Fallen Out: Jesse McDermitt Series, The Beginning (3 page)

Suddenly, the rain stopped and within seconds the sun was shining, causing mist to rise up from everywhere the rain had settled. We got up and went out into the sweltering
humid air. It was early June, but in the Keys you measure the passage of time by the seasons. Hurricane season and tourist season. Though summer still brought quite a few tourists to the southernmost tip of Florida, winter was the big tourist season.

We walked into the bar, where several more people had taken refuge from the storm. Rusty went behind the bar and yanked the cord on an old brass ship’s bell mounted on the wall, getting everyone’s attention.

“Folks, this big landlubber is one of my best friends in the whole world, Jesse McDermitt. We served together in the Corps and he’s just retired. Says he wants to buy a charter boat.” Then as he pointed people out, he gave me all their names. The young man with the long hair was Jimmy Saunders, seated next to him were two white guys about my age, Al Fader, and Charlie Hofbauer and a tall black guy, Sherman Crawford. The four of them were shrimpers out of Key West, Rusty explained. After the rest of the introductions were made, Sherman asked, “Fishing or diving charter?”

“Maybe a little of both,” I replied. “Very little though. More than anything, I want a boat I can live on
, big enough I can go exploring.”

Jimmy turned to Al and said, “Hand me that paper you were just looking at.”

Al shoved it down the bar and Jimmy spun it around, pointing to an ad for a Coast Guard auction in Miami scheduled for the following Saturday. Circled under the banner was a listing for a boat. “If you want to do a little of both and want a really nice place to live when you’re not doing either, right here’s the boat you want.” Then he grinned at Rusty and added, “Hope your credit rating’s good.”

I looked at the listing. It had a picture of a sleek looking offshore fishing boat, with wide bow flares. The listing said it was a 45’ Rampage convertible and had a reserve of $
300,000. I spun it back to Jimmy and said, “I don’t know a lot about individual boats, but I know Rampage is top of the line. What can you tell me about it?”

He looked at me quizzically then said, “Top of the line, yeah. And the
45
is the flagship, dude. Has a really nice forward stateroom and private head, with a guest cabin and head aft of that. Then a couple steps up to the galley and salon. Most are really decked out with nice woodwork and furniture. Step down aft of there to the cockpit. Plenty of deck space, storage, fish boxes, even a cleaning station and sink. A hatch takes you down to the engine room, below the salon. The
45
usually has twin 850 Cat engines, a water maker and generator. Above the salon is the bridge. Most Rampages are loaded with electronics, radar, fish finders, VHF and UHF radios. But, it being a Coast Guard auction, this particular boat was probably seized from drug runners. Could be shot all to hell, too.”

The kid seemed to be pretty knowledgeable. “You busy Saturday?”

“You think you can afford a boat like that?”

“
I’ll put a cap at $450,000, but yeah, I can afford it.” What I didn’t say and what was nobody’s business was that when Pap died, I was his only heir. He’d started an architecture business after WWII, was very successful, and sold it about five years ago for over $2 million.

“Count me in,” Rusty said. “I’ll drive you up there and if you buy it, Jimmy here can help you pilot it back and get your sea legs wet. If not, we can go to a nudie show on South Beach.”

Jimmy thought it over a minute and finally said, “Okay, you got yourself a First Mate.”

The front door of the bar opened and the cook from the
Wooden Spoon
walked in. He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and spotted me. “Got your ride outside,” he said as he walked toward the bar.

“You bought Joe’s piece of shit?” Jimmy asked.

“Not yet, he hasn’t,” the cook said. “Still owes me seven hundred.”

I pulled a roll of bills from my pocket and peeled off seven $100 bills and handed them to the man. “Got the title?”
He produced the document, signed the back and handed it to me. I stuffed the paper in my back pocket.

“You can afford a $4
50,000 boat and bought a piece of crap for $700 to drive around in?” Jimmy asked, laughing.

“Wouldn’t make sense to haul bait and boat parts in a new pickup,” I said. “Besides, the car seemed to call out to me.”

The International proved to be everything Jimmy had said and then some. I spent another $800 on it before the weekend, replacing a water pump, putting in all new plugs, points, condenser, and plug wires and replacing all four tires.

Early Saturday, Jimmy arrived as Rusty and I were eating breakfast in the bar. Rufus had returned from Jamaica with a few personal things and proved to be every bit the cook he claimed to be. We set out for Miami just as the sun was rising over the ocean, clear and bright.

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 looke
d 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.