I changed it to ‘One Fathom Above Sea Level.’”
I said, “So?”
He sounded sad and concerned, saying, “So someone’s been circulating it on the Internet. People all over the world have been reading the thing. It’s been translated, for Christ’s sake, like, into twenty-some languages. People who read it get the entirely wrong idea about the kind of person I am. There are some—an
increasing
number—who come looking for me, thinking I’m . . . well, that I’m some kind of prophet.
Tomlinsonism.
That’s what some are calling it. My own religion. Like Taoism.”
“That’s scary,” I said.
Tomlinson was standing now, rummaging through the ice locker. “You got any beer in here?”